Marika Imprisoned, Part 4 by John Barker, IV   Copyright:  John Barker, IV 2005 All Rights Reserved   Marika has a ship to escape in.  Now she needs a crew.    For the full Marika Imprisoned saga to date: Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
    "How much of my life has been spent stalking human prey?"   Marika dismissed the thought as beside the point.  Now that she had procured a ship with which to escape from the Moroccan seaport to Christendom, she needed a crew.  And since she had been sent here on a diplomatic mission by the Pope to procure the release of Christian galley slaves anyway... .  There were over two hundred prime oarsmen and probably a good few experienced sailors in the stockaded compound with the four wooden towers that she was now watching.   The solution was obvious.   Marika had been under no illusion that her life would be suddenly tranquil after her submission to Rome.  She knew that she was made for hard living and desperate adventure.  Even if she had entered a nunnery, a thought that made her chuckle when she recalled the many men she had known, she would probably have been called upon to fend off parties of marauders, slay dangerous beasts, or at least carry loads of wood, stones, and produce.    She watched in mounting frustration the routines of the numerous sentinels.   "Too many."   So far, she had counted over 36 sentries on duty, either manning the towers, guarding stationary posts on the walls or outside them, or patrolling in pairs.  She knew that, for every guard she could see, there would be another one, under the officer of the guard, armed, awake, and more or less alert in the guard room.  And for every guard on duty, there would be another 3-5 sleeping this early morning.  The patrol routines of the guards overlapped too frequently.  There was no single, vulnerable sentry who could not be seen by at least one other, or who was not passed by a patrol at intervals too short for her to make a successful attack.  There was not one genuine blind spot that would allow her to scale the wall unseen.   "They are waiting for me.  You'd think they didn't want me to get in."   Marika settled back into the shadows to mull things over.   "Obviously, they know I'm likely to come here.  My mission, after all, was to obtain the release of the Christian slaves.  So many fucking guards!  What do they think I am, an army of one?"   Then she considered the situation from the Moslems' perspective.  First there was her awesome reputation, forged on battlefields, in raiding parties, and on numerous other adventures that were the talk of Europe.  Then there was the fact that, just a few hours ago, she had bent the steel bars of her cell window with her bare hands, and had easily and silently slain the ruling emir with those same hands.  Then there was her six feet in height and biceps over 16 inches.    "OK, maybe I am an army of one.  But that doesn't make this job any easier.  I'm a good tactician, and I can't see a way into this place.  I can't take on 3 dozen guards.  I might put between 6 and 12 out of action before they swarmed me.  Lady Mary, I need thine helpful prayers.  Ora pro mei et nobis nunc."    She continued to watch until the first faint hints of daybreak began to show on the Eastern horizon.  If anything, the number of guards increased.  So close, yet so far.   Then the odds suddenly turned in her favor.   She heard the sound of marching feet and horses approaching from what seemed like three sides.  She ducked deep into a shadowy alley, and was certain that at least 300 men were deploying around the compound.    "All this can't be for me.  Is this a power struggle for the emirship?"   Marika was deeply read in history and statecraft, and was naturally intelligent and shrewd.  Besides, she had participated in power struggles herself.  Only a few years ago, she had led an army to storm a capital, strangled a reigning king on his own throne with her bare hands, and claimed his crown for herself.  She knew that succession arrangements in Ottoman provinces were loose, and that the Port accepted the winner of such power struggles as its new liege-man.    Could this be happening here?  The emir was certainly dead.  No one knew that better than Marika, whose own knee had snapped his spine like a dry twig.  And the convergence of armed forces at this place indicated that a coup might be in the making.    It was a few seconds more before the sentries patrolling the outside of the compound heard the same sounds.  And by then it was too late for them.   Out of the dark, at least 30 lightly-armed and armored assailants suddenly charged for the stockade.  The dozen defenders outside the stockade managed some warning shouts to the garrison within, but then were cut down by the superior number of attackers, after inflicting only a handful of casualties on them.   But no sooner had the last guard outside the stockade been dispatched by a spear thrust, when the gate opened and at least 200 heavily-armed infantry sallied forth.  Now it was the attackers turn to be butchered.  The heavy infantry tore the attackers apart, and sent the few survivors running headlong for the safety of the city.    But then, about the same number of infantry marched out of the dark, and the battle was on.  The tide of battle pushed first back to the stockade, then back toward the city.  In the melee, men shouted, cursed, stabbed, lunged, slashed, cried, and died.  Arrows fired from the ramparts of the stockade criss-crossed with another flock of arrows fired from the outskirts of the city buildings.  Men on the ramparts fell, as well as attackers at the rear of the melee.  The noise was furious.  The clang of steel on metal, and the butcher's sound of steel slashing through flesh mingled with anguished cries and shouts for Allah's mercy, or for a mother's care.  Above the human cries, came those of wounded horses, as mounted officers on both sides were singled out for special attention.  Blood was everywhere, and the smell of it, plus that of urine and fecal matter suddenly loosed by the dead, hung about the place.    Marika had been content to be a spectator to the event, and stayed in her dark alley which no one had yet entered.  Then a wounded soldier crawled to the entrance.  He was clutching his side with one hand.  Not only blood, but what appeared to be his intestines, was trickling out the gaping hole.  Normally she would have been compassionate, but she could not afford to have anyone discover her now.  Her scimitar was out, and his head was off before he even was aware of her presence.  And though it was probably a mercy to him, she silently said an Act of Contrition, promising a full confession later.    "Not a bad weapon, this scimitar.  But I miss my old straight blade."    Her own sword she had to leave behind in the emir's castle, and she would probably never see it again.  She pulled the corpse further down the alley and out of sight of any casual observer who might try to enter it.    More reinforcements had been brought up by the attackers, and the tide of battle pressed closer to the stockade.  But then the trumpets of the garrison sounded, the gates opened, and at least 300 infantry and 100 cavalry poured out.  Marika's professional eye noted that the walls and towers had been thinned dangerously to make this sally.  She also noted a young man, regally dressed in the van of the cavalry.  She  knew him as the eldest son of the late emir, who had been at dinner across from her not 8 hours previously.    "The new emir, I presume.  If he wins his battle.  Good thing I didn't try to storm the place single-handed!"   There were still heavy losses on both sides, as even more arrows from the buildings showered upon the cavalry.  Then, after ten minutes of sustained butchery, the attackers broke and ran back to the city.  They apparently had no more reinforcements to throw in.    The young prince shouted orders for a pursuit.  He would be wise to track down his enemies and slaughter them now, rather than give them clemency and the ability to foment future rebellions.    But not every soldier of the young emir joined in the rout of the broken enemy.  A few turned to carry wounded comrades back into the stockade, and retrieve the bodies of nobles who had been killed.  And two broke ranks and loitered at the entrance to Marika's alley, apparently waiting for their comrades to march off out of sight, so that they could plunder the dead and wounded undisturbed.    They were standing just inside the shadow of the alley, with their backs to Marika surveying the scene of carnage before them for the richest plunder.  One was tall and thin, the other shorter and stocky.   Then, out of the dark recesses of the alley, two very muscular arms reached out to them, and simultaneously wrapped around their necks.  Both men were yanked deeper into the alley, as Marika backpedaled for greater safety.  Low, strangled gasps and awkward choked sounds issued from tightly constricted throats, as Marika's giant biceps and huge forearms pressed hard against both larynxes.    Four hands tried to pry the powerful arms from their necks, but found themselves hopelessly outclassed.  Both tried to kick back at their unknown assailant, but no matter how many desperate kicks they landed, there was no slackening of the pressure on their necks.  The shorter man even found himself hauled off his feet, so that they dangled a good six inches off the ground.    Marika could see that both were already red in the face.  The Viking Amazon poured on more of her stupendous strength.  They continued to try to pry her arms away, but she knew that they might as well try to pull the arms off a freshly carved  marble statue.  They kicked at her, but her powerful thighs had felt much worse.  A second wave of power coursed through her shoulders to her arms, and her grip grew tighter still.  The resistance of the two would-be plunderers was beginning to slacken.   Now Marika was not just squeezing their necks hard, but, against every bit of opposition the two could offer, was beginning to lever her forearms up and out, the right forearm, holding the tall man, to her right, and the left one, holding his stocky comrade, to her left, putting strain on both men's' vertebrae.   A third wave of amazing strength rippled through her mighty arms.   "C-C-C-C-C-C-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-C-C-C-C-C-K-K-K-K-K-K!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"   The neck of the taller soldier had already broken.  He went suddenly limp, silent, and still.   Holding onto the taller one, Marika concentrated her efforts on his somewhat stronger companion.  After five more seconds of Marika's sustained effort, his vertebrae parted, too, with a gristly crunch and pop.  His vain and ever-weaker efforts to free himself suddenly stopped, and he hung limp in her arm.   Marika squeezed both tightly, for she knew that men could live with broken necks.  She could hear the crunching as additional vertebrae, and the hyoid bones, were crushed in her arms.  After about 20 seconds, Marika was satisfied that she was wasting strength on two corpses, and walked her double burden, effortlessly, back into the darkest recesses of the alley, where they joined their former enemy.    Marika then resumed her watch near the mouth of the alley.  The visible part of the garrison was indeed much thinner.  There seemed to be just one guard in each of the four towers, located at the corners of the square stockade.  But the tower guards seemed to be fascinated in following the progress of the running fight of their comrades.  There was one guard on each of the three ungated walls, but these were not looking out over the parapet, but in toward the compound.  And she was guessing that there would be two men at the gate.  There must also be some reserve.   And there would be men tending the many wounded.  There were no longer any patrols outside the stockade.  In any case, she could see that the attention of the guards was divided, and more focused on their prisoners within than on threats from without.    But daybreak was now well advanced, and the sun would rise shortly.  For Marika, it was now or never.  She knew that the tide, on which getting her ship out of the harbor depended, would also not wait another two hours.    A frontal assault was out of the question.  Marika would need stealth.  The experience she had gained in hundreds of battles, skirmishes, raids, and other adventures now paid off.  Since the tower guards, with their higher vantage point,  were all busy watching the battle now ensuing in the marketplace,  and the other guards on the walls were looking in, she took her chance and, under cover of the quickly dissipating darkness, dashed across the former scene of the battle, and reached the base of the stockade at the corner, below the tower furthest away from the fight, the one on the right corner front.  She had not been spotted.    She grasped the corner post, and began to shimmy up it.  Her climb was quick, but cost her several splinters.  Her head was over the top of the 12-foot stockade, and she had not been seen by the man in the tower above her, or by the guard on the wall, or by the two (she could now verify that there were two) at the gate.    Daringly, she shimmied higher, until her whole body was above the wall.  If any of the guards turned towards her now, the jig was up.  But none did.  She reached out to the base of the ladder that lead up into the tower, and climbed onto it.   At her last glance, the guard in the tower was leaning over the edge, staring in the direction of the fighting.  If he was still there, Marika could easily turn the wooden latch to the trap door she had now reached, and be on him before he knew what was happening.    She turned the latch as quietly as she could, and then suddenly burst through the trap door.   All the Saracen sentry felt was a strong hand that clamped over his jaw and mouth, while the strongest arm he had ever felt simultaneously wrapped itself around his shoulders.  There was a brief sharp pain, and he heard the crunchy snap of his own neck breaking.  Then he felt no more forever.    Marika swiftly took the man's belt, and and used it to fasten him to the post.  This way, if anyone should turn toward this tower, he would still be seen to be here.  Of course, if they looked closely in good light, they would note the unusual angle his head naturally sagged to now, or if they called to him, they would wonder at the lack of response.  But in war, many such small ruses are used.  If they completely fool the enemy, that is a bonus, but if they merely distract him momentarily, that might serve as well.    Now that Marika was within the perimeter, she saw that she could leave the three remaining tower guards be.  They were too busy watching the battle that was sweeping past the marketplace now (an attempt to rally there by the fugitive attackers having been defeated).  And climbing each tower in succession would be too time-consuming.  But the three guards on the walls watching the compound's interior, and the two at the gate, busily peering through gaps in the stockade, to see what they could see, would all have to go.   She climbed down the ladder to the parapet, leaving her dead scarecrow sentry in place.  If the guard on the wall had decent peripheral vision, he would see her as she approached him.  But his mind was far away, perhaps remembering a friend who had died in the fighting just now.    She dashed straight at him from his left side, and was within a few feet before he even turned his head.  Her scimitar's blade found the soft flesh of his throat, and ripped it apart in the flash of an eye.  She guided his body's fall to the parapet, and moved on to her next target.    The man at the back wall, who had a clear view of the men guarding the gate down the central street of the compound's grid,  was staring in horror into the lighted window of a hut below him and to his right, where his wounded comrades were being treated.  Marika rounded the corner and passed the ladder leading to that corner's tower.  There was screaming and whimpering that Marika could hear as she drew closer.  She was standing two feet from the sentry before he sensed a presence near him that ought not be there.  She took his head off cleanly with a single swipe of the scimitar.  His head rolled off the parapet, but Marika leaned his trunk up against the wall of the stockade.  Again, she moved on.   Marika rounded the corner, passing the ladder that lead up to that corner's  tower, and saw that her next target was sitting down, nursing a slight wound to his scalp.  She ran silently at him, and when he looked up, it was too late.  He tried to rise, but Marika's first stroke took him low, across the belly, disemboweling him.  Her second, with lightening speed, crossed his throat.  He gurgled, spat up blood, and died.    "Now for the gate."   Marika walked down the stairs leading from the parapet to the surface of the compound.  She threaded her way through the grid of huts, and made a right turn when she reached the center.   She could now see the gatekeepers.  One was on his hands and knees with his eyes glued to a gap low in the stockade.  The other was almost right next to him, peering out through a knothole.   "Could they make it any easier?  Thank thee, Lady Mary!"   She walked silently until she was standing just four feet behind them.    "You know, if all sentries were as alert as they should be, I would have been dead years ago."   She leapt forward, her feet landing either side of the head of the crouching man, and within arms' reach of his comrade.   The man on his hands and knees reacted by trying to stand up.  That put him firmly between Marika's massively muscled thighs.  She closed them on him instantly, and wrapped a mighty arm around his comrade's neck, while her hand covered his mouth, at the same time.   Marika tightened the grip of her mighty thighs on the prone man, and that of her bicep on the standing one.  Given the position of the man between her thighs, and the fact that he was more than a little cute, she would have liked to amuse herself with him.  But she had no time for indulgences.  His cries were being effectively stifled by her muscular flesh, but she needed this over quickly.    She tightened her grip on the prone man yet again.  Then she gave her hips a sudden, savage pivot.   "C-C-C-C-R-R-R-A-A-A-A-C-C-C-K-K-K!!!!!    Now Marika flexed her bicep mightily, and wrenched the head of the man in her arms to the right, while his body stayed stationary.  And a second crunchy crackle of breaking bones could be heard in the morning air.    Marika tightened her grip on both enormously and held it for 20 seconds.  There was no opposition, and, when she checked, neither had a pulse.    She awkwardly walked her victims back to the grid of huts, and deposited them out of immediate sight.    "Some of the huts belong to the garrison, and some are prisoners' huts.  The guard huts should be on the outside, and should have doors that open out.  The prisoners' huts should be inside the compound, and should have doors that only open in."    Marika walked three streets deep into the grid, and picked a hut at random.   "They won't be expecting friendly company, but I can't yell a warning."   She found the door locked, and reared back her booted foot.  Suddenly, that foot smashed into the stout wood of the door near the lock, shattering the wood and sending the door handle crashing to the ground.  Still, there was no stirring from the tower guards.    She dashed inside, but was almost overcome by the funky stench.  The men were astonished to have a huge, incredibly beautiful, blonde Amazon, with the most powerful, and desirable body any had ever seen, come crashing through the door.  There were at least 50 men crammed into the hut, all chained to a central ring in the floor.  They stank of body odor, feces, and urine.  Their clothes were ragged.  They looked undernourished, unwashed, bearded, unshaven, and very unkempt.  Yet she knew that very few, if any, had been in in Saracen captivity for more than a year, so rapid was the human deterioration and attrition of Christian slaves in Moslem hands.    In French first:   "I am Marika of Vastras, daughter of Ingar of  Vastras, Queen of Limerick and Clare in Ireland.  I am on a mission from his holy grace of Rome to free you.  I am here to do just that.  You are now free men again, not slaves, but you must help me to get us back from this heathen place.  I have a ship ready, waiting, and loaded with provisions, but need a crew to get it back to a Christian port.  You and your comrades will be that crew!  Then we can all return to our homes in freedom!"   She repeated her message in Spanish, Italian, and finally, in Latin.    Many did not understand any of those languages, but there was a rapid whispered translation.   Marika strode to the iron ring in the center of the room, and began to yank on it with all her might.  Her amazing musculature stood out in relief as she strained to pull the ring from the floor, so that the chains of all could be slipped off.      Slowly, one by one, the more able-bodied men in the hut began to try to help her.  Soon, there were a half dozen yanking with her, and the wood gave way and yielded the iron ring.   Marika quickly signaled for silence.   "As soon as your chains are all off,  I need you to all join me, as silently as possible, in freeing your comrades in the other huts.  How many men are confined here?"   "250," in Spanish.   "Si.  How many guards are left now, does anyone know?"   "They left only about 20 able-bodied men in the entire stockade.  We heard the prince, who they are now obeying as the emir, discussing it with an officer.  That is why we are so locked down.  We normally have a little more freedom, but not much."   "So all the guards are in the guardhouse?"   "No.  About half of them are caring for the wounded in the huts at the back of the compound.  There are about 50 wounded.  The officer in charge has 3 men with him in the guardhouse, and there are the guards on the tower and the walls."  Her interlocutor was a tall Spaniard with the look of a sailor about him.    "Well, if they had around 20 men, they are missing 6 of them permanently now.  I will help you liberate the first 3 huts, then you must all work together, very silently and cautiously.  I will deal with the men in the guardhouse, and leave those caring for the wounded and the tower guards for last.  But I must stress again how very silently this all must be done."   "It will be done silently."   "Where is the guardhouse?"   "The building in the center of the compound fronting the gate."  Marika had walked right past it on her way to deal with the gatekeepers.   The former slaves were used to conspiratorial silence in acting against their oppressors, and would be able to use a code of sorts that all the galley slaves had worked out.   All gathered what little they had, mostly the tattered remains of clothes and blankets,  in silence, and filed out the door, Marika leading them.  She booted open the doors of three huts, and let the freed slaves do the convincing.  Now there were more than 150 men to do the work, though half of them were hardly capable of any heavy labor.  She marveled at the silence with which they went about the work.   And she headed off for the guardhouse.   As she neared it, the door opened.   She ducked back between two huts as a man emerged.  He walked over to the nearest prisoner huts, pulled up his robes, and began to urinate against the wall.  He turned his head to the side, as if he had seen something out of the corner of his eye.  And with 200 men liberated already, he might well have.    Marika was on him before he could react any further to whatever he had seen.  His head was suddenly, silently severed with a single mighty blow from her scimitar.  Marika caught the corpse and eased it to the ground so that it did not hit the wall of the hut in front of it.    Marika looked at the open door of the guardhouse knowing that, behind it, there were three more men she needed to deal with.  She also knew that, with 150 men, and more every few seconds, roaming the compound, it was just a matter of time before a guard heard or saw something.  Then there would be further bloodshed among the captives.  So she must act.   And act she did.    She was through the door, sword in hand, and had slashed its blade across the throat of the first man she came to, who had been trying to rise from a chair behind a table, before the other two occupants could react.  Marika leapt to the top of the table and kicked with all her might at the face of one of the men.  She heard the crunch of bone and cartilage being broken, and there was an impressive gush of blood.    The other man tried to run out the door, but Marika leapt and tackled him.  A mighty fist was raised, and was brought down on his temple once, twice, a hesitation, and a third time.  His body twitched spasmodically for a few seconds, and then went still.   His skull had been crushed by her bare fist as efficiently as if she had used a mace.    The man whose cheek and nose she had broken was trying to back away and find a place to hide in the room.  By his uniform, he appeared to be an officer.  Marika disengaged from the body of the man she had beaten to death, and tracked the cowering commander of the post.  Her scimitar blade chopped down through his shoulder, and almost hacked his torso in two uneven pieces.   She pulled the blade out slowly, extricating it from ribs and lungs.    "Not bad.  Three down in just under 50 seconds.  Not too many signs of advancing age or religious docility yet.  But maybe 10 years ago, I could have done it faster by a few seconds.  Maybe I'm getting too old for this shit."   She could hear the sound of cheering outside.   "Damn, I wanted them to do it silently!"   She was quickly out the door, and the sights she saw amazed her.  There were Christian former slaves in all four towers and on the walls!   The fighting seemed to be over, and seemed to have been all one-sided.  Men were all over the compound, though most were gathered around the guardhouse.   She addressed the tall Spaniard sailor from the first hut she had liberated.    "What of the last seven guards with the wounded?"   "They are all taken care of, your Grace.  All of them."   She knew that the former slaves had exacted a terrible, but deserved, revenge on their former masters, who had used them with such abominable, bestial cruelty.  She shuddered at the fate of the helpless wounded at these enraged men they had victimized.  But her only concern now was an orderly withdrawal and evacuation before the young emir returned from slaughtering his rebels.   Marika leapt to the top of hitching post.  She needed something that would call all to attention, and would be universally understood by these polyglot men.  She summoned up a huge bellow, a roaring gale of a voice that had demanded the surrender of castles and ships.   "IN NOMINE PATRIS, ET FILII, ET SPIRITUS SANCTI!" as she blessed herself.   Those were words and that was a gesture understood by Frenchmen, Englishmen, Irishmen, Netherlanders, Spaniards, Germans, Italians, and Portuguese.    There was instant silence, and many knelt and followed suit.   "In the Name of Our Blessed Lord Jesu Christi and Our Blessed Lady Saint Mary His Mother, let us calm ourselves!  I have secured for us a ship loaded with provisions.  We must depart from here and board that ship before the emir and his soldiers return!  Then we must sail for Algeciras, the closest Christian port.  Then we can return to our homes and families!  Let us have order and discipline!  You are all free men now, but that freedom can only be kept by following orders to get us back to Christendom.  Then we shall all enjoy our freedom!"   "Three cheers for her Grace, the Lady Marika!"   They organized themselves swiftly, the experienced sailors at the front, and marched out of the stockade with Marika at the head, and more able-bodied men helping the sickly.  They marched silently, but confidently, and Marika led them along the shortest route to the ship she had captured.      To Be Continued   If you like the Marika Imprisoned saga, you might also enjoy Marika and the Grelka, Part 1
Marika and the Grelka, Part 2
  or stories featuring some of the other members of my stable of heroically mighty women   Melissa the Invincible Mail Lady
Rhona:  Filipina Powerhouse
Hail, Pulcherima
  All links current as of October 8, 2005   Look for the conclusion of this saga, more Marika stories, and not only adventures by the other members of my team, but also new team members.  I have tons of stories waiting to be written, and miles to go before I sleep.