## Archive-name: damascus

Rachel was still wondering just what this assignment was about.

She had found out too late that what the company referred to as "assignments in situations that involve serious risk to life and limb," in its recruiting materials were more accurately described as "situations in which the survival of the contracted employee is considered unnecessary or undesirable" when they were looking for customers.

Within twenty-four hours of signing her contract, she'd found herself being prepped for surgery as a "volunteer" donor for a heart-lung transplant. The surgical team had been scrubbing up when the intended recipient had a stroke, giving the family an excuse to cancel the operation (and thus preserve their inheritance). After her lucky escape, the company had kept her busy with errands and "personal service" assignments in their facility while trying to find a more permanent use for her. After about a month, they had come up with this one.

For the past week, she'd been living and working in this blacksmith's forge. Doing odd jobs like pumping the bellows and sweeping up at the end of the day, but mainly kneeling passively while the smith (she'd never heard his name used) lectured his apprentices, Henry and Jeff, about Damascus steel and the fine art of sword making. Rachel vaguely remembered the term from high school history, but couldn't figure out why it worried her.

The apprentices had taken advantage of Rachel's presence in the shop, discreetly harassing her during the day and taking turns sleeping with her at night. The smith, however, seemed indifferent to her, aside from giving curt orders when he had work for her to do. The apprentices were mainly interested in her as a decorative woman who didn't have the right to say "No." If they knew why she was there, they weren't willing to talk about it. Somehow though, she doubted that the smith had paid the company's enormous fee just to have a nude woman to do the menial work around the shop and be a plaything for his students.

Today, she'd gotten the impression that the sword that they'd been working on was nearly done. The smith was talking in terms of "the final heating," and had kept her at the bellows most of the morning while he did finishing work the blade. Even at a slow and steady pace, Rachel was getting tired. Finally, he was satisfied. He gave orders to his apprentices, "Henry, take over the bellows. Jeff, get the girl up on the table."

Rachel didn't bother to struggle when Jeff grasped her from behind and guided her to the work table across from the anvil, even if she hadn't been tired her experiences over the past week had shown the futility of wrestling with blacksmiths. He had her sit straddling the table while he tied her legs to its, then made her lie back with her arms outstretched. Jeff tied ropes from her wrists to the table legs at that end and added a rope around her, and the table's, middle. It was a very uncomfortable position, but Rachel had a feeling she wasn't going to be in it long. She suspected that she was about to find out exactly why she'd been sent here.

While Jeff was getting Rachel positioned, the smith had the sword back in the forge and was giving instructions to Henry, "Faster! Keep pumping! We have to get it white hot!" After about ten minutes, the smith was satisfied with the forge's temperature and resumed his lecturing tone. Rachel had let most of his lectures during the proceeding week go in one ear and out the other, but this time he had her undivided attention.

The smith was explaining, "In later years, Damascus blades were tempered by quenching them in a trough of warm water with leather soaking in it. But that was something that was only developed as an economical expedient. The original process was discovered by accident, and our patron has been good enough to provide us with what we need to do things the original way."

The smith was still working the forge, with his back toward her, but it seemed to Rachel that he was speaking directly to her. "A king of Damascus had a condemned prisoner, and it amused him to have the prisoner executed by running him through with a white hot sword. After the execution, it was discovered that the sword used was considerably stronger and more flexible than it had been previously. The superstition of the time held that the improvement was a result of the victim's soul being trapped in the blade."

"For some time thereafter, the best swords were always quenched in the living bodies of slaves." Turning, he stepped to the table. He held the glowing blade out in front of him. "Which we will now do."

Rachel's horrified "No, no," turned into a scream as he thrust the blade between Rachel's spread legs, into her vagina, searing and piercing its way through her uterus and guts. Her scream was cut short when her diaphragm was punctured, making it impossible for her to exhale. Finally, with his fist pressed against her opening, it sliced into her heart.

Even without the burning of the white hot metal, the sword stroke would have been almost instantly fatal. Her last thought was surprise as the smith began to slowly withdraw the blade, somehow that hurt worse....

Last modified (12/24/96 16:09:27) by Eli-the-Bearded.

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