Balints Escape

“Ho, Timon! What word can you give me?”

“Ho, Balint, you old flatfoot! The last merchants left day-before-yesterday. So if you were looking to hire as a porter, you’re out of luck.”

Balint grinned and held up a wineskin. “I didn’t expect to find work today, ironhoof. I thought we’d drink wine and swap lies.”

“Huh,” the centaur snorted. “I suppose you’ve watered it, as usual. Still, it’s better than nothing.”

Balint’s grin grew wider. “I keep telling you: ‘Weak wine makes for a strong body.’ ” He was big for a human, and so could meet his friend’s eyes without looking up, even though Timon had the average centaur’s height, taller than most humans.

The two were at a guard post, on the border of the centaur’s Land. Balint handed the wineskin over the symbolic gate, but did not cross over himself. The centaurs were friendly enough, but they had strict laws (and a good reason for them) when it came to strangers in their land. Timon had explained just what the centaurs did with non-centaurs who crossed into their Land, and Balint didn’t think he included more than a few lies. So Balint preferred to live quietly at the human sea-village a few mile below, and to earn a few coins as a porter, humping loads between the border and the village for those merchants who traded with the centaurs.

On the other hand, Balint wanted to keep open the option of nipping across the border. It would be a desperation move, but still better than being dragged back to fight in the Grand Games. His years in the arena had taught Balint to keep his options open against unexpected threats. Like the slight but sudden stiffening of Timon, as he handed the wineskin back. “What is it?” Balint asked.

“There’s a patrol coming.”

Balint turned to look, and then began to swear. There was a patrol coming: Four men (militia by the looks of them) and their sergeant. “Better they should track me down here, than at the village, but... fornication!” He had hoped that they wouldn’t track him down at all.

“Maybe they’re not looking for you,” Timon said doubtfully.

“Not likely” Balint answered.

And in fact when the patrol arrived, the sergeant addressed himself to Balint: “You are Balint of Isgaul?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Balint of Isgaul, I have an order for your arrest.”

“From who?”

“A Titus Dolon has claimed you. Now come along quietly.”

“Not damn likely.” Balint frowned. Even if he had a sword and armor, he still wouldn’t want to take on four spears. Not even if they were in the hands of these amateurs. And trying to run would likely just get him skewered. Nothing for it then: He hopped the gate into the centaur Land. “I surrender myself to the law and custom of the Kentaros,” he told Timon formally. The centaur nodded acknowledgment, then looked over his shoulder and whistled.

“You’re mad,” the sergeant said.

“I’m a desperate man, sergeant. Care to come after me?”

The sergeant’s face worked as he looked at the four or five centaur guards that Timon’s signal had summoned, but in the end he only said “No.” He saluted with elaborate irony, then sent his tiny squad back the way it came.

“Take our new prisoner to the stocks,” Timon told Kratos, one of the newly arrived centaurs. Then he picked up the wineskin from where Balint had left it hanging on the gate. “I’ll save some of your water for you, when you get back,” he told Balint.

Balint mimicked the sergeant’s salute, then turned to let Kratos bind his wrists and lead him away.

At the place to which Kratos led him, Balint saw two female centaurs, along with half a dozen stocks, a sundial, a table holding various implements, and a sign in the centaur’s curlicue script. Balint couldn’t read it, but from his earlier conversations with Timon he knew what it must say. This was a place where the centaurs tormented visitors to their Land in an attempt to ward off a gods-given prophesy.

The two females came to meet them as they approached. The one in the lead seemed to be the elder of the two. Not old; she was perhaps the same age as Balint himself, or perhaps a bit younger, but still older than the other female. That one looked to be just out of girlhood, with black hair in the centaurs’ usual ponytail and breasts that Balint found to be a pleasant distraction from his current troubles.

“Ho, Kratos!” the older female said. “I see you brought us a new one.”

“Ho, Idalia, Nerine,” Kratos answered. “This is Balint of Isgaul, who just now decided to visit the Land. He’ll need the usual monthly pass-tokens. Balint, be known to Idalia and Nerine. They’ll take care of you.” Kratos then turned and began to trot back to the border post.

Nerine, the younger centaur, had been looking up and down at Balint while Kratos made his introductions. Balint was well muscled and only lightly scarred, and having his wrists tied behind him made him feel as if he were posing for a sculptor. But then Idalia moved to his right side and Nerine to his left, and the two females led him to one of the sets of stocks.

There, they untied his wrists, made him remove his sandals, and then locked him in place. This set of stocks had room for two victims, and consisted of a lower board with holes for two pairs of ankles and a upper board with holes for two pairs of wrists. Like the other stocks here, it was built high. Balint’s feet stuck out at a height that was convent for the centaurs to reach.

Idalia said something to Nerine, and the younger centaur went to adjust a gnomon on the sundial. The older centaur then offered a dipper to Balint. “Water?” she asked.

Balint thought it over. “I’d like to do as the men with experience here do,” he said at last.

“Drink then.” Idalia said. Balint drank. Idalia then poured the rest of the water over Balint’s bare feet. Nerine returned with a pair of scrub-brushes. She handed one to Idalia, and the two centaurs began to scrub Balint’s feet; Idalia on the left and Nerine on the right. Balint grimaced and squirmed.

Balint felt more water being poured over his feet and more scrubbing. Then he saw Idalia and Nerine bring out leather thongs and felt his large toes being tied back. Nerine looked at him. “I’ll bet you though that the tickling had already begun,” she said. Balint tried to smile gamely, not trusting himself to speak. Nerine smiled back. “You were wrong. Now the tickling begins.” Both centaurs began to run their fingers across Balint’s bare soles, and he began to laugh.

Idalia’s tickling was lazy and almost gentle but at the same time extraordinarily penetrating. She had a knack for hunting out the most sensitive portions of Balint’s left foot and then applying an exquisite tickle-torment to them. Nerine’s tickling was more enthusiastic, and covered every bit of her victim’s right sole. Her fingers lacked the expert touch of her partner’s, but they made up in vigor what they lacked in expertise. Between the two of them they were irresistible, and under their combined tickle-attack Balint could do nothing but laugh and squirm.

Yet even his squirming was limited: The stocks held his wrists and ankles solidly, and the thongs tying his large toes kept his feet from moving. He could not clench or twist his feet even to the useless extent he had during the scrubbing: His soles were held exposed and vulnerable to the endless tickling. Then, when Balint felt that he could stand no more, the two female centaurs switched places: Idalia’s fingers now stroked Balint’s right sole while Nerine attended to his left. The change of pace seemed to double the responsiveness of each of his feet. Worse, the centaurs were coordinating their attacks. First Nerine would make a vigorous tickle of Balint’s left foot, then she would subside as Idalia launched a tickle attack against his right sole. Then Idalia would back off and Nerine would make a new assault. Under their combined tickling, Balint lurched further and further into a frenzy of helpless laughter.

Suddenly the tickling stopped, leaving Balint shuddering and gasping for breath. But the two female centaurs made no move to release him, and he realized that this was not the end of his tickle-torment but only a temporary break. He followed their gaze, and saw the reason for his respite: Kratos was returning, and he was bringing Titus Dolon with him.

Titus Dolon was unreasonably cheerful for a man in his position: Arms bound to his sides and being led to the stocks of the centaurs. He saw the sign in the curlicue centaur script, and unlike Balint he could read it: Alja Kentaros mor kental velator velex bartaros mel Uru, nor Kentaros yonvel morkap i patalos “If the Kentaros should ever fail to visit merciless torment on foreigners who enter the Land, then will the Kentaros suffer betrayal and ruination.” But he didn’t believe it. He’d paid that guard a healthy amount of silver, and while he’d have to go through some sort of ritual fakery, it would soon be over and he could recover Balint of Isgaul, his runaway property.

The guard introduced him to the two other centaurs. Titus didn’t pay attention to their names; they were only females, after all. It was embarrassing when they put him in a set of stocks just like the ones holding Balint, and he did feel a bit nervous when they removed his shoes. He was a city boy, unused to going barefoot, and his feet were soft and tender. He saw Balint grinning at him, insolently, and he consoled himself with the though that he would soon wipe that grin away with a lash. Just as soon as this ridiculous barbaric ritual was over.

The he heard the guard speaking to the two females: “Titus Dolon here tried to bribe me, so give him an extra two hours.”

“What!” Titus shouted. “But I paid you. I gave you your silver. You said...”

“I said I’d take your money,” the centaur guard answered. “I didn’t say you’d get anything for it.” Then he turned and trotted away.

Titus screamed and struggled and cursed. Uselessly. He was already locked in the stocks, his arms bound, his feet held fast by the ankles. He could not get loose, and his ravings were ignored. He felt water poured over his naked feet, and then a brush applied to scrub them. His eyes bulged, and then he howled with laughter. This had to be the most terrible tickling possible. He’d go mad if he had to endure two hours and more. But then the brushing stopped, and to his horror he felt his toes being tied back, leaving his bare soles vulnerable and helpless, unable to move even slightly away from whatever torment that the centaur female might apply.

Idalia smiled. Human feet were such fascinating toys, and this pair belonged to her for the next three hours. She wouldn’t even have to share them with Nerine. Her partner for the day had her own pair to play with for a little while, and then she could just watch.

The human attached to them was pleading and moaning now. Idalia ignored it. She’d prefer a victim who was a good sport, who put up a brave front, but one couldn’t have everything. Hmm. These feet were unusually tender, too. She’d have to use a light touch to make them last.

She selected a bullfeather from the tickling implements laid out on the side-table, and began to probe gently with it, running it up and down, mapping out the especially sensitive spots and the relatively dead areas. The lightest touch produced a gratifyingly large effect, making the human Titus Dolon writhe and laugh. She’d keep this up for a time, and then switch to a vos-hawk feather. She wouldn’t use the spoons, or any of the other wooden implements except maybe toward the end of the last hour. She smiled again as she brushed the leather implement across the insteps, giving it a little twist, and making Titus laugh and laugh.

Balint watched with satisfaction as he saw Titus Dolon get his, but his own attention was soon redirected as Nerine went back to work on his own helpless feet. The younger centaur worked hard, with a wooden spoon in one hand, and a vos-hawk feather in the other, trying to pack in as much tickling as she could in the limited time left. It was only a half hour by the sun-dial. It only seemed to last forever as the laughter rolled out of Balint in response to this two-fisted foot-tickling. The feather worked over the spaces between the toes while the spoon stimulated the heels and balls and insteps of Balint’s feet. He laughed and twisted and told himself that it couldn’t be going on as long as he thought it was.

The spoon and feather were set aside, but it still wasn’t over for Balint. Nerine brought out a knobby wooden roller. It didn’t look like much to Balint’s eyes, but when she applied it, he jerked involuntarily at its touch, and then he melted with laughter. Only after he was reduced to a puddle of jelly did the tickling finally stop.

Nerine released him from the stocks, and gave him his pass-tokens for the month. Kratos was there, to help him until he could stand on his own. Idalia still tickled Titus Dolon, and would continue to do so for another two hours. Balint almost felt sorry for his former owner. Almost.

“I still have a little of your water left,” Timon said.

“Just because I’ve watered it down to something one can drink without getting headaches doesn’t mean it isn’t wine anymore,” Balint answered. He took a swallow. They were in the centaur’s camp nearest the guardpost. The sun had set, and Balint was trying to make plans for himself.

“You don’t have to worry about Titus Dolon. We told him that it would take over a month to gather the high chieftains to judge your case, and that he’d have to renew his pass-tokens at least once before he could get his appeal heard. He decided to leave.” He took his own swallow of the watered wine. “What will you do now?”

“I’m not sure,” Balint said. “I may stay here a few months, even if it means going back to the stocks to renew my pass-tokens. Hand me that, will you?” He took the wineskin and raised it to the stars. “Here’s to the gods, and to Titus Dolon’s new respect for their Prophesy.”