You take it in stride and explain to your fellow captives what to do next

"My lady?" Hannah said meekly (the only way she ever seemed to say anything, really). "I feel like the fault is mine for having brought us here. Irene is such a lovely person, she just couldn't bear the thought of me being unhappy here. But now that I'm about to be slain I think that I know the truth, that I was never really comfortable in any place. It's why I poisoned those people at my father's tavern and got myself sent here in the first place, you know... Anyway I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."

"Irene?!" you suddenly clench your fists and the spiteful side of your personality takes over. "Where did that spoiled, high-handed twig of a woman get off to, anyway? Did she run off into the woods before I even ordered my militia to disperse? Stupid bitch likely has run afoul of a sinkhole or a poison toad by now and gotten herself killed, running off by herself in a territory she doesn't know like that. It would serve her right."

The red-haired foreigners surrounding you didn't advance yet, chuckling with surprise - it seemed that the contempt and disdain flashing in your eyes amused them. But over their shoulders your eyes took in a fresh outrage.

If anything good could be said about this outcome it is that none of your valued magic-users had been killed in the fight, all having flung themselves face-down on the ground in submission when faced with being charged with swords long enough to cleave a horse with one blow. But now you saw the others being treated very unmercifully. For at least some of the mercenaries, it seemed that their anger at having been stung and blasted with foul magic was stronger than their hunger for the spoils of battle, and so they were chasing the five poor females back and forth, striking them with the scabbards of their swords and pelting them with stones. One could be seen having her jewelry roughly yanked off of her, pleading to a bearded brute not to take the bracelet which was all she had left of her mother.

Sensing sophistication would be wasted on these men you stride forward. The swordsmen having surrounded you give you an odd look as you casually unbuckle the belt which your arming sword hung on (it isn't very sharp and you don't really know how to use it anyway) and walk right past them to confront the score of men tormenting the witches. "Hoi!" you shout for attention. "Stop that you damnable savages! It's inexcusable enough that you attack and kidnap the rightful defenders of this county with some half-arsed excuse about mistaken identity, but those people are the direct sworn protection of my family!"

"Shut your mouth woman! We know who you are." A particularly tall, broad-shouldered, heavily tattooed man puts his hands on his hips and steps between you and his rowdy band of bullies. "What clan's protection would they claim, eh? A line of whores and bastards? Count yourself lucky if ye escape the same punishment."

"The rightful rulers of Undrek is whom I refer to, you pissant!" you shout back at him, your face reddening indignantly. "A town which has existed under the protection of the king for centuries!"

"Land and titles change hands, the mighty take from the unworthy." he shrugs callously. "My swordsmen only serve the way of things, lass - chattering little girls shouldn't be placed in charge of more than a milking shed, and you've just shown that. Your so-called 'fighters' deserted you before we took more than two steps in their direction! I'm sure that when the greedy shite who hired us to give the rotten walls of Undrek a kick comes here to negotiate for your safety, this foolish sprat of a king will be perfectly happy to give his seal of approval to whoever has won the power struggle in the south. The only reason ye'll be kept alive and unspoiled is because I know you'll be the key to gettin' into every treasure room in that town."

"Then you're a fool. Don't you understand that all of the, uh, gold and silver is kept in a secret room in the Crooked Tower itself, watched over by the witches?" you lied, grasping and improvising for anything that would help prevent this situation from worsening any more than it already had. "Your gang of sell-swords will never get close to it no matter how much brute **** you use if you aren't able to coerce them into cooperating. If you pelt them half to **** and drag them there by their hair, my continued safety will be FAR from enough to convince them to do as you want."

"Oh aye," Marzena chimes in, coming up behind you and resting a hand on your shoulder. "A lot of us don't even like her, quite honestly! Bit bossy and self centered, isn't she?" Before she could go much further one of the warriors came up behind her and roughly twisted both of her arms behind her back and held her, as if concerned she might throw another fireball.

The Gaelican captain seems to be considering your words, however. "What is your name anyway? If I'm to be illegally held prisoner, I might as well know how to address the dogs of war snarling at me." you say with a haughty sniff.

"Cadh is what you can call me. I'll have no more of your words, girl, but..." he shouts at his men in some incomprehensible brogue and a few of them shout back indignantly before backing off and herding the witches together with the other captives for marching. "...tis also true the battle be already won for us, so there is no cause for haste. We'll be decidin' fitting justice for the black-hearted women - those without titles to their names, that is - back at the camp."

Before you could object, several pairs of strong hands bore you and Marzena aloft (the latter, unable to take even this dire situation seriously, only laughed and said she was ticklish in response) and began carrying you off.

One of the ironies, you now realized, was that you'd just been wishing for a certain change in the variety of visitors to Undrek, at least as far as the ones willing and able to invoke the right of prostration upon you were concerned. You'd very quickly had enough of fat giggling merchants and landlords - the prospect of a hard, unrefined man who was strong enough to pick you up and hold you effortlessly was one you'd secretly been wishing for. But now that it was looking as if said idle wish had a possibility of becoming reality, you cursed yourself as a fool for ever thinking such a thing. These weren't the passionate, noble barbarians that minstrels had piqued your interest in - they, and particularly this Captain Cadh, were ruthless brutes as likely to kill or beat you as do anything interesting. Furthermore, the minstrel ballads of barbarian heroes had conspicuously failed to mention how they smelled, and now you were all too aware of why that detail had been left out. Mud, sweat, campfire smoke and fetid breath conspired to keep your nose permanently wrinkled over the next two interminable hours while the mercenaries looted the bodies and prisoners from Aeson's company and hauled you and the other lady 'guests' to a cluster of hastily-constructed lean-tos and canvas tents in the shadow of a hill.

At last, you were brought into the shack which Cadh had claimed for himself and his personal retinue. You find yourself being tied to a chair - with the man responsible for securing your feet taking full advantage of the opportunity to run his hands up and down the smooth skin of your lower legs. Cadh was still organizing the camp, leaving you, Marzena, and Hannah alone with his second- and third-men. At least the other witches were "safely" enclosed in a wooden cage for the moment.

Soon enough you realized that the one responsible for securing you to your seat was a perfect gentleman by comparison, as you hear the rip of fabric and a sharp feminine intake of breath. Since Marzena doesn't have a witty barb, for once, you suspect that she realizes that the time for teasing and play is coming to an end, as she lies on her back where she was shoved down on a bedroll, and her navy blue dress has been ripped along the neck by strong and confident fingers, exposing the round, firm cherries of her breasts.

There is real nervousness in her voice now. "Hey now, my good fellow... don't you remember what your headman said? You aren't supposed to be - AH!" she gave a squeal of discomfort as those pitiless fingers closed around a handful of her lustrous brunette hair.

"Hnh!" the heavily-scarred man kneeling over her grunts. "Not such fun to tease when you can't kill with a glance, aye bitch? You're damned fortunate that you aren't out there in the middle of camp, gagged and tied to a tree. As it stands I'll just have to give you a good quick lesson before cap'n returns."

"Ohh, say, Ross," the man tying your feet turns and says to Marzena's assailant, keeping his eyes on you as he spoke, "This fine blonde pudding here is the one who ordered the bitches to fling their hellfire, aye? You think perhaps it would be understandable if I have her take care of me too? Been some long damn weeks on the ships and then on campaign in this foul continent..."

'Ross' answers with a snort and by roughly grabbing Marzena by the waist and squeezing so tightly that she gave an involuntary yelp and weakly began trying to squirm out from under him in a non-confrontational way. "Hnh, well, I certainly don't care, Aiden. But 'tis your head if the cap'n does." He turned back to Marzena then. "Here now, witch - hurry and get me ready. And with a spear like mine, you'd best loosen yourself up with a finger while you have time - else I'll do it for you."

You gulp and look to your left. As well as a pile of furs and a cask of some kind of ****, you see Hannah, desperately trying to look unobtrusive and not making eye contact with you or either of the men. To your right is the curtain-covered door leading outside. You can still hear Cadh rambling and bellowing encouragement and praise for his warriors out there. Callous and blunt though the Gaelican captain is, you find yourself hoping that he will enter soon before Ross and Aiden get any more bold than they already have... you can see the former leaning in over Marzena's chest now, and though you cannot see exactly what he's doing, there is a loud slurping sound and Marzena's eyes snap wide open.

You shift and squirm in your bonds... though you tell yourself you ought to be planning how to divide and subvert these mercenaries the only things you can focus on right now are your fear and your debauched curiosity as to how far this will go. Perhaps all this is a dire inevitability when women go upon the battlefield against the kind of uncivilized brutes drawn by the drums of war. 'Entertaining' effete, entitled men from the crownlands some more was sounding pretty good right now, and you imagined that at least some of the witches agreed. You wished you could say 'I told you so'; you resolved to save a particularly vehement 'I told you so' for Irene, if you ever saw her alive again, instead.