Yield.

Standing alone, you eye the crescent of foes arrayed before you. For a brief second you contemplate trying to cut your way free - some of the warriors are stood precariously close to the edge, a swift kick could send them over and weaken their odds - but then you recall Sylvia's arrow filled body. Somewhere in the rocks above there would be bows trained on him too. Hesitation cripples your courage and the trader's tearful begging drains the rest. You throw your sword down at the Giant's feet and raise your hands in surrender.

To your surprise this doesn't seem to please them. Snorting in disdain, they gather a snowball and launch it at your face. The snow was filled with ice and stones, which split your lip on impact, but you don't react, all fight has left you. Growing tired of taunting you, the giant waves a signal to their followers and marches off. What follows is mostly a blur. One of the warriors floors you with a punch to the gut, whilst another ties your arms behind your back with rough, chafing cord. You offer no resistance, even as they grab a handful of your hair and pull you to your feet. They drag you away through the **** and desolation that was the caravan but you barely take it in. In your minds eye you see only Sylvia, reeling back, blood and spittle gargling in her mouth. We could have just left, or surrendered sooner. Why did we come back?

The captives were lined up beyond the blockage that had halted the caravan's movement. Less than a score remained of the fifty you had set out with from Trin, most were old men or children, too weak or wise to resist. You waited as the victors mopped up what remained of the resistance and gathered whatever wounded were salvageable. One of the raiders returned parading a severed head and bellowing cries of victory. Their shield had been reduced to splinters and cuts littered their body, whoever's head that was had given them a hell of a fight. The headhunter shared a laugh with a couple of their comrades before tossing their prize into the valley and turning to the assembled captives. They walk casually down the line eyeing each in turn before stopping in front of you. A rough hand seizes your chin and turns it side to side, appraising you. Seemingly pleased, they let go and slip a hand into your trousers, firmly gripping your cock. Finding it still slick with Sylvia's juices the headhunter turns and makes a comment to the gathering crowd of onlookers, prompting a chorus of bawdy laughter.

First they slide the shield off their wrist, then off comes their tattered outer layer of furs. Their arms are wiry and taut with muscles, blood glistening where weapons had kissed them. Finally off came the barbute, revealing a wild mane of black hair, slick with sweat and the hard face of a woman. Seeing the obvious surprise on your face she chuckles, shouting something back to the crowd they join in the laughter. She certainly wasn't hard to look upon; her features were sharp, but with a distinctly feminine softness to their edges and there was a fire behind her eyes that couldn't help but draw you in. Your trousers fall to your ankles as her hand goes to work on your soft member. It's painful at first, but her ministrations soon do their job, eliciting wide grin as you harden between her fingers.

Unlacing her breeches down the middle, she arches her leg against the rock behind you to bring her pussy into position. A quick lick of a finger makes her nether lips ready and, without hesitation, she slams her hips against yours. Her hole is tight and wet and needy, gripping you hard as she pounds away at your shaft. The crowd jeer and woot enthusiastically, a couple even have hands down their own breeches as they watch. The muscles of your manhood ache after such recent copulation and it takes a while for you to feel your pleasure build. Twice the woman goes into fits of convulsion, her slick walls spasming around you, and with each crescendo she rides you faster. When you finally release she stops moving, holding you within her as she catches her breath. With a smile and a playful slap to your cheek, she turns away from you and bellows another victorious cry to the crowd, just as she had when swinging the severed head. Seeing one of the warriors on their knees, fingers eagerly working her own cunt, the headhunter reaches down, fishes a handful of cum from her slit and flicks it at her. The crowd erupts into laughter, whilst she picks up her helmet and furs and saunters down the line, whistling.

Trousers still around your ankles, you stand there, forgotten as soon as the woman turned her back. You slink to the floor, a feeling of emptiness spreading out from your gut as you ruminate on what the future holds. "Stay strong kid, you did good. At least they know they've found a use for you." Looking for the voice's origin you find a gloomy face with more beard than skin. Its owner was a squat man, not a day under fifty by your reckoning, he'd worked as a teamster with one of the carts. You'd never spoken before but you'd heard others call him Rass. "There's no chance for me. Hair down there's as thick as it is up here, they'd need a team of them to find my cock." You chuckle despite yourself.

The sun has set by the time they start your procession moving up the snow covered pass.