Free Warlord by Tasha Temple

someone at the Horoshaya Yeda slipped some magic fucking mushrooms into my tea. All I know is that I’m sick and tired of living with skeletons, looking into a miserable, depressing future, giving up the best sex of my life, dealing with a hideous spider infestation, virtually being burned alive, practically drowning . . . .”
    She stomped her foot, trying to look furious although she could sense the upwelling of hot tears. She fought it back. She was not going to give this being the satisfaction of seeing her cry no matter how much she wanted or needed to.
    “Most of all,” Sara said, struggling to keep her voice steady, “I am tired of being treated like a prisoner in a dungeon and kept here for who knows how long. I’ve met all of your conditions, overcome your challenges, succeeded where you implied I’d fail. I want to wake up. I want to go back to my university group, get on the plane and go back to America. Now!” She stared at the essence insolently.
    The mist hissed unpleasantly. The mortal woman did not look the least bit afraid. What a cheeky little thing she was. But perhaps that would serve things better in the long run.
    America, indeed.
    The mist mused. It had been a well-behaved mist for nearly two thousand years, patiently orchestrating these obscure, mildly entertaining trials. But it hadn’t always been a mist. Before the six other mists had conscripted it, it had been mortal, a strong, powerful and feared mortal. Yessssss, it hissed to itself, recalling – a warlord, that’s what it had been. But . . . killed before his time. It suddenly considered Sara. Perhaps the mortal could be used, now that it rightfully had some control over her, to change things.
    Perhaps even to prevent the death of its mortal self by taking the life of the warrior who had killed him in battle.
    Strands of fog rose from the mist that took the image of arms and then it cast them forward quickly toward the mortal. Black smoke flew from the outstretched arms and dashed forward, slipping in through small gaps in through the woman’s lips.
    Sara’s eyes immediately became glazed. She swayed slightly on her feet, feeling her resistance leave her, her conscious thoughts invaded, usurped by something much more powerful.
    “What is your will, Great One?” she asked hollowly.
    That was better. Much better.

CHAPTER 9 Ties That Bind
    Sara found herself standing on a great plain. The sun burned down relentlessly. She staggered, feeling weak, nauseous, looking at, but not really seeing, the grasses stretching endlessly before her. Could she eat grass? She couldn’t recall the last time she had eaten.
    She cocked her head, staring obtusely at the small holes in the baked earth. Then it registered. Rodents. She sank to the ground, kneeling before one of the holes. A rodent usually made two holes to each burrow. An entrance and an exit. But what if she waited here long enough? Wouldn’t one eventually decide to check the other door? Maybe when it appeared, she could bash its head in with a rock. It did not occur to her that she had no rock. Her stomach rumbled. Mmmm. Lemmings, jerboas, maybe a fat, very slow suslik.
    Sara sat very still under the hot sun watching the hole with marked interest. Her mind drifted lazily to thoughts of broiled mice, crisp desert hamsters . . . great spirits what if a porcupine waddled by? She had no fire. Well, no matter. Perhaps raw rodents wouldn’t be bad. After all, wolves and leopards ate them whole and enjoyed them. Would it really be so different for her?
    Sara, lost to her dreams of steppe food, failed to hear the sound of approaching horses. A group of fifteen men wheeled up behind her, eyeing what appeared to be a young girl in a tatter of rags sitting alone in the middle of the plain, staring at the ground.
    Most of the riders were bare-chested and wore hideskin bands around their waists from which hung short strips of heavy leather in the front and back, leaving the sides of their hips