Update 24th October:- I just got some disturbing news from one of my regular readers. Apparently she hasn't received a reply from me to reviews she's sent since the 7th chapter. I am very annoyed about this, as I always reply to every review sent. I've contacted FF support, but in the meantime please accept my apologies and my thanks for still continuing to send reviews - Joanie.

The Tender Trap

Chapter 14

"What do you think, girls? Should Colonel Sheppard remove his shirt?"

She wasn't smiling but the gleam in her eyes told him Pellista was having a tough time holding in the laughter, as the group of women flushed red and giggled like a bunch of prepubescent school girls.

"I think you have your answer, Colonel…take it off."

He didn't consider himself the shy retiring type, but John disliked being on display. Titters accompanied every button that his swollen fingers struggled to undo, as twelve sets of eyes followed his actions with way more interest than he was comfortable with.

Pellista sauntered over to stand in front of him. "Here, let me help you with that." A loud rip followed, and the remaining buttons flew in all directions as she tore apart what remained of his shirt. "Better?"

John glanced down with dismay at the ruined garment, and gave her a twisted smile. "Thanks." As a shirt it was pretty much useless now, but he reckoned it could still lend some protection later. Much to the bewilderment of his audience instead of throwing it away, he tied the sleeves around his waist.

"Silence!" All chatter immediately stopped, and the women dropped to one knee when Pellista clapped her hands. "For Colonel Sheppard's benefit I will outline the rules. There is no time limit on each bout, but it will end the moment your opponent has been disarmed. You are free to use whatever weapon you wish, but only one may be used during each match. On this occasion I will permit blood letting, however no one and I repeat no one, must inflict an injury on our visitor serious enough to lead to his death. If he dies…you die."

Because that's your job, he thought to himself.

"Who gets to go first, My Lady?" One of the older women in the group asked. As she spoke he could see the other warriors tense up and cast furtive glances at one another. It was clear it wasn't just a case of who got to have a piece of him first. They were competing for her Ladyship's favor.

Pellista went silent as she appeared to consider the matter. "Draw lots." She answered curtly, and the brunette seemed to deflate in front of him. If Pellista noticed, she wasn't letting on.

As the girls starting pulling pebbles from a bag, John went towards the row of weapons. He sparred with Teyla and while she frequently kicked his ass, it was simply two good friends having a friendly match. This was different. As a rule he didn't like fighting women but if he was going to survive, he needed to defend himself. He wondered which one of the cruel looking implements could be used without doing any serious damage to his opponents when he heard a familiar click.

He turned to see Pellista pointing his own handgun at him. "Don't touch, Colonel – these weapons are not for you."

Anger boiled in his gut. "So…what was with the pretty speech?" He spat out. "If you really don't want me dead, how the hell am I supposed to defend myself against this little arsenal – huh?"

Pellista didn't answer straight away, instead nodded to one of the women. The warrior went off into a nearby hut to return moments later with a slim rod. It was barely two and a half feet long, and only the thickness of a broom handle. No match to what he'd be up against. The woman had the good grace to look embarrassed, unable to meet his eyes as she handed it to him.

"There you are." Pellista gave him a tight smile. "A strong military man like you shouldn't need anything more. After all, the sisters haven't had the advantage of your extensive training."

It was a crock of shit, but there was no point in arguing. Even if he was on top form, and he wasn't, John knew he wouldn't be able to mount any kind of reasonable defence against these vicious weapons. It was already getting warm, and there would be a steady steam of fresh opponents while he would still be on his feet getting hotter, tireder and at best, badly bruised after every fight. He wasn't going to get out of this unscathed, but he wasn't going to go down easy either.

"Are you ready to begin, Colonel?" Pellista asked, as his first opponent, a girl of barely sixteen, appeared in front of him with a long, pointed blade gripped in her hand.

It was a rhetorical question that John didn't grace with an answer. He took a deep breath, delved deep into his psyche, and using the skills she'd just mocked him with, quickly disarmed the young woman before pinning her to the ground. Pellista looked furious.

He faked a nonchalance he wasn't feeling, and gave a lopsided smile to the remaining opponents. "Okay…which of you ladies is next?"

ooooOoooo

There were female voices wavering in and out of his consciousness. They didn't belong to Teyla, Camista, Banks or even Keller, but they were sort of familiar. As sensations started to return, so did his memory. He and Sheppard had been on their way back to the jumper when they'd been attacked. There was a vague recollection of having been awake before, and hearing a muffled voice calling to him. Ronon had been about to respond when a sharp pain bit into his arm and the darkness had reclaimed him. His dry mouth and fuzzy, aching brain gave credence he'd been drugged. So not a dream, but where the hell was he? Where was Sheppard? Enraged he started to thrash about, but couldn't move. Ignoring the man with the hammer in his head he began shouting into the burlap sack.

"Quiet – we're trying to listen!" The angry face of a blond-haired woman came into view as the sack was snatched away. As his eyes adjusted to the light he could see she was holding his blaster. It was set to kill.

His feet were bound in front on him, and his hands were firmly secured behind the pole he was leaning against. The dark rocky interior told him he was being held in a cave, but the draft blowing around his bare feet hinted that the entrance must be nearby. Frantically he looked around. "Where's Sheppard? If you've killed him…"

"Relax…Colonel Sheppard is alive. In fact if I wasn't stuck guarding you I would've been able to watch him fight. He's quite good…for a man."

Her sour expression deepened when another woman shouted down the corridor. "I hear cheering. Someone must have drawn first blood!"

A chill ran down his spine and he started growling, struggling against his bonds.

The woman started tutting and slowly shook her head. "Shame…it's a pity you had to get all worked up." She brought up his blaster and started to examine it. "I was going to ask you how to get the best out of this, but as you can't behave, its time for another nap."

"No!" He tried to lunge forward, but he was going nowhere. He saw stars as his head banged against the pole.

"Sleep well, handsome." She took a long, slim pipe between her rosy-red lips and blew. He flinched as the dart dug into his thigh. Her twisted smile was the last thing he saw before he blacked out.

ooooOoooo

It was official. Seven was no longer his lucky number.

Opponents two through six hadn't been pushovers. They'd certainly given him a run for his money. His body was now a road map of scrapes, shallow cuts and livid bruises, but he'd used his simple weapon to good effect and had managed to deflect most of the blows without sustaining any serious damage – until now.

Number seven looked like an angel, but there was a mean glint in her baby-blues as his latest opponent picked up the short-tailed whip and started swirling it above her head like a demented cheer leader. This was the weapon he'd been dreading.

Basic training had taught him how to quickly, and efficiently deal with a knife attack. Hours in the gym being tutored by Teyla had trained him to use, if not totally master the finer techniques in the use of the bantos stick. Up till now he'd used the same moves with his simple weapon to successfully block the long staff and mercifully, avoid being stuck by the business end. A whip was a totally different ball game. It was a fluid weapon, the long strands difficult to predict as they splayed out on contact. You didn't know exactly when they were going to hit, or where. The short pole in his hand was a poor defence against it.

John didn't know how long he'd been on his feet, but it felt like hours. Every muscle in his battered body was aching. His head was pounding, his skin burning under the baking sun. Sweat was streaming down his face, running into his eyes, but he couldn't risk moving his hand off his weapon. It wasn't much, but it was all he had.

The blisters on his hands had burst long ago. Now sequeous fluid mixed with dried blood stuck to his weapon. He wanted home, good drugs and a soft warm bed to curl up on, but knew rescue wasn't coming anytime soon. They weren't expected back in Atlantis for hours so John pushed back the pain, and focused on the job in hand.

Blondie wasn't as tall as the others, but what the kid lacked in height she made up for in speed and agility. He timed his movements. When he heard the distinctive wooshing sound just before the crack as the leather bands hit, he jumped out of harm's way at the last moment. They circled each other and the dance went on for some time when tired, he tripped on a stone. He managed to stay on his feet but his timing was off and he zigged when he should have zagged, only realizing his mistake when the whip wound round his upper left arm, and spun him round. He yelped, barely managing to keep his footing, as the small pieces of sharp stone embedded in the leather cords bit into his skin.

It hurt like hell, and blood trickled from the stinging wounds, but he didn't have time to assess the damage. The poisoned dwarf was grinning, basking in the cheers of the growing audience as she yanked it back, tearing off slivers of his skin in the process. He staggered, stifling the cry that wanted to escape. Except there was no where to run. Escape wasn't an option, not while Ronon's life was on the line.

When she started circling again, John locked eyes with her. In this type of situation it was often not about the type of weapon being used against you, but instead more to do with the mind set of the person using it. This girl was focused alright, but she was also too eager to impress. It made her impatient, and when she next struck he dived out the way just in time.

Dust flew from the parched earth as the leather struck the ground next to where he'd fallen, but as he scrambled to his feet his weary legs betrayed him. He slipped, and this time she didn't miss as enraged she threw her arm back, wrenching a moan from his throat as the hard leather straps ripped a row of jagged bloody lines around his side. His body was screaming as he rolled away trying to escape the relentless torrent of abuse. Exhausted, he wasn't fast enough. The assault seemed to go on forever as the sadistic bitch kept on hitting him, raining lash after vicious lash again and again, upon his back, chest and legs. Rivulets of blood ran from his torn flesh and as the ground grew red around him, John wondered how much longer he could carry on.

He blocked out the chants, blocked out the pain. Blocked out everything but what he needed to do to stay alive. The strands of the whip had mangled into one thick band. His plan was a long shot but right now, it was the only one he had. John gritted his teeth when he saw the strap coming, grunted as it gouged out a long ragged furrow in his chest. The agonizing pain threatened to take his breath away, but adrenaline born of desperation gave him the strength to grab the whip as it pulled away, and he yanked the owner off her feet. Blood was pouring from his hand as it ripped into his fingers, but he bit back the pain as he threw the brutal weapon out of sight. Wide-eyed the shocked girl quickly shuffled away, and the sound of the crowd died down until the hushed whispers became silent.

A slow hand clap grabbed his attention, and he saw Pellista staring at him. "Well played, Colonel. As a reward you may take a few minutes to take some refreshment and attend to your wounds before the next match."

He held back the retort that sprang to his lips, and tried not to stagger over to the spot indicated to him. Maybe it was a pointless act of defiance, but he didn't want these bitches to see how much he was really hurting.

There was an earthenware jug filled with water, and some sliced fruit. It looked okay, but his stomach was churning and he couldn't face it. The water was another matter. Hell knew how long he'd been out in the sun, or how much blood he'd spilled, so he took as much as he dared to replace the lost fluids, before pouring the rest over his torn flesh. It stung like crazy, and he clenched his jaw to suppress the groan threatening to escape. The skin on his right hand was in tatters. John hoped Carson could put it back together again when he got home, but with no medic around he stood on the sleeves of his shirt and pulled them apart. One sleeve he used to bind his arm, but it hardly made a dent on the seeping wound. The other he wound round his burnt right hand. Clumsily, he folded over the remains of the shirt and bound it over the raw, ripped flesh on his left palm as tightly as he could bear. The makeshift bandage wasn't ideal but at least he would be able to bear the pole in his hand.

Far too soon break time was over. With a clap of her hands, and a pointed glare in his direction Pellista made it clear it was time for his next match. In the meantime the mood had changed. He could feel it. They were wary of him now. It gave him renewed strength to see their uncertainty as they stole uneasy glances in his direction.

It pumped up his adrenaline but undermined by blood loss and injury, John knew it wouldn't last long. If he was going to last the distance he needed to dispatch his last five opponents in short order before his strength gave out.

Having just watched her friend thrown to the ground, number eight's moment of indecision was all he needed. Her guarded attack made her clumsy. He blocked her blow, and using his own pole quickly knocked the staff out of her hands.

Girl number nine was either spooked or hadn't been paying attention. When she came at him with a long jagged blade, he divested her of her weapon and her pride in one practised manoeuvre.

Number ten looked nervous, or she appeared to. This time it was his mistake. He underestimated her turn of speed, and his lack of. His weakened legs were unable to get him out the way in time to avoid the razor sharp blade of the staff slicing into his thigh. It hurt like crazy, but wasn't deep enough to render the leg useless. The wake-up call sharpened his senses. He used his weapon to flick the staff out of her hand and end the bout before glancing at the damage. In the grand scheme of things it was small change. It merely merged into the big ache already shrouding his body.

When an auburn beauty gracefully strolled into the small arena, John knew she wouldn't be so easy to beat. She reminded him of Teyla. Her long, straight shoulder length hair and delicate features not the only things they had in common. She possessed an air of serenity, a quality lacking in all of the others he'd met so far, and her well honed body denoted she worked out – a lot. This woman wasn't afraid of him. He was going to have a battle on his hands.

Like most of the women she too used the staff, but to far greater effect. His arms shook at the force of fending off her fierce, but controlled blows. When she smacked his ripped hand he hissed. She smiled as she then used the painful distraction to strike his chest so hard he folded over in agony, and fell to the ground. The white hot pain spearing through his chest was a sure sign of a cracked, maybe broken rib, but as the pole was still in his left hand the fight was still in play. He needed to end this and soon. It wasn't Queensbury rules, but with the odds stacked against him, this wasn't a fair fight to begin with. John blocked another blow to his chest then spun round and hit her behind the knees. She fell like a stone. He knocked away her weapon before she could catch her breath.

Surprisingly she gave him a genuine smile when he offered his left hand to help her to her feet. "Thank you, Colonel. Well fought, I must remember that move." She said slightly breathless, as she brushed the dust off her short leather skirt.

"My, my…how time flies, we are at the last match already, Colonel Sheppard. When we first met, I wondered what my daughter saw in you, but I have to admit you have surprised me. I didn't expect you to last the distance." Pellista's comments rankled, but John was too busy pulling in small, shallow breaths to give her the answer the snarky remark deserved.

As the last woman went to pick up the staff, Pellista shook her head. "I'm sure Colonel Sheppard must be bored with that. Choose something else…What about the malik."

He was done. The last of his reserves long gone, as he watched with dismay the diminutive dirty-blond pick up the handle of the linked, chain weapon with the metallic ball attached. It looked heavy. A fact confirmed by the way she began to carefully swing it from side to side until she managed to control its balance.

John held up his wooden pole as if it was going to be a match for the heavy weapon. It wasn't. Once she got into her rhythm and the ball rose into the air, the first blow broke his pole in half. John jumped back, but not far enough. Her second swing shattered the remaining piece of wood, leaving only a stump of splintered kindling in his hand. He was in trouble, out of options. His heart racing as he dived for cover that wasn't there. The crushing blow caught him unaware's, the resounding crack audible, and stunned he tried to work out what had happened when excruciating pain shot up his arm and he crumpling in an agonized ball of misery on the dried earth. For a moment he couldn't breathe, the scream dying in his throat as unwanted tears rolled down his face as he rocked, cradling the broken limb against his chest, struggling not to pass out. Only Pellista's smug voice broke through the red mist.

"You did well, Colonel, but you were never going to be a match for my warriors."

Stubbornness had always been his downfall, but John couldn't help himself as he kept his shattered limb arm steady while forcing himself onto his good side to glare at the woman standing over him. "S…some victory. Tw…twelve against one. Yeah…you should all be really proud." He ground out, not trying to hide his anger as he scanning the faces watching him.

Pellista went scarlet. "Hold your tongue…or I might forget my promise that no harm will come to your friend."

His pained, huffed laughter caused her to stop and stare at him. "Pray tell me. You are badly injured, and I have your friend captive. What it is you find so…amusing."

"You." He closed his eyes, and swallowed before he spoke again in a weak voice. "Ca…Camista respects the hell out of you…Wonder what she'd think of the woman who set me up in an unfair fight and went back on her word."

He covered his face as the pointed leather boot came towards him, but it stopped short at the last moment. Instead of kicking him Pellista rolled him onto his back and pressed down heavily on his ripped chest. The pain spiked and he bit his lip to hold back a groan.

"You will pay for that remark, and for all the wrongs you have brought upon my people. Take him away. Get him out of my sight."

Nauseous, the pressure on his chest made his stomach heave. Unable to help himself John puked yesterday's lunch all over her polished leather boots. All he heard was a high pitched shriek before pain exploded in his skull and the world went black…

ooooOoooo

TBC

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