The King's Whisper

by T. S. Cleveland

  He had the wherewithal to remove Torsten’s bandana from his face, untying it with frigid fingers. He pressed his nose to it, closing his eyes to take in what scent remained, then shoved it into his satchel. Then, summoning all his courage, he started walking.

  He’d fully expected to be stopped by a sentinel, but when he wasn’t, Felix slowed his pace and entered the camp slowly, with his hands held high. They noticed him as soon as he stepped into their ring of light, resulting in a slew of swords unsheathing and shouts abounding. He didn’t blame them for the reaction. He certainly looked like one of Torsten’s men in the oversized fur pelt. That no one ran him through on sight was promising, but he was quickly wrangled by a sour-faced bandit who grabbed him by the back of the neck and gave him a punishing shake.

  “Someone tell Gethrin we’ve got a rat problem,” the bandit spat.

  “I’m right here,” said Gethrin, coming forward. The bandits were surrounding Felix, but they parted to let their leader through. On seeing him, he smiled in recognition. “I see no rats here. A tiny mouse, perhaps.” He came closer, close enough to tuck his fingers under Felix’s chin and tip his head up. “What are you doing here, love?”

  It was not a challenge for Felix to make his eyes wide and brimming with fearful tears. Gethrin was every bit as horrifying as he remembered. “I’m sorry for intruding on your camp, sir,” he said with a trembling voice. “But I had nowhere else to go.”

  A tear rolled down his cheek and Gethrin smeared it away with his thumb. “Let’s have no tears.” He glanced at the bandits surrounding them. “All of you, put your swords away. You’re frightening my visitor.” He turned back to Felix, giving his full attention. “Is this about what happened earlier tonight?” he asked.

  Felix nodded, sniffling.

  “I looked for you,” Gethrin confided, sweeping the curls from Felix’s forehead. “I was going to bring you home after I killed your master, but you weren’t there. And neither was he.” His touch remained kind as he settled his hand around the base of Felix’s throat. He didn’t squeeze, but Felix still shook from the unspoken threat. “Where is Torsten?”

  “H-he had taken me out on a raid,” Felix stammered. “When we got back, a-and he saw what had happened, he gathered up the ones left alive and left. Said he was going east and didn’t want me around anymore.”

  “Oh, how sad,” Gethrin cooed. He nodded his head for the sour-faced bandit to release his grip on Felix, who then shoved him into Gethrin’s arms. “He was so fond of you, too,” Gethrin said, pushing Felix back to arm’s length in order to get a good look at him. “People do crazy things when they’re grieving. Torsten will doubtlessly regret leaving you, but I can’t say I’m sorry for it. He wasn’t letting you live up to your potential. It’s good you came to me.”

  “It is?” Felix blinked up at him innocently, even though he felt like vomiting. “You’ll let me stay here?”

  “That depends entirely on you, my sweet little mouse,” said Gethrin, grasping Felix’s waist tightly. “Will you be as good for me as you were for the bastard Torsten?”

  Felix nodded meekly. “Y-yes, sir. I will. I’ll even be better, if you wish it.”

  Gethrin laughed. “I wish it. I wish it very much.” He pulled Felix close to whisper in his ear. “First, you will play for me, and then I will play with you.” He pushed him off then, laughing as Felix fell back into the arms of the man who’d held him before. “Get those clothes off him and burn them,” he ordered. “Then dress him appropriately and bring him to me. He will help us celebrate our victory.”

  Gethrin walked off laughing, the gathering of bandits following him, leaving Felix alone with the sour-faced man. He didn’t speak another word, just grasped him by the neck and pushed him toward a far corner of the camp where a single tent had been erected. And as it was the only tent, Felix knew it had to be Gethrin’s. The camp was small, and by all appearances had been set up hastily, but he saw no indication that there were other tents, which affirmed his impression that Gethrin’s men made a habit of sleeping outside, judging by their filthy appearance and disagreeable odor.

  On reaching the tent, they stopped. “Take off your boots!” the man growled, and as Felix quickly complied, wondering as he did if Gethrin kept such a pristine tent that removing one’s footwear before entering was customary, the bandit spun him around, ripping his pelt from his shoulders and throwing off his satchel.

  “I need that!” Felix protested, reaching for it, but his hand was knocked away before he could get his fingers around the strap, and then the bandit was ripping his shirt, tearing it off and letting the pieces drop away. Felix knew what was coming next and moved to untie his own trousers, but his hands were pushed away, and his captor grabbed them and began yanking. They ripped, falling to his ankles, his underclothes falling with them. Felix’s hands flew to cover himself as the bandit bent and pulled them off, sending Felix sprawling onto his backside. Save for his socks, he was completely naked.

  Grabbing his arm, the bandit pulled him to his feet, leaving him to stand exposed and shivering while he gathered the remains of Felix’s clothes and walked off. Blessedly, he’d left the satchel behind, and Felix scooped it up to hold over his groin. Everyone was looking at him, laughing, leering, or whistling, and he tried to make himself invisible as he watched his clothing being tossed into the fire. And then sour-face was back, and he was being shoved into the tent. It was a relief to be inside and away from the multitude of leering eyes, except now he was alone in the dark with the bandit.

  He backed away, clutching his satchel tightly, but the man showed no interest in his body, lighting a lantern before squatting to sift through an ornate chest, and thus giving Felix a moment to inspect his surroundings. The tent was far different from Torsten’s. It was larger, with room for a real bed, which stood high off the ground and boasted a silk coverlet and plush pillows. Bejeweled necklaces hung from its posts, and there was a rug beside it made from the hide of some white, silky haired creature Felix didn’t recognize. It was the tent of a true bandit, with spoils to display, treasures to horde, and plenty of hiding places for the proof of treachery he was there to find. He was eyeing a large golden chain on the bedside table—a fine piece of furniture whose surface was so polished it reflected the jewelry—when a rough, dirty hand on his bare shoulder whipped him around. Felix flinched, but the man only snatched his satchel away and pushed a small piece of leather into his chest. “Put this on,” he grunted.

  Felix nodded, eager to be dressed, but all he’d been given was a small pair of what looked to be leather underclothes. “Is this all?” he asked in alarm.

  “No,” the bandit laughed, tossing a pair of boots at him.

  Felix took a deep breath, and, deciding that something was better than nothing—as if he had any choice— he pulled on the leather garment, tying it snugly with the long, attached cords at each hip, leaving them to dangle down upon his bare thighs. The hem of the pants went no further than an inch past the crease of his groin, and his backside was essentially on full display. The soft leather boots covered him more, reaching to just beneath his knees, and they, too, had long cords for tying. But at the end of these cords were tiny bells, and with his every movement, they jingled.

  It was with complete humiliation that he exited the tent, being pushed by his neck into the pre-dawn, and he knew that with no furs or leathers to shield him, he’d soon be shaking with cold so hard he’d sound like a troubadour’s tambourine. But oddly, though he could feel the breeze upon his bare skin, he didn’t feel the icy bite it carried. He didn’t feel the cold. It took him a moment to realize it had to be because of the flower petals he’d consumed, and though he was extremely grateful, it was too bad they couldn’t also numb his mortification as he was walked through the camp all but naked. He felt every stare and heard every rude word.

  Gethrin was in a chair by the fire, a goblet in his hand and a ring of bandits surrounding him, though they sat on overturned logs and held rou
gh clay mugs. They hollered and clapped as Felix neared, and Gethrin smiled, beckoning him with a demanding finger. The sour-faced bandit released him, and he went to Gethrin’s side, jingling all the way. The bandit leader’s eyes darkened at the sight of him.

  “That’s much better,” he said. “Far superior to the bulky clothes Torsten dressed you in, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Felix agreed.

  Gethrin looked pleased, but then his brows pinched together in mock concern. “But aren’t you cold?”

  Felix shook his head honestly, because he could feel nothing of the chill, but Gethrin ignored his answer and patted his lap in invitation. “Come here. I’ll make you warm.”

  When Felix didn’t move immediately, Gethrin huffed impatiently and reached out, grabbing his wrist. He pulled him onto his lap, wrapping his free arm tight around his waist. Felix balanced there awkwardly, keeping his eyes cast down.

  “Isn’t that better?” Gethrin asked. “Aren’t you warmer now?” He rubbed his hand possessively across Felix’s stomach.

  “Y-yes, thank you,” Felix answered. He looked at Gethrin through the veil of his curls and tried to smile. He was frightened, sickened by the man’s touch, but there was a reason why he had put himself in Gethrin’s arms, and he couldn’t let himself forget it. “Would you like me to play for you?” he asked.

  “That would be lovely,” Gethrin murmured, planting a kiss on his neck.

  Felix forced himself to keep still and not jerk away. “My flute is in my satchel, in your tent.” He needed him to let him go there—alone—so he could begin looking for the proof Gethrin had bragged about.

  “That’s no good,” Gethrin said, motioning to the sour-faced bandit. “Bring his bag, Jack,” he ordered, a nasty edge to his voice.

  “I can get it,” Felix offered quickly, but Gethrin shook his head.

  “Nonsense,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you to get cold.”

  While they waited, Gethrin continued to kiss his neck and smooth his hand across his stomach, and Felix continued to act like he wasn’t trying to crawl out of his skin. He was elated when Jack returned, and leapt from Gethrin’s lap to accept the bag. Gethrin chuckled at his excitement.

  “You can’t wait to please me, can you?” he asked, and Felix shrugged, hoping he looked shy rather than disgusted. “Go ahead, then. Play us some music. Something cheery.”

  It was nothing like playing for Torsten. Gethrin called Jack over to talk almost immediately after he began, and while a few of the bandits seemed interested at first, before long they were all engaged in conversations, and not paying Felix or his flute any mind.

  Perfect, Felix thought. For it gave him the chance to listen.

  15 - Very Bad Bandits

  They spoke mostly of the night’s carnage.

  Felix played one cheerful ditty after another as they bantered about Torsten’s pathetic league of piss poor bandits, how they’d been so easy to kill, how it had proven the simplest thing in the world to run them off and take their territory. And there was a barrage of brutally graphic, longwinded descriptions, detailing their kills.

  While trying not to break into hysterical screams or sobs, Felix wished he had his magically inclined flute, if only to help persuade the conversation to a less barbaric direction. However, even though that flute was now in the possession of the evil pirate Quinn, as he was transitioning from one melody into another, he got his wish. Gethrin, while remaining seated with his legs crossed, reached out to cup Felix’s behind.

  “This will be the next step,” he laughed, giving Felix’s rear a firm squeeze. “Human trade. I almost have him convinced. He’s been stubborn, but he has to admit eventually that it’s a great deal for everyone.”

  The bandit sitting beside Gethrin swallowed down a large gulp of ale. “Malcolm’s a stubborn old fool,” he disparaged. Felix perked up at the name, turning his ear discreetly toward their conversation.

  “Not Malcolm,” Gethrin corrected. “He’s put up a bit of a fight, but he doesn’t have a real problem with it. I should have him on board in no time. It’s McClintock who needs more convincing, but I’ll get him in the end, make no mistake.”

  “What trouble could he have? It’s more coin,” the increasingly drunken bandit exclaimed, the mention of coin raising cheers among those closest, as well as earning him a few slaps on the back.

  “The guardians are as frustrating as the nobles,” Gethrin sighed, giving Felix’s ass another squeeze and pulling him closer so he might play with the long cords of his leather pants. “We’ve done good business together for years, and he suddenly thinks he’s too good for the slave trade. I explained how simple it would be, not to mention he’d have next to nothing to do with it. Pour me some ale, would you?”

  One of the men grabbed a pitcher and poured more ale into his goblet. After a hearty gulp, he clapped a hand sharply across Felix’s ass, making him sputter a pitchy note into the flute.

  “Put that thing away,” Gethrin said, drawing Felix back into his lap. “Drink.” He pushed the goblet to Felix’s lips, forcing him to swallow.

  He tried not to choke, and he resisted the urge to bite Gethrin’s finger when it came to wipe the excess drops from his lips. He forced himself to be pliable as Gethrin got comfortable, wrapping his arm back around his waist and resting his hand low on his stomach.

  “I’m positive I can convince McClintock with my next letter,” Gethrin continued, ignoring Felix’s presence beyond the petting of his stomach. “How could I not when it’s really just more business as usual? He already pays us to rape and pillage, and in return gets paid when people hire his guardians to protect them from us.”

  The bandits laughed, and Felix kept his head down to hide his shock. The Guildmaster McClintock was in league with Gethrin?

  “And the cut we get from Torsten’s daddy for all the goods he’s shaken loose from the queen," Gethrin continued, shaking Felix as he spoke to make his bells ring. “It’s a solid, profitable system that’s worked for years. The only difference there’ll be is adding a few hundred or so supple bodies to the trade. The coin is just waiting to be made.”

  “He’ll come around, sir,” said one of the bandits.

  “Yeah, he’ll see the light when he gets your letter," said another. "You’ve a way with words, sir.”

  “Thank you, Guv," Gethrin replied. “How touching.”

  Felix’s thoughts raced as the talk circled back to mundanities, such as who would take the first watch the following night, if there was sufficient squirrel for breakfast, and whether they should send a team to relieve Torsten the Bastard of his head. His body must have betrayed him then, because Gethrin kissed his neck and whispered, “Poor thing. You don’t like the idea of having Torsten’s head on a stick right here in the middle of camp?”

  Felix shook his head hurriedly. He couldn’t give himself away. “No, I’ve just,” he let his voice waver, “I’ve just seen a lot of blood today.”

  “You have, haven’t you? You’re probably desperate to get to bed, aren’t you, to engage in thoughts more pleasant? Have your new master make everything better?”

  “Yes, sir,” Felix confessed bashfully. He leaned in, bolder than he’d yet allowed himself to be, and spoke into Gethrin’s ear. “If I may, I’d like to get ready for bed. May I go ahead to your tent?”

  The smile he received was sinister, but he did his best to smile back sweetly. He needed to be alone in that tent. Needed to find the letter Gethrin spoke of. Behind his demure fluttering of lashes, he pleaded. Let me go, let me go.

  Gethrin cupped his hand over Felix’s crotch, pulling a surprised yelp from his lips. “You may,” he said. “I’ll be along soon.”

  Felix squirmed from his lap and, after bowing his head politely, hurried to the tent, hoping his jingly half-run would be blamed on the cold he couldn’t feel. In fact, though he’d broken into a sweat by the time he reached Gethrin’s tent, he couldn’t feel that either. All he felt was a rush of fear-
induced adrenaline, along with amazement that his plan might actually be working.

  He wasted no time once inside the lantern-lit tent. He had no idea how long Gethrin would be and began his search immediately, breathing hard as he first checked under the mattress. If he could find the proof quickly, there was a chance he could slip out of camp without anyone knowing. He could hide in the woods, evade their search, maybe even make it back to the crazy cave dwellers’ hidden tree barrier. Gethrin would never find him there. And if the petals continued to fend off the cold, maybe he could even make it back to Torsten. None of this was likely, he knew, but he hoped for it desperately as he searched.

  When he found nothing but a recently used and still sticky handkerchief beneath the bed, Felix moved to the table beside it and opened its lone drawer. Inside was a colorful collection of unused silk handkerchiefs, a nearly full tube of oil in a casing of silver filigree, a pair of badly scratched gold-plated handcuffs, and a small, ivory handled dagger with an exceedingly sharp blade. But no letter. Sighing, he closed the drawer, then opened it again and nabbed the blade. After a brief consideration of hiding it in his boot—dismissed for fear they might be coming off soon—he put the blade in his satchel, wrapping the bandana around it so a cursory glance wouldn’t betray its presence.

  He went quickly to the entrance, and seeing no one approaching, continued his search, growing more frantic by the second. Throwing himself down by the ornate chest of clothes, he opened it, his hands burrowing deep as he sorted through lacy smallclothes, leather leggings, a framed drawing of a ridiculously well-endowed horse, and even a solid wood penis, all the while seeking the crinkle of parchment.