by Jeya Jenson
Mai worked her hands up Dria’s legs, spreading her thighs so that her tender clit was exposed.
“Who says a woman needs a man?” she asked coyly. Leaning forward, she placed a light kiss on the inside of her leg. “A woman’s touch is soft and gentle. A man’s is hard, painful. Why would you seek the pain?” She continued to spread the oil over Dria’s body, her strong hands massaging each and every tense muscle that came under her exploring fingers.
“Stop teasing me, you wench.” Dria giggled and pushed her head away. “The pain is brief, I hear, and then most pleasurable.”
“But you must be proven ready for penetration, my lady.” Jai flashed a wicked grin. “And in that I hear the crone will torture you.”
Torture me, she thought. Never having been with a man, Dria could only imagine how it would be to have a man touch her the way Mai was. What would it be like to feel his strong hands spreading her thighs, his weight atop her, pinning her down before he penetrated? It was all very mysterious, frightening and exciting at the same time. Suddenly a thrill went through her from her fingertips to her toes as new warmth enveloped her. It is my time!
Trying to contain the many wild impressions careening through her skull, she sat sipping her wine while Jai braided her hair into an elaborate plait that went down her back, almost reaching her waist. She then wound the braid around her head and pinned it up into place.
Hair done, she stood as Mai brought the vestments she would wear. The soft material whispered against her skin as she slid it on and knotted the sash around her slender waist. A long sleeved robe, it was fashioned in pure white silk and hooded in such a way that it would cover almost her entire face when it was drawn forward. The sleeves extended an inch past the tips of her fingers, and its folds fluttered around her feet. When she entered the temple, she would be covered from head to foot, a sign of chastity and piety. She watched as other attendants helped the twins into their own ceremonial dress; plain brown sack-like robes, the lower uninitiated disciples wore.
“Are you nervous?” Jai whispered in her ear.
Hardly trusting her voice, Dria nodded. “Yes…very.” She pressed a hand to her heart. O’ Dragon, let me not fail you.
Mai gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and drew the hood over her head. “It will be over quickly.”
The steps began, interminable steps, winding endlessly along long halls. Not a word was uttered as they walked toward the holy chamber. Filtered light from the torches lining the long hall cast dancing shadows on the walls. Under her bare feet, she could feel cold stone steps. Her breathing sounded with a harsh sibilance, her warm breath rasping up from her lungs to scrape over her dry lips. The warmth the wine had ushered in began to fade. She felt a wild impulse to scream or burst into hysterical shattering shrieks, but she pressed her rebellious lips together. Her mouth moved a little as she struggled with the strong emotions writhing in her soul. Uncertainty and fear nipped at her heels like the hounds of hell itself, but the women walking beside her refused to let loose of her arms, refused to change their direction. She hated her weakness, for emotions were supposed to be a thing easily corralled and controlled. Though she was half-human, she would be compelled to quash that part of her heritage, deny it entirely as she moved toward her maturity as a true immortal. For twenty-one years, she had been trained to extinguish the needs of the flesh, the remnants of her human mother’s weaknesses. She had successfully mastered the physical aspects of her body in the search for self-perfection. Her body had been harnessed, brought into subjugation by strict disciplines.
If only I could master my mind as easily, she silently lamented.
Another turn, then more steps. The atmosphere grew frigid, seeming to curl around her. Dria shivered with a chill not born altogether of the damp cold. As though wading in a thick fog, the fear of failure again clutched at her throat, but she could not give in to something as small as dread. The knowledge that she would be committing sacrilege was a sharper knife slicing through her mind.
Walking down the long passages seemed to take an eternity. Her nerves screamed at her to run, but resolve dragged at her heels like quicksand. The thought of something new was always a frightening thing to face. No matter how well one had been trained and prepared, there were always those details that were left unknown until the actual experience came to fruition. Soon she would be a mature woman, initiated. She had no other choice.
Abruptly, her walk ended where a low threshold led into a vast vaulted chamber.
Chapter Six
Ardan moved cautiously down the long, dimly lit tunnel. It was strange to be walking this path after so many years, strange to see this place he’d believed he’d never lay eyes on again. Torches gave off an odd illumination, casting flickering distorted shadows on the walls. The air was stale and hot, scorching to lungs accustomed to fresh oxygen. His eyes burned from the smoky soot coating the low ceiling. For a tall man, such was misery. Had he an inch more and his scalp would graze the stone above.
Once he and his men had gotten past Xavier’s wall, their main objective had not been the heart of the sorcerer’s sanctuary. Instead they were heading to a place that would be less guarded, but no less dangerous—the temple that housed the lower caste acolytes. In order to move fast, for time was getting away from them quicker than he cared to admit, he’d brought six men. Once they had secured their positions, they in turn would lead in the rest of the men waiting in place for the planned attack.
The men who had agreed to join him had come for various reasons. The lure of mates for themselves was a strong one. The idea of striking a blow against Xavier was an even stronger incentive. Lastly, they had nothing else to do, and any kind of adventure to break the boredom of the coming winter was a welcome one.
Despite the laughter and boasts of conquest at the beginning of their journey, new expressions had assumed their places on the men’s faces. Their expressions were desperate; but it was a calm, controlled desperation. Many of them had never ventured this close to Xavier’s territories—the idea being the further away, the safer. That they were daring to penetrate this far into the sorcerer’s lair took more than courage. It took nerves of steel. If one man faltered, it could cost them all their lives. Ardan knew that they would most likely lose a few men. The idea pained him, but not enough to turn back.
So far everything appeared to be going smoothly.
The underground maze was a mystery forbidden to most. In the flickering illumination of the ever-burning torches, the walls were embellished with ancient symbols, cryptic in their arrangement. He doubted anyone was old enough to remember how to read the old language.
Only adepts were to use these tunnels and even they came here but rarely, for few really knew then full extent of these caverns and where they led. Ardan had been braver than most and instead of spending his quiet time in meditation, he’d spent it exploring. These tunnels honeycombed the entire land around Xavier’s sanctuary, offering a place to hide when invaded, a quick escape from danger. Ardan could only guess when and by whom the tunnels had been originally constructed.
Though he had not been in this place in over a decade, he remembered each turn down the long tunnels. Things rarely changed, no matter if it were the passage of a day or a century. The one thing he’d learned about immortals was that they did not welcome change and did not adapt well to such at all. Because they would lead lives that spanned centuries instead of years, they resisted progress of any kind with all their considerable might, ruling their people and land with an iron fisted hand and feudal mentality. That humans were almost a sub-species within the rigidly structured caste society was a given. There were despised even as they were badly needed. The culling and slaughter had gone on for too long, though. Sclyd’s human population was beginning to thin out, dipping down to dangerous levels.
To his fortune, Ardan had been born of a very high ranking within the cult. He was a blessed birth, celebrated and welcomed. As a young boy, he had hated every moment of hi
s cultic education. Some deep inner instinct whispered to his conscience that there was something dreadfully evil about the cult he’d been born to serve, and someday rule in. The Dragon’s teaching taught of life, yet all he saw was death. Spoke of mercy, but all he witnessed was degradation and humiliation and pain. For a sensitively attuned boy, each day bought new miseries and he soon knew that one lifetime would be too much. He could not image existing through a millennia or more as such a being.
Of course, not all Sclyd’s entities embraced Ouroborous. The strife between those who did not and the Dragon’s legion was still felt to this very day, even though the centuries-long Dark Age war had supposedly ended over two hundred and fifty years ago. Considering the devastation to the Sclydian people, he believed the whole war to be ineffective and a colossal waste of time. That it was brewing, threatening to re-ignite with a new ferocity disturbed him deeply. He had often questioned the wisdom of walking away from his own legacy. Could he have better served his people had he embraced it and then took a stand against Xavier? It was not only the council of justices who wished to see the sorcerer downed. Rivals within the legion were also maneuvering to take Xavier’s place-assume control of his vast territories and fortune. Through his long reign Xavier had been toppled exactly one time. His disgrace and exile had not lasted long. His successor was too ineffective to assume full control.
As for the council of witches, they in turn were beginning to turn on each other. Power was a heady aphrodisiac and those who schemed to have it were to undermine the council’s influences. Ironically, the one among them who should have assumed control, who could have completely ended Xavier’s reign was the one who gave the sorcerer the impetus and ammunition to resume rule of his legion. It was a debacle, to say the least. So instead of a complete victory, the two ruling fractions of Sclyd were forced to accept an uneasy truce. They tolerated each other’s positions, struck at each other to keep up the appearances of strife and kept up their backstabbing maneuverings. All the while, Sclyd’s people suffered. It was a powder keg waiting to explode.
Ardan fervently believed that he had chosen the winning side when he joined the mortal ranks. The entities might posture and pose as gods, but to live as a real man was far more satisfying. He would work with his hands, love with his heart and fight with honor unto the death.
An urgent whisper behind him broke into his thoughts.
“Ardan? Are you sure this is the way?”
Annoyed by the break in his concentration, Ardan shot an angry glance behind him. The men’s faces were pale in the flitting light, taut with worry that they would be discovered and trapped in the tunnels. He quickly hissed back to reassure them.
“Yes. Young acolytes are quartered just ahead. They will be preparing for the ceremony. We can take them easily.”
“You are sure?” Graeymon asked.
“Yes, damn it! Just keep going. If you doubt me, go back.”
No man opted to leave.
Ardan studied some of the symbols on the wall. “Not much longer now.”
The walk continued, the men picking up their pace.
In the lead, Ardan was all too aware of the men following at his heels. To his ears the sound of their footfalls were clumsy and heavy, the rasp of their breath in the closed atmosphere too loud. He himself moved with the stealth of a panther and if all were to fall into dead silence, not even the sound of his breath would be heard—part of his early training to stifle human weaknesses.
The life of a young adept in training was a harsh one. The absolute self-mastery of the body must be harnessed by the mind and brought into subjugation. The need for nourishment must become minimal until it was no longer required at all. Every hour of the day was filled with study, meditation and prayer, all focused on the shedding of a body dependent on the physical. The metamorphoses most had to endure to claim their cultic legacies were a frightening thing to contemplate. Like a second skin, these weaknesses must be shed—the body was only a shell to be mastered by the mind, which in turn could manipulate creation’s energies. Magic was an awesome force, a thing dependent on the will on the conjurer. No one was born with the ability to use such power. No, the first thing a child of an immortal received upon its birth was death. Mortal breath was taken away to be replaced with the gift of the otherworld spirit.
During the formative years, a child was trained in their legacy. Upon reaching maturity, there would be a ritual to bring forth the dormant entity, a ceremony during which the adept would accept the gifts of the spirit. The cultic branches were many and varied. Each had its own rituals and rites of worship and training. It was a very elaborate and rigid process, one unchanged since, literally, the beginning of time.
Training for male adepts was far different from that of the females. The young priests to be generally underwent their acceptance rites at an earlier age than the women did. And while females were forbidden to lose their virginity before their coming of age rites, the boys were encouraged to partake liberally in female flesh, to hone their skills at lovemaking with as many women as possible. To sate their young desires, the women were encouraged to enjoy lesbianism before they were made women. Had the same happened between two men, however, the punishment was severe. To even masturbate alone to ease the loins was bad enough, but to waste the precious seed of life on another man was a blasphemy!
Reaching the end of the tunnels, the men moved into an antechamber that branched off into several warren-like rooms. The young adepts lived in sparse but comfortable apartments. Instead of drawing daggers, each man had in his grasp a long thin leather thong to be used as a garrote. The need for stealth and silence was paramount.
With a silent nod, the warriors ghosted across the antechamber like silent wraiths. Branching off down long hallways, recesses in the walls were covered by thick curtains. Normally this area would be brimming with activity. But because the ceremonies were beginning to commence, those with important roles to play had already departed. Only the younger acolytes would be left behind at this time.
Ardan slithered behind a privacy screen and into one of the small rooms. Inside, it was lit with an oil-burning lamp. A comfortable pallet piled high with pillows was in one corner. It was empty, though. The adept whom it belonged to was sitting on the floor; legs crossed, arms at rest, eyes closed.
To kill with the garrote, a man had to have nerves of steel. To kill by strangulation required a strength that could not waver. Give the victim a chance to gain breath and they are more likely to struggle, fight for their lives. To be effective, the assassin had to be quick, pulling the thin cord around the neck, crushing the windpipe. Death with this method was almost always instantaneous and very effective when stealth was required.
Pouncing on his victim, Ardan immediately twisted the leather cord and pulled it tight. As he did, the acolyte’s breathing dropped from a labored sonorous sound to a low gasping wheeze. In a matter of seconds his complexion ran through the spectrum from a normal hue to a bluish-violet color that indicated a clear lack of life-giving oxygen was not getting sucked in through his gaping mouth and flaring nostrils. Small capillaries in his eyes were beginning to burst. It could be made into a slow and painful death.
Ardan chose to end it quickly by giving the acolyte’s neck a hard twist to the left, snapping his neck. He was not a man with a stomach for torture. Killing should be quick and as painless as possible. He did not relish it as a sport or entertainment as some did.
He is barely a decade younger than myself, he noted silently, lowering the body to the floor. Still, in war, young men died, too. That was a rule. Not an exception. Given a simple twist of fate, he could have been in the dead acolyte’s position.
Working with calm speed, Ardan stripped the robes from the adept’s body. The way to get his men into the Dragon’s lair was to assume their places in the coming ceremony. As youngsters who would hold only an observer’s role, they would enter last and be expected to keep silent throughout. No one would notice them, for all
eyes would be on the young priestess to be.
Chapter Seven
The multilevel chamber was walled with tall columns that supported a high ceiling. In the exact center of the ceiling was a large circular stained glass window that allowed the silvery rays of Sclyd’s twin moons to fall full upon the altar placed directly under it. The night mists dimmed the moon’s light, bestowing a strange and elusively luminous quality to the orbs hovering in the sky above. Deep inside the huge arena, shadows flitted across fire lit walls, generating grotesque shapes around the gray robed figures lined up throughout the great hall. Cloaked, cowled and mantled, their arms were crossed in front of their bodies, hands completely hidden in the long folds of their sleeves, eyes downcast in a sign of respect that gave a small privacy to the acolyte about to join their ranks. Only when commanded by the Archpriest himself would they lower their hoods and rejoice in the ceremony.
Xavier was positioned at the rear. Flanked by his female attendants, he sat at the highest level on a gilt throne that allowed him to look down into the chamber’s depth. Positioned in front of him approximately twelve feet away was a square platform. Raised off the ground, three stone steps led up to its surface. It was a perfect square and large enough to support the presence of several bodies. A circle with a pentacle star in its heart, a symbol of dark magic, had been carved into its surface. Several more obscure symbols were carved on the inner and outer edges of the circle, their meaning going back to a time when the three worlds were a single one. The pentagram itself was fashioned upside down so that its horns pointed not only toward the north, but also toward the seating of the Archpriest. Its symbolism was twofold. First, of the Dragon’s defiance to any god who should dare oppose him. Second, the horns also embraced in a symbolic way the sorcerer who sat between the pentacle’s arms.
