“I thought you were gone.”
“You thought wrong.” Kendras’s lips twitched with a smile. “I’m not healed.”
“Last night….” Steel lifted his shoulders.
“Yes.” Kendras merely agreed and punched another hole, then examined the scale. “I like it. You’re right.”
“I knew that. Just….”
“Time to come clean, Steel. I know you’re not keeping me around for my pretty eyes.”
“Your eyes actually do have something to do with it.” Steel smiled. “No. I needed a blue-eyed, black-skinned Dalmanye warrior.”
“You needed a warrior too?”
“It helps.”
“A job you have?”
“Yes. I can’t tell you more yet, only that some very powerful people are keeping us ready here until we’ll be needed. Then we need to strike hard and fast.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“A chance to heal in peace, all costs paid. Food, safety, slaves for your bed. We assume it’ll be two months. Maybe your foot is good by then.”
“If it isn’t?”
“Then I’ve done a good deed keeping a fellow soldier from begging on the streets.”
“You still don’t strike me as the charitable type. Despite how you sucked me off.”
Steel looked about to snap back but then paused when Kendras grinned at him. “Well, you let me sleep.”
“No point kicking you out.” Kendras bent to adjust the leather straps of the peg leg and walked, insecurely but with his own strength, to the armor to examine it, fingers testing the leather and the metal scales fastened to it.
“You can build your own gear from scratch?”
Kendras continued his examination. “Our officer held it that we cannot be slowed down by queuing in front of a smithy. Many pieces of armor and weapons break during war; we cannot wait for days to get them fixed and be toothless in the meanwhile.” Quoting the officer. This truth had been so often repeated it might just as well have been a prayer.
If you want to wait for the smith to catch up… we have a war to fight.
“In the end, this armor is my skin. If it is damaged, I am damaged.” Kendras gave him a curious look. “How do you do it?”
“I get a replacement. Plenty of spares after war.”
Kendras smiled. “True.”
There was an understanding between them now, comradeship almost, as if Steel trusted him a little. It wasn’t what Kendras had set out to win, but it did make things easier.
“Well then. Good to see you’re still here.” Steel knocked on the door frame by way of goodbye and left Kendras to his work.
After he’d finished fixing the scales back onto the armor, Kendras wiped the armor down with an oily rag and rolled it up. Movements he’d done a thousand times but did with religious observance. The drill sat bone-deep and doing it haphazardly would make him feel faintly guilty, like the officer would find out and call him out on it in front of everybody else.
He dipped his hands into the bucket, splashed the water over his chest and head, then wiped it off his face with his hand. The rest could dry in the heat.
By now the sun was high up in the sky, and movement on the farm had slowed until the worst heat dissipated.
He crossed the courtyard, noting the position of guards and a whipping post for quick, rough justice, which made his shoulder blades itch.
He remembered his own hands closing around a length of rope that held his wrists above his head. It was nothing he’d ever forget, but worse was the memory of the executioner’s touch.
Kneeling on his bed, condemned to die, the brute fucking him with no regard for his pain. If he had wed the ropemaker’s daughter the next day or been drowned in the sea, that would have been his last night, fucked bloody and miserable by a man who’d killed more people than he as a soldier ever would.
Hatred had blossomed from the vine of contempt in his heart, flowers of dark, grim splendor.
Eight years ago
“HOW much for the boy?”
“He’ll die on the morrow.”
“I’m sure we can come to an agreement there. You’ve drowned a bag of stones before.”
“They will see that the stones are not struggling.”
“Maybe some merciful soul has paid you to strangle him before he goes into the water. They sometimes do that, don’t they, when there is a family to mourn their own.”
“Pay me eight silver and the sack will be full of stones.”
“Ah, but he’s not a virgin anymore after two nights in your house. Six is the most I’d pay for him on the slave market, and that would be for one who could get to work immediately.”
“If you buy him for a whorehouse, I should warn he has no talents for pleasure.”
“The warning is heeded. Six silver, and one to tell no one.”
The first thing Kendras had seen of the man buying him was a broad, dark-clad figure who barely looked at Kendras who was on his belly, naked, legs spread, hands tied to the bed frame.
His ass hurt. The executioner had taken him many times, day and night, until Kendras didn’t struggle anymore. Against a man three times his weight and twice as broad in the shoulder, he’d had to resign himself to the fact he was nothing more than a toy whose resistance went largely unnoticed.
He’d learned why the other street rats had warned him against accepting money for that kind of favor, and Kendras never had, even if his dark skin attracted more than a few suitors.
He’d lived off stealing and later, violence, growing into a street tough, a thug, and a murderer, at times, when the price and the victim were right. He ate when he had money and didn’t when he hadn’t, and sometimes charity got him through a harsh winter, when he could find a bedroll in an attic and wasn’t immediately expelled.
He lived like a street dog, always ready to fight to the death for what little he owned, even for the space where he slept. In the dark underbelly of Dalman, this was how people lived. He’d never known anything else.
He must have had parents, and parents who looked different to most people in Dalman, but he didn’t remember them. He didn’t even know if they had given him his name or whether he’d chosen it by himself.
Then one night he got into a fight with the night watch, who’d attempted to catch him to sell to the army. An army that was running out of volunteers as the seemingly endless war dragged out, resulting in patrician funerals at least twice a week as even the officers began to die.
In all honesty, he’d considered often whether to join up, learn the weapons trade, and have a full belly plus one warm meal a day, but he’d seen the stony-eyed beggars with their unit tattoos and horrific injuries, which, out on the street, festered and often killed them. He never forgot that Dalman’s “best sons and daughters” were cast aside after the war and after they had given their blood and a limb or two.
The man who’d bought him pulled dark leather gloves from his hands and tested the knots of the rope that held him, then reached back to his belt and pulled a curved dagger in complete silence. No hiss from the steel or the sheath, and Kendras thought that would be perfect for killing a man in the dark. Then his hands fell to the mattress, lifeless.
Deft fingers cut the loops from his flesh. A strong thumb checked the deep furrow of the rope.
“Move your fingers.”
Kendras tried, but it was like his body couldn’t remember it had fingers to move. A surge of fear came over him, and he struggled to his knees, wincing when the pain flared up from his ass. Worse was the leer from the executioner, whose bulge told Kendras in no uncertain terms what would have happened again if the stranger hadn’t paid for him. He clambered to his feet, nearly crying out when he had to move again.
The stranger had dark eyes and a short beard, skin darker than that of the executioner, but lighter than Kendras’s. His palms, when he sheathed the dagger, bore a double scorpion tattoo.
“Did he have any clothes?” The stranger asked.<
br />
The executioner sat down at his table, returning to grinding up herbs and mixing medicines. They said nobody knew the human body better than somebody who had to kill it for a living, and during the last two days and nights, many customers had come to ask for aid, women eager to kill a child in their bellies or men asking to strengthen their manhood.
Kendras didn’t know about preventing births, but the executioner’s stamina in fucking him had been entirely too great to be normal.
The stranger waited patiently, but when it became clear that no answer was forthcoming, Kendras hoped that the dagger would be drawn again to threaten the brute. Instead, the other man reached to the fastening of his cloak and pulled it off, revealing leathers like those worn under heavy armor and close-cropped black hair. With his ascetic, sharp features and long, thin nose, the man was nothing short of striking, and Kendras’s guts tightened at the man’s calm air of command. This certainly wasn’t a whoremaster.
The cloak fell around Kendras’s shoulders, hiding him down to his feet in the wide, woolen folds, and the smell of man and leather still clung to it. Kendras pulled up the hood and then a strong arm encircled his waist, helping him move down the stairs.
The executioner lived in the furthest tower overlooking the ocean—to the jeers of the gathered masses, the men and women condemned to die were tossed into the ocean below, sewn into a rough canvas bag.
Depending on the executioner’s choice, they crashed onto the white, bone-littered rocks below, where sea gulls tore open the canvas and crabs and birds feasted on the water-softened flesh. Or, alternately, the bag went down to the deep end, where no rocks held up the descent into the water. Death by drowning or shattered bones was a choice the executioner made, but he’d told Kendras that he accepted favors from those who felt that one or the other was the better way to die.
Of course, once confined in the bag, they had no way to demand that they go to their favored death.
“Can you move your fingers now?” the stranger asked.
“I don’t know.” Kendras tried, but his hands were numb and didn’t respond to any command. Would the man take him back? “They will. I know they will,” he pleaded, hating his voice sounding so feeble. “I’ll work. I’ll pay you back.”
“You’re now my slave, boy.” The man gave him a wry smile, but it wasn’t unkind. Kendras fell silent and regarded the man’s leathers. Maybe he’d just care for the armor and weapons and horse. Cook the man’s meals. He hoped he didn’t have to warm his bed. That would hurt, and the thought of being fucked again made him want to die. Then at least it would be over.
“What kind of slave?”
“That depends whether we can get your hands back to life.” The soldier steadied him by the shoulder, leading him along the city walls. Whores offered their services, catcalling the soldier, offering to join them both in bed, boasting skills that Kendras, despite growing up on the street, didn’t know existed. But then, they’d never considered him a paying customer.
The soldier waved them off and took larger strides, ensuring that Kendras kept up with him. They eventually arrived at a town house, where the soldier produced a key.
He locked the door again behind them. Sounds of other occupants made Kendras aware that he was securely trapped. Laughter and boisterous talk sounded through the walls and doors, and the soldier pushed him through the door into a large room.
A dozen or so soldiers looked up from what they were doing, sitting around the fire, eating, talking, drinking, mending their armor, and sharpening their blades. Kendras felt like a lamb pushed between wolves, too aware that he was naked underneath the cape.
The soldier pulled back his hood. “Here he is,” he announced.
There were a few approving nods, which only served to bewilder Kendras further.
“Medic, he’ll need your attentions. Ertas, time to part with some of those extra shirts and trousers you’ve carried all the way from the Gorge. Ah, Selvan, get him a bowl of soup and cut him some extra sausage. Not that he didn’t have enough sausage today, but he’ll need to get his strength back.”
The men laughed, and those he’d called out rushed to fulfill the orders.
A young soldier with a shaved head touched Kendras on the shoulder. “Come upstairs.”
“It’s all right. He’ll look at your hands and your other injuries.”
Kendras stiffened, wanted to say he was fine, but if he was a slave now, nothing he said meant anything. Resigned, he followed the young soldier upstairs and shed the cloak when he was ordered to.
The medic rolled out his instruments, then went to fetch hot water and a rag. He examined Kendras’s swollen wrists first, bent his fingers and his hands. “All you need is some rest,” he said finally, but nevertheless he mixed some herbs into a thick greenish paste, coated some bandages, and wound them around Kendras’s wrists. The cool wetness was the first pleasure in ages. Kendras felt so grateful he found it impossible to speak.
“Let’s see the rest of you,” the medic said. “Get on that bed, on all fours.”
“No.”
The medic had already dipped the rag into the water. “I won’t do the same to you. I don’t like fucking a wound.”
Kendras shuddered.
“All right.” The medic reached to his belt and offered him a bottle. “Two sips of this.”
Kendras smelled but could only make out bitter herbs and strong alcohol. “What is this?”
“It’ll help.” The medic began washing his hands, rubbing the soap deep into his skin. The sounds were too loud in the room. “Don’t make me get two of the others and hold you down.”
Kendras took two deep swallows of the foul liquid and handed the bottle back. The heat spread immediately in his belly then raced through his veins up to his head. He hadn’t eaten in two days, so he staggered as he tried to move.
“Maybe that was a bit too much,” the medic said with a shrug before he caught Kendras around the waist and led him to the bed. Kendras felt himself being positioned on hands and knees, facing the wall, then cool fingers slid between his cheeks and prodded at the source of his pain.
“You’re doing well.” A wet rag began to clean him, every touch secure and soothing through the haze of the strong drink. He shuddered when the fingers entered him, but they were slick and careful, pulling only briefly.
“How’s he doing?” the soldier who’d saved him asked from the door.
“He’s been well-used. Thin soup and ale for a week, then I’ll look at this again.”
“But not broken?”
“Hard to tell. He won’t die from it. But he’s not going to follow in Selvan’s footsteps. Not that we need two of that kind.” The medic chuckled.
“No, I doubt he’s quite as cock-hungry.” The older soldier smiled. “And he’s not here for his looks, anyway.”
“I figured.” The medic washed the blood and dirt from Kendras’s legs.
“I’ve seen him fight three men from the night watch, each one heavier and better armored and armed than him. This one knows no fear.”
“That’s a dangerous trait in a man,” the medic said.
“Oh, he’ll learn fear all right.” The older soldier stepped closer to the bed. Through the haze, Kendras realized he was completely naked and wide open to the man’s gaze. But somehow he failed to get his body to move, as if it all didn’t matter.
The salve the medic had applied felt like bliss, numbing and cooling, and he lay down on his side, head too heavy to think. He noted how the medic dried away most of the water, then pulled a blanket over him.
Much later, another soldier appeared and left him a bowl of soup. Nobody was around to help him eat, but Kendras managed. The herbs, tiredness, and the most substantial meal he’d had in four days quickly put him to sleep.
The soldiers, he learned, were the Seventeenth, the Scorpions, every single one of them chosen by the older man who’d rescued him. They only called him “the officer,” and that was how the man ran h
is outfit. He saw a criminal condemned to die he liked the looks of, and he bought him. He saw a slave that he thought would make a good soldier, and he bought him. Rumor had it that he had won Selvan at dice, but even though Selvan had become a competent soldier and the officer had offered him freedom and the scorpion tattoos, he much preferred being a slave.
Kendras learned the reason one evening when he had mostly healed and went into the common sleeping quarters to find the medic. The medic, however, sat in the middle of the room, trousers undone, his thick cock spearing Selvan’s ass.
The slave moved frantically, his face a distorted mask of lust. Several of the other Scorpions watched, and when the medic jerked and came with a shout, two men pulled Selvan off the medic’s lap and fed him two big cocks at the same time, while a third plunged into Selvan’s ass. Kendras noted that Selvan’s own cock was encased in a hard leather shell, but there was no doubt the slave welcomed the attentions of so many men, sucking hungrily on both and rocking back against the third as much as he could. When those men had finished, more took their places, one at his ass, another fucking the slave’s throat.
In the corner sat the officer, watching, legs spread, one hand resting on his groin. Kendras couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way the slave was being used until he very nearly collapsed with exhaustion.
When all the Scorpions had satisfied their need and Selvan, dirty, sweaty and defiled, was on hands and knees, shaking, the officer knelt down at his side and removed the cup holding his cock. Kendras had never seen anything like the metal ring that held Selvan’s cock and balls tightly, or anybody who was so desperate. The officer’s hand closed around the slave’s cock, and he did nothing but brush a thumb over the tip. With a cry, Selvan spilled over the officer’s hand. The officer stroked him until the spurts died down and the slave collapsed with exhaustion but still crawled up a few inches to kiss the officer’s boot.
Then the officer looked up and noticed Kendras, who did and did not understand.
The officer wiped his hand on a discarded shirt, then headed for the door. “Follow me,” he said as he passed Kendras, and Kendras obeyed.
Scorpion Page 4
