Soansa

by A. C. Ellas

  Neren released the marble phallus and stepped back, smiling.

  Rak cried out in horror as the object continued to use him. A ghost of Narvain appeared between his legs, hips thrusting in time with the magical carving. Rak stared at the apparition, speechless, as it took its pleasure from him.

  Narvain paused with the body of his slave fully impaled on his member. “Beg me, pet,” his faint voice commanded. “Beg me to use your sweet slave body.”

  Rak shuddered as the penis started sliding out of him ever so slowly. “Please, Master, I beg You to grant me the privilege of serving Your pleasure. I yearn to submit to Your exquisite cock.” He had forgotten that he’d ever been free, that he’d ever been anything but this man’s sex slave. His life as Thezomeh, his years battling the Unmaker, even his training in the novitiate had contracted to a pinpoint and disappeared when he’d met Narvain’s gaze.

  “Why, pet?” asked the ghost. “Why should I use you?”

  “Master, I beg You, I need You.” Rak reacted to Narvain like the man was really there. The more he believed, the more solid Narvain’s body appeared. “Please, Master, I beg You to fuck me long and hard. Make me Yours, Master.”

  Narvain’s hand, warm and solid, stroked Rak’s ringed penis. “Aren’t you already my slave?”

  “Yes, Master, I am Your slave,” moaned Rak. “But it has been so long, Master. Help me remember.”

  “Does my slave desire his Master? Does he truly wish to be reminded of his Master?”

  “Yes, Master, I desire You with all my heart. Please, Master, remind Your slave of Your power, Your magnificence.”

  Narvain started to thrust again, little movements, barely rocking his hips so that he slid in and out less than an inch.

  It kept Rak on edge. It was not enough to satisfy his magic-driven need, which forced him to beg for more, for completion, but at the same time, it was enough to keep him safely out of danger of death. This was a torture Narvain had often inflicted on his slave for hours on end until he himself ached for completion.

  “Good, pet,” he said. “I am happy that my slave still loves his Master. But you are far away from me, pet, and that makes me unhappy.”

  Rak flinched. Narvain unhappy was never good. “Please forgive Your slave, Master.”

  “I can be convinced to forgive you, pet, but you must earn it.”

  “Anything, Master,” Rak moaned. “Please instruct Your slave on how to please You.”

  “First, meet my son, Neren.”

  Rak stared wildly at the blond youth, having forgotten he was even there.

  Neren smiled down at him and stroked his ringed penis.

  “Master,” Rak whimpered in acknowledgment.

  “That’s right, pet. Since I am not there with you, you will obey Neren in my place. He is your handler now until you come home and kneel at my feet once more.”

  Narvain’s rich voice rolled through Rak’s nerves, the commands implanting themselves deep within his psyche. Rak flexed his hips, trying to encourage his Master to continue, but the man moved with him, denying easy relief.

  “Yes, Master. I will obey You, Master, and I will obey the handler You have given me. Thank You, Master, for allowing Your slave to please You.”

  The rings Neren had given him had long since been removed, as had the steel rings the traitor Sura had given him. In a way, Rak missed their comforting bite. He knelt at Neren’s feet with his knees spread wide, his cock erect, and his head bowed. Neren stroked his short hair, apparently content to allow the silence to lengthen. Finally, the man whispered, “Abase yourself, pet.”

  Rak leaned forward and set to kissing and licking Neren’s dusty boots. He continued until Neren ordered him to stop and kneel again. Once Rak had straightened, Neren placed a hand under Rak’s chin and raised his head until they made eye contact.

  As their gazes met, Neren stepped on Rak’s cock, mashing it to the floor. “Your time here is done, pet. Your master calls you home. I will breed you, and then, you will dress yourself and accompany me. I have a boat waiting to take us home. You will not resist, you will not speak to anyone. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, master.” Rak forced the words past a mouth gone dry. He didn’t want to return to Zoth. He certainly didn’t want to bear this man’s baby. But Neren was his master, and he was required to obey.

  Neren released him. “Position yourself on the bed for me.”

  Rak crawled to the bed, turned and stood, then laid on his back with his wings spread to his sides. He had positioned himself so that his ass dangled off the foot and his feet remained on the floor. This served to make his belly arch up, positioning it for Neren’s comfort.

  Neren massaged his belly with authority—he knew exactly where the freak-hole was and how to open it. In a short time, Rak’s hole gaped open. Neren slid into Rak.

  Rak closed his eyes and endured. Neren was surprisingly quick about it. When he finished, Rak could feel the kironi magic coiling about in his belly, but he felt no connection to Neren. He kept his mouth shut.

  Neren let him get up, let him get dressed, then motioned to the door. “Let’s go.”

  There was no impulse to obey. Rak walked out of the bedroom. Scorth, Ioli, and Trosp were in the parlor, occupied with various tasks. Rak’s fingers flashed. “An enemy follows me. Stop him.”

  When Neren emerged behind him, Trosp stood, one eye blazing with golden fire, the other flashing with silver radiance. Reality twisted out from under them.

  Rak stood in the center of the storm. Winds whipped about him but did not touch him. Lightning cracked, lashing the ground, but not a single bolt electrified him. Rain, hail, pelted from the clouds, but he was bone dry. Wings surrounded him, but they were not his. They were as black as the night itself, part of the night itself. Zotien embraced him in silence, and Rak felt the kironi magic stir, strengthening itself at only the touch of the God.

  He dimly recalled the night when Zotien had used his kironi opening in order to heal him of the magics that had warped him. Zotien had given him His seed that night, but Rak had not felt a pregnancy take root. Then, today, when Neren had used him, he had felt a pregnancy take root but no connection to the man using him. The two events could not be unrelated.

  Silently he asked, and silently Zotien answered. He bowed his head and swore himself to secrecy. Zotien held him as the storm raged about him. “You have passed every test, My beloved servant, save the last. The test of pain is coming. Prepare yourself.”

  “I am ready,” Rak affirmed. He would prove himself a fitting vessel for the baby he now carried. Idly, he wondered which of the many tumultuous events of the past half-year had counted for the ancient tests of faith and which had been mere happenstance.

  “I love you.” The God’s words filled him with peace, with pleasure, with purest joy. It was a balm to his very soul.

  Chapter Seven: The Sickness

  Protεra Atεlio, Alethian Fεngari

  Frst day, second week, Alethian’s moon

  Rak opened his eyes. He was standing in the stable with absolutely no memory of how he’d gotten there. Ioli stood at his left hand, Scorth at his right. Of Traespo, Neren, and the palace guards, there was no sign.

  “This be the first horse to fall ill,” said Bharis from behind them.

  Putting aside the matter of how he’d gotten there and what had happened to Neren, Rak studied the sick horse. The beast’s coat seemed coarse and unkempt, though it had been glossy with health only a few days ago. It had already lost weight, the ribs beginning to show on the beast’s slab sides. The eyes were dull and crusted, the head hung low, the nostrils were dripping with green slime. The horse coughed, a deep tearing sound with a rasp to it that Rak didn’t at all like. The animal wheezed for air between the forceful exhalations, the mouth gaping open in an effort to bring in more air than it could through the clogged nostrils. The horse’s distress was obvious. Rak didn’t think it would survive the night without healing. If it could, in fact, be he
aled.

  Rak placed both his hands on the slab side of the beast, closed his eyes, and began to chant. Darkness surrounded him, swirled about him in dancing streamers of black fire. Smaller ribbons of emerald green fire mingled with the black streamers. The power flowed from Rak into the horse, and then, he lifted his hands and stepped back. Already, the horse looked better.

  “This is inefficient,” complained Scorth as Rak walked to the next stall.

  “What do you suggest then?” asked Rak, his mind still in a light trance.

  “We bring the sick horses to you,” replied Bharis. “Spare you that much effort.”

  Rak stopped and turned toward Bharis. “That does make sense. It would be better for me if we did this outside, under the stars. It is easier to call and direct the power that way.”

  Bharis nodded. “I know just the place.” He led them out of the stable area into a manicured, artificial “wilderness.” A bench was positioned in a secluded spot with an excellent view of the vault above, which was reflected in an ornamental pond full of colorful fish. The weeping willows and fragrant lavender bushes screened the area from casual view, though there was a well-maintained path that led directly to the bench. “Here. It’s not much of a walk from the barns. We’ll keep you supplied with food and drink, a’course.”

  Rak nodded as he sat down. He glanced at Ioli and said, “Bring them.”

  Ioli gave him a worried look before he turned and padded toward the waiting horses. Rak understood his concerns. Ioli didn’t have the healing gift, which left only Rak to heal over a hundred ill horses.

  Scorth brought the first horse. Even sick, the beast was reacting to the black-skinned man by tossing its head and whinnying distress. One of the stable boys leaped to take the lead-rope from Scorth before the horse could harm itself in its panic.

  Rak rested his hands on the beast and resumed his chant. Once more the power flowed, from the God, into his body, and out, into the beast. He needed only to direct and control the energy. He pulled back. The horse was led away, and Ioli brought the next one.

  For a time, all Rak was aware of was the procession of ill horses and the flow of the power through his tiring body. But every so often, there was a disruption in the flow of sick beasts, a pause that should not be there. The horses that caused these hitches were always sweating and nervous, and that brought Rak back to himself. As the next sweating, panicked horse was led up by Scorth, he said, “Enough.”

  Scorth looked at him. They all looked at him. Bharis looked the most concerned, probably afraid that the priest had reached the limits of what he could do. Rak kept his attention focused on his soul-mate. “I know that you want to help, but you are upsetting the horses.”

  There wasn’t much Scorth could say to that. He inclined his head as Rak continued, “Please, I must ask that you go. If you could check on Tebber for me, I would appreciate that.”

  Concern for their servant was the thinnest of excuses, and they both knew that. But it gave the Koilathans something rational to focus on. Scorth replied, “Yes, Rak, of course. After that, I shall find something quiet to do.”

  Rak smiled. “Thank you.”

  As Scorth walked away, the next horse was brought up. Rak closed his eyes and allowed the power to flow.

  * * * *

  Jisten strode through the palace, jaw clenched in controlled anger. Yet again the high priest had given the palace guard the slip, after his promises to the contrary. Although, once he thought about it, S’Rak had never specifically promised not to slip his guards. He had promised obedience, however. Jisten had no intention of letting this lie, S’Rak had to learn defiance came at a price. He would find S’Rak, and when he did, the punishment he’d mete out would be memorable. S’Rak was his by law and by custom. The kironi had no right to defy him. The mark on his arm burned in sympathetic anger. He knew what he would have to do.

  He had heard rumor of illness in the stables. Stablemaster Bharis was no fool and often sought S’Rak’s aid in matters of equine health—who better, after all, than a priest dedicated to the tending of animals? S’Rak was a very powerful animal healer, though due to the nature of his deity, he was much stronger in his powers at night. If there was illness among the horses, S’Rak would be there, doing everything he could to help. Jisten approved of S’Rak helping the horses, of course, but the high priest was under guard for a reason, and he could not just slip off whenever the whim took him.

  The first barn of the palace stable complex was reserved for the mounts of the king and queen. There were twelve barns in all and ample pasturing. The furthest barn, number twelve, had been given over to the dark servants to use, though Rak still stabled Vyld in barn two, the largest barn since it contained the mounts of not only the palace guard, but also the mounts of the highest nobles and other worthy visitors to the palace. Exiting the palace, Jisten turned toward this barn first as being the most likely place to find the wayward priest.

  * * * *

  Gossamer threads, as fine as spider’s silk but infinitely more fragile, yet at the same time, glowing with the potential promise they held, held fast in intricate display between the outstretched hands. Traespo considered. On the one hand, there was S’Rak, high priest of Zotien, potentially a key—the key—to the Victory Prophecy, and so much more besides. Priest, healer, philosopher, dancer... lover. Traespo knew what Zotien hoped would come to pass, he was not opposed. It was, in fact, his pleasure as well as his duty to help nudge matters in the desired direction.

  On the other hand, there was Captain Jisten Kydem, Valer Captain of the Koilathan Palace Guard, who was most assuredly one of Traespo’s subjects whether the mortal acknowledged this or not. The threads of Jisten’s potential futures wove about those of S’Rak. Traespo studied these threads. It was far easier to effect the necessary changes upon Jisten’s course—a subtle way to steer the high priest’s fate, to be sure, and hopefully one that the Enemy would not take notice of.

  As Jisten stepped out of the palace, heading for the stables to find S’Rak, Traespo blew upon the fragile threads between his fingers. Mist seeped from the ground, obscuring sight and replacing reality with illusion, sanity with madness. Traespo looked upon his work and was pleased.

  * * * *

  Mist hung between the buildings, obscuring details. Skozia was alone in the sky and nearly full, her light tinted the fog an eerie crimson reminiscent of blood. Jisten’s step checked abruptly. Weather conditions weren’t right for this type of heavy fog. He glanced up at the smaller moon: Skozia, Goddess of magic, illusion, deception. What was the purpose of this unnatural mist? Jisten studied it uneasily. The mist swirled and shifted—without even a breath of a breeze.

  S’Rak is in there. Jisten nodded to himself. The mist was trying to keep him away. He strode forth with a brisk stride. He wasn’t about to let the priest escape so easily. Within three steps it completely surrounded him. It was cool and damp, exactly as a mist should feel. Tendrils reached out to him, but lacking substance, did little to hinder him. Confidence filled him as the mist proved harmless and he turned toward barn two.

  A scarlet veil lifted, revealing towering trees so massive their shaggy heads disappeared into the clouds. The trees stared down at Jisten, stared at him, judged him, and found him unworthy. Their enmity and censure were a palpable force that staggered Jisten. He gasped, fists clenching as he confronted a fear he’d thought long defeated.

  “User,” hissed the trees to the left, their voices plain in the rustling of leaves and creaking of limb. “You take and take and take and give nothing in return.”

  “Monster,” whispered the trees to the right. “You are no different than Hasaviz, than Virien, or Thaxor, or Hueltar. Your evil is as theirs.”

  “I am not a user,” Jisten cried out, “I would rather die than be like them!” The glyph on his arm flared, a sharp, burning agony that was fortunately localized. He pressed his other hand against that spot, applying pressure as a means of relieving the discomfort but other
wise ignored the irritant.

  The mist swirled, and the trees vanished. He darted forward, the cold sweat on his back adding an unpleasant chill that formed an odd counterpoint to the pain of the glyph. Figures moved on either side of him; he glanced to his left where vague, dark humanoid figures danced. He could make out no details other than the form and the motion. To his right, when he turned his attention that way, stood a rank of people, and these he could see quite clearly. He recognized them, each and every one of them a captive the guard had made sport with while he had done nothing. Their haunted eyes accused him in silence, naming him coward for his failure to save them.

  “I’m sorry,” he croaked, “I’m so sorry.” He whipped about, stumbled, recovered his balance, and ran. The mist swirled again, and the sense of being watched first faded then grew abruptly stronger.

  “Jisten.” The voice was as soft as the mist, as deep as the void, with an eerie resonance that shivered the spine.

  His first instinct was to run like Virien’s guards were after him. His limbs trembled in incipient panic, but he forced himself to turn toward the voice. “Who are you? Show yourself!”

  A man stepped forth as the mists parted about him. He was beautiful and terrible to behold. The perfect features of his face were somehow distorted, deranged, but there wasn’t any one thing that Jisten could put a finger on to cause it to be that way. He pierced Jisten with an unearthly, mismatched gaze. One eye was solid black with a glowing silver pearl for a pupil, while the other eye was solid azure with a blazing golden orb at its center. His hair was unbound and uncombed, blood red and deepest black, it fell in twisted waves to his waist.

  Jisten swallowed against a throat gone dry as he identified the being facing him. According to Valer lore, to acknowledge him was to invite him. But the lore said nothing about what he should do when standing an arm’s length from the Lord of Madness.