by Mark Adam
Khat reached down and grabbed hold of the girl by one narrow shoulder. He toppled her and left her face-down in a position of devout genuflection, her womanhood exposed and thrust up into the thickly humid air.
The slave girl whimpered, but Khat ignored her. The Four Gods decreed the role of humanity, while each individual struggled blindly to follow the path preordained for them. Khat had no concept of emancipation philosophy. If today’s gamble failed, he knew he would find himself in just such a position as he now forced on the girl.
Khat backed away from the jungle glade and melted into the thicket around the tiny clearing. He crouched down beside the coven-whore where she hid under the eaves of a hardwood tree.
The woman was naked as the slave except for sturdy sandals. Her body hair had been shorn so that her skin from head to toe was smooth and bare. A circlet of arcane etchings had been set in tattoos around her skull.
“She will do?” Khat asked.
The coven-whore nodded. “It is her cycle-time, the Ibis will smell her call from across the forest.”
Khat pulled bolas from a pouch on his harness. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be easier to enchant the creature?”
The female beside him hissed her impatience. “I have told you, corsair, if your spell is to be cast the, essence must be taken, but not by geas. I can cloud the creature’s eyes, but that is all.”
Everything depended on the geas, a binding spell of mystical strength.
Khat eyed the bound girl who lay face-down, ass-up in the clearing. He made a fist the size of a young ham, and his knuckles cracked. He didn’t bother to reply to the witch’s insulting tone. He pulled a small green pill from his harness belt and chewed it.
On the journey to the wetlands in his sunship, Khat had rebuffed the woman’s repeated advances and she had been sulking ever since. The coven-whores were known for their ferocity in sex and their peculiar kinks. They were also known for stealing a man’s soul through his balls.
The pair, corsair and witch, hunched in the shadows waiting. Sweat rolled freely from them, turning their skin greasy. Khat began to envy the woman her lack of body hair and unfettered nudity. The girl had begun to cry out in the meadow, and Khat knew it would not be much longer.
Their shadows moved and Khat guessed two hours passed. Once, a jungle cat, no doubt smelling the slave girl, approached the clearing. The witch’s enchantment was meant only for the Ibis, and the creature shied away when it noticed the hulking form of Khat crouched beneath the tree.
Khat lifted a wineskin filled with water treated with certain herbs that held properties which induced feeling of vitality and euphoria. He drank, swallowing several times until he felt the witch stiffen at his side. Slowly he lowered the wineskin and watched the Ibis creep into the glade.
The creature was humanoid and covered in short, milky white fur. The hands ended in talon-tipped fingers and the feet in cloven hooves. Above eyes of albino pink two long, straight horns of ochre bone thrust up, adding over a foot of height to the tall beast.
The creature’s eyes narrowed as it smelled the slave girl. Its nose twitched in greedy anticipation, and it stalked forward. From the tangled thatch of achromic fur at the demi-human’s crotch the long pink spiral of its erection emerged.
The girl began screaming around the ball-gag when the weight of the Ibis’ hands fell across her naked buttocks. Excited, the Ibis scrambled around her legs, trying to mount her.
Khat rose, making ready his bolas. The witch’s hand found his leg in warning as the Ibis suddenly turned its head toward the place of their illusion. Khat froze, every muscle tensed. He waited, forcing himself to still. If the faun-thing spooked, the corsair knew he’d never catch it in a chase.
The Ibis sniffed the humid air, but his nose was filled with rich copper tang of the girl’s menstrual blood. The witch crouched beside Khat, her lips quivering as she whispered her incantation.
Satisfied, the Ibis snorted and turned back toward the bound girl. It grabbed the girl’s hips and aimed the pink shaft of its erection toward her exposed sex. The wild thing seemed to quiver with the strength of its need.
Khat lifted the bolas, two weighted balls on either end of nearly five feet of strong hemp-rope. He snapped his arm and started spinning the hunting tool. In three tight revolutions Khat had them up to speed, and he stepped forward, shattering the witch’s glamour.
The Ibis looked up in sudden fear, and Khat released the bolas. The Ibis struggled to rise off its knees. It came up and twisted to run just as the bolas caught it. The rope trapped its arms tight to its robust torso and wound the demi-human up.
The two weighted ends thudded into the creature’s chest and back with brutal force and drove the thing to the ground. Khat moved fast across the clearing, the thick muscles of his legs exploding him forward with relentless power.
The corsair wore a harness and tightly folded loincloth in the heat. Khat’s body was grotesquely muscled and covered in swirling tattoos. Other than the bolas and a belt knife, he was unarmed, and so moved that much faster.
Arms bound tightly, the Ibis bleated in rage and fear. It twisted its head and tried to rise to its feet. Khat lowered his shoulder and drove into the struggling demi-human. Behind him the witch raced forward. The Ibis saw Khat leap and tried to twist its horns around.
Their bodies collided with the sound of a dull slap. Khat reached up with hands the size of shovel blades and grabbed the Ibis by its ochre horns. The corsair wrapped his legs around those of the Ibis and arched his powerful back, wrenching the Ibis by the horns until the creature’s head twisted painfully and locked to one side.
Frantic, the creature tried to buck its hips back into Khat to dislodge him, but the big corsair used each frantic thrash to solidify his immobilizing hold like a jungle snake smothering and crushing its desperate prey.
A shadow cut the glare of the equatorial sun from Khat’s eyes. He looked up and saw the witch drop to her knees beside the struggling fighters. Spittle flew from her lips as she uttered the incantation, frantic in her intensity. Sensing the power unfolding from the nude and hairless female, the Ibis ceased struggling in Khat’s grip and began to bleat in terror.
“Hurry!” Khat snarled. “Before its brothers hear it.”
“It is no longer aroused!” The witch hissed.
“Earn your money before we’re killed!”
The coven-whore wasted no more words in futile protest. Her head dropped like a headsman’s axe and her mouth found the struggling Ibis at its root. The creature relaxed under the witch’s manipulations, and Khat locked his ankles, trying to ignore the sounds of sucking, wet rhythm the witch used to force the Ibis’ excitement back.
Once the shuddering creature was aroused, the witch took the pink member in one steady hand and finished the creature off quickly. Khat felt nauseas as the Ibis stopped its bleating and merely began to quiver in his grip.
The coven-whore guided the Ibis expulsion onto her poultice where cloth and ground vegetation soaked up the thick seminal fluid. She jumped to her feet, carefully folding the poultice cloth in such a way as to ensure nothing escaped.
“It is done.”
Khat released one of the Ibis’ colored horns and drew his belt knife. He pressed the edge of the blade down against the creature’s throat. The demi-human stiffened in fear as Khat uncoiled from it.
Khat crouched over the Ibis, knife at its jugular. Slowly Khat rose and, slicing at the ropes, finally pulled the blade free. The faun-thing scrambled to its feet and ran off into the wetland. Sweat rolled down off Khat’s forehead and pooled in the empty socket of his left eye.
“We good?” He demanded.
The witch nodded as she carefully placed the poultice in a small haversack she’d secreted away in their hunting blind. Khat walked over to the slave-girl and began cutting her bounds.
“Let’s get back to the ship,” Khat said.
Chapter Four
Ritual
Night
While Alyssa cast her invocation, the mistress Infantana of Gomorrah’s tallest spire enjoyed the fruits of power three floors below the praying girl. She stretched on her chair like a cat and caught the reflection of herself in the numerous mirrors she had set about the private room.
She liked what she saw reflected there, liked how it made her feel, aroused and self-satisfied. She wondered how that ass, Khat, could have thrown away their nights together. His sudden leaving made her angry and frustrated. She looked to her slaves.
“Pour,” the Infantana commanded.
A slave boy sprang to obey, but the blonde aristocrat stopped him with a gesture of her leather riding crop. Instantly the boy froze, and the serving girl beside him stepped away from the wall and scurried forward.
Tongue pressed against the full swell of her bottom lip, the Infantana watched the dusky-skinned slave fetch the decanter of chilled wine. Shut away from the sea breezes, the new ruler of Gomorrah’s wealthiest family wore the briefest of silks against the wetland heat. The silks were of deepest purple, the color of mourning, and made the vivid platinum of her pale hair shine in contrast.
Slowly the Infantana lifted the slender arm holding her cut crystal glass from the arm of her luxuriously padded and throne-like chair. She lifted it out toward the girl in a lazy gesture.
“Pour.” She repeated.
The Infantana’s smooth flesh was oily with perspiration, and her silk garment clung to her folds and secret creases. Her husband had died two days ago, on the night of his wedding to the much younger woman. His daughter Alyssa, from his First Concubine and his only heir, now lay locked in a tower chamber “grieving” for her father until the new ruler of the family spire decided she had shown proper respect.
The girl began to pour the wine. Amber liquid spilled smoothly into the glass from the decanter. The Infantana watched the girl’s breasts dangle loose in her short toga as she bent over to pour the chilled wine. The Infantana casually moved her hand so that the crystal chalice deviated from the stream of amber fluid. Wine spilled on the animal furs at the foot of the Infantana’s chair.
“Stupid, girl!” She shrieked.
The Infantana rose to her feet while the slave girl moaned her fear and collapsed to the ground in supplication. The Infantana was merciless and swift. The riding crop rose and fell, raising welts along the soft flesh of the girl’s back. The Infantana’s heavy breasts rose and fell with the exertion, and her face twisted into a wild grin.
“Forgive me, mistress!” The girl wailed.
The Infantana was on her in an instant. Leaping forward she reached down and snatched the girl up by her hair. Twisting it cruelly, the tower mistress bent the girl’s head back and straddled her face in one smooth motion.
“Show me,” the Infantana snarled. “Show me you’re sorry, little bitch.”
The girl began to work her mouth and tongue without hesitation. So eager was the girl to please and so skilled in her supplications, that the Infantana, a skilled and subtle sorceress, did not feel the shiver of eldritch power that pulsed momentarily through her tower.
* * * *
The tower across from the Infantana’s rose above the library at the back of the spire temple. There the Caliph kept his chambers. He wiped effeminate lips with soft cloths and eyed the young slaves standing in mute phalanx along the wall. The little group of nubile youths had been a gift from the Infantana. The Caliph’s prayers to Cahlii, the First Among Equals, had been instrumental in releasing the protective wards on his former Lord’s soul, allowing the Infantana’s augurs to sever that corrupt soul from the mortal coil.
The Caliph burped in satisfaction. He allowed his gaze to play across the volumes of books housed in the wall shelves around his chambers. His collections of rare and diabolical tomes were legendary even in Gomorrah, a cosmopolitan city known for its libraries. So legendary that even the Infantana’s young charge, Alyssa, had begged to be allowed to look upon them.
The Caliph swilled his wine and pushed the plate of pastries away. He idly fingered his nose with a bejeweled finger and wiped the prize on his long robes. He patted the gigantic roll of his stomach and looked at the barefoot slaves dressed only in leather loinwraps and collars of hammered metal.
“Here,” the Caliph snapped at one of the lean young men.
The youth stepped quickly forward. The Caliph slapped the table top beside him. Immediately the slave bent at the waist and pressed his forehead against the smooth wood. Slowly the Caliph reached across plates of half-eaten delicacies and found a bowl of butter grown soft in the heat.
He drew the butter to him and turned to admire the flanks of the slave bent over beside him. Beyond the motionless servant rose a stack of bookshelves. Housed there were many of the scrolls dedicated to the art and positions of copulation. The Caliph rose from his chair, butter in hand, and began to adjust his robes. Contained among the erotic psalms was a particular grimoire of immense possibility. The girl Alyssa had fairly trembled in awe when he had pointed it out to her by name. He’d let the suggestion that he might somehow be persuaded to allow her to look at it dangle.
The Caliph set the butter dish down on the slave boy’s back. He reached into the dish and squeezed the butter into his fist until it dripped between his fingers. He threw dollops of it down across the slave’s flesh.
His eyes sought the spine of that particular grimoire. Standing naked behind the boy, the Caliph suddenly froze. Butter dripped out of his hand and dropped to the floor in yellow curds.
The book was gone.
Chapter Five
Prior to Ritual Night
Khat stood on the forecastle near the solar panels. He chewed one of the bitter green pills with the strange little rune carved into them.
“Tell the men to get the ship into position,” Khat ordered.
“There’s been a change of plan,” Orlec answered, his voice low.
Slowly, Khat turned. His primate stood at the front of a tight triangle of the corsair’s six man crew. The cutthroats behind Orlec watched Khat with narrow eyes, sweaty hands tight on the hafts of weapons.
“Maybe your whore of a mother changes plans,” Khat answered. “But on the Twisted Cross I’m the one with the plans.” His hand came to rest on his waist.
“We want the girl.” Orlec said. Behind him the men grunted and nodded.
Khat sized the group up. He had kept his crew small for this part of the operation. He had picked good fighters and, though Khat was at least 70lbs heavier than the next biggest man, he knew the corsairs were all cat-quick bladesmen.
“We want the girl,” Orlec repeated. “This is your fault, Khat. You think you can bring a coven-whore on board and start throwing down sex magic and not expect us to need an outlet?”
“So take the coven-whore,” Khat offered.
Orlec laughed and the sound was bitter. “We’re not as careless with our souls as you. Give us the girl.”
Khat took a fold of his cheek between his teeth. He found an old scar there and relaxed. He tried the other side of his mouth and found soft flesh. He bit down and blood rushed hot across his tongue.
He smiled at Orlec, teeth bloody.
“Frenzy!” Orlec screamed in sudden realization.
The primate exploded into action. His naked cleaver swept up and behind him as the cutthroats, hardened killers to a man, lifted their own weapons in response. Their snarls and shouts were like the growling of a wolf pack as it descended on a wounded bull.
Khat’s big fist struck Orlec in the sternum. The thwack was sharply audible, and the primate staggered back, gasping for air. Khat turned as the first of the cutthroats leapt forward and swept down with the wicked curve of a boat hook. The point of the rudimentary weapon gouged a chunk of flesh from Khat’s massive shoulder, and blood spilled down the big man’s tattooed arm.
Khat drove the edge of his hand into the attacking sailor’s neck. The hook-wielder staggered backwa
rd, his throat crushed. Khat twisted at the waist, lifted one huge foot up, and planted it straight into the face of a third man rushing in with a knife held low. The renegade dropped to the floor and Khat leapt laughing among the rest.
Blood splashed out in great arches, splattering the wood of the ship and staining the solar crystals used to power it. Khat’s frenzy locked him in its fierce, grip. Halfway through it, the men started to beg for mercy, and he buried his lips to their acrid, unwashed necks and ripped their jugulars out with his teeth. He buried his blunt thumbs in eye sockets, he swept grown men to the deck and used his sandal heels to dash their brains out.
He howled like a wild animal and killed with preternatural strength and speed. He broke the back of the last man over his knee like a rotten branch and silenced the killer’s screams. Khat licked the speckles of gore from around his mouth. His eye, red-rimmed and wild, rolled, searching for prey.
Slowly he sank to his knees in the congealing blood and scattered corpses. He put a hand out to steady himself, and it slipped on the gray-blue loop of an intestine. He fell hard to the deck and lay there. The frenzy seeped from his body like heat from a fire. He caught a motion rushing towards him, and his heart thrilled at the chance for another kill.
He caught the figure in his hands and began to throttle it. Spots swimming before his eyes cleared and he saw it was the slave girl. Even a heartbeat before, Khat could not have stopped himself from crushing her neck like overripe fruit.
He released her, and she collapsed against him. She trembled, huddled in the lee of his arm. He tried to shush her, to tell her she was safe, but his throat was still constricted from the thrill killing. He croaked something, and she put her face next to his ear. Her breath was hot in his ear.
“Don’t let her have me,” the slave girl begged. “Please.”
Khat felt slow-witted and stupid as he emerged from the cloud of his murderous fugue. “Her?”
