‘These will be the first to go,’ Muth said, staring up into his face. ‘Rasa Belit will never forgive you for these. For what he hasn’t got. He will take this –’ she rolled his cock lovingly in her palm ‘–and cut it off slice by paper-thin slice, I imagine. Or perhaps he will flay it raw first and rub it with salt.’
Veraine closed his eyes, mostly so that he wouldn’t have to see her.
‘Was she good, soldier?’ Muth asked, stroking his satiny length with one finger. ‘I hope she was, for your sake. Because you are going to pay a very high price indeed for balling her. Rasa Belit is going to carve you into gobbets so small even you won’t be able to recognise your own bits. You have destroyed him, soldier; he’s a broken man. And he’s going to break you in return.’
She put her face to his armpit and inhaled deeply. ‘You know, I suspect she wasn’t even that good. Just another Yamani snatch. What a pity. You must have had a hundred like her.’ She pawed at his arse, sighing with pleasure to find the hard muscles there clenched. ‘But I knew when I first saw you that you had the horn for her, because we get men like you every day in the temple. They have a thing inside them which goes’ for anything they can’t have. Anything forbidden. They sniff around us priestesses like dogs just because they can’t get one up us. It drives them to a froth.’ She drew one hand over his chest, caressing the muscle like it was horseflesh. ‘You’re like that. I saw it in the way you looked at her. You just have more ambition than average, soldier. You had to go after the Malia Shai herself.’
Veraine set his jaw as her wet tongue ripped briefly at his nipple.
‘So when Rasa Belit is cutting into you here . . . and here . . . and here . . . soldier, I hope you understand just why he’s so upset. You’ve been places he could never go. You see? He’s looked after her all her life. He held her in his arms the day she was first brought into the temple as a baby. He deflowered her when she came of age – did you know that? He has known her as a child and as a woman and as the living goddess. He’s obsessed with her. She was his life. He loved her, soldier – but you got to fuck her.
‘You can understand,’ she whispered, nipping each nipple in turn between her incisors, ‘that he’s just a little jealous.’
The lamp-wicks shuddered as tears of pain started to fill his eyes.
‘And,’ she sighed, pausing for breath, ‘he still has no idea what she saw in you. All he sees is some Irolian grunt. It’s funny, isn’t it?’ She stroked his face tenderly and wrapped her fingers in the tumbled length of his hair. ‘Look at you. I could have told him. She’s a young woman, after all. Young women are vulnerable to these things. And you are such a pretty, dangerous boy.’
She shifted her stance so that she could straddle his right thigh, her large breasts flattening on his naked chest. ‘And I’m going to enjoy you,’ she informed him, lingering over the words. ‘Right now.’
One of her arms snaked round his waist to grip him, while her right hand delved deep between his thighs to take possession of his bollocks and his prick. Veraine realised with a peculiar horror that he was completely helpless in the face of this invasion, that he couldn’t pull away or thrust her off, that there was nothing he could do to stop her rubbing slowly and rhythmically up against him, her pubis grinding into the hard muscle of his thigh. Her fingertips, thrusting past the pathetic barrier of his trousers, scrabbled at his perineum. Normally stimulation there would have been pleasurable; in these circumstances it was almost unbearable.
‘I hope,’ she grunted, raising her face to his, ‘that you appreciate the irony of the situation.’ She rubbed her bulk up and down on him, rolling her hips. ‘Makes a change for one of you to be used by a Yamani woman. D’you like being fucked, soldier?’
He could only stare at the ceiling and clench his teeth as she made use of his body, humping his leg and mauling his crotch with a brutal hand. But he didn’t cry out, even when her nails dug into the tenderest flesh of his groin, even when she lowered her ravening mouth to his chest and fastened it over his nipple, tongue stabbing and teeth grinding into the pectoral muscle. She bit until the blood ran. He shut his eyes tight against the lights exploding in his skull. And her rhythm changed from a regular thrusting beat to a broken staccato heave, her vast curves wobbling as she slapped against him, her gasps a slobbering snorting counterpoint to the jerking of her body against his tight frame. When she came, he thought she was going to crush his cock to pulp.
But she stilled at last and pulled away, leaving him in a wringing sweat of fear and violation but still silent. His right nipple was framed by the crescent imprints of her upper and lower teeth, and blood was trickling down his ribs. And his eyes spoke his loathing, even though no sound was permitted to escape his throat.
Muth lifted her gory lips and tried to kiss his mouth, but he jerked his face away, too tall for her to reach. She laughed, long and derisively.
‘Naughty boy,’ she sneered.
She licked her lips then wiped them on the back of her forearm. Her face was flushed and her robes clung to her with the lingering heat of her pleasure.
‘Rasa Belit has given me dispensation to watch your punishment,’ she said, still breathing heavily. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
She had quick ears. Some noise must have warned her; she glanced once behind her and then reached to stuff his battered genitalia back inside his trousers, hitching the garment up to a more proper angle on his hips. She had stepped smoothly to the side before the new feet came into view down the stairs.
It was Rasa Belit, accompanied by three priests. Despite his resolve, Veraine’s heart lurched. Then he took up his soldier’s stoicism like a shield and met his torturer’s gaze squarely.
Rasa Belit looked awful. His face was the wet grey of a drowned man, except for two hectic spots high on his cheeks like a whore’s rouge, and he moved across the room with a hobbling gait. Dark sweat stains painted his robes in patches. He clutched in his hand a roll of leather. He leaned against a stone table as the others took up their positions around the periphery.
‘It’s done,’ he said, his voice tight and cold. ‘She’s dying at this very moment, General Veraine –’ he gave the title bitter emphasis ‘–and I do trust you’re proud of your work. You’ve killed her. She is starting again upon the long ladder of reincarnation, from the very bottom. Three hundred and thirty-three lifetimes to go. And in all those generations millions of innocent people must suffer from famine and sickness and drought, their redemption snatched a little further away from them once more. And as for you; you are going to suffer torments you can’t even begin to imagine.’
He paused, looking with unalloyed distaste at his victim.
‘Was it really worth it, General?’
And without warning Veraine felt something move within him, something warm and bright and glowing like a flame, that grew in his chest and up his throat and filled his mouth so that his cheeks were stretched helplessly wide into the sweetest smile. ‘Yes,’ he said, eyes alight. ‘Yes, it was.’
Rasa Belit seemed to turn to stone for a moment. Then he dropped the leather pouch onto the table and swept his arm across to unroll it. It was full of knives. In his haste one of the knives slipped from the edge of the table and fell ringing to the floor.
Rasa Belit stooped to pick it up. But he never got there. Veraine, facing him, saw the spasm that crossed his face, the agony twisting his features. Everyone in the chamber saw him clutch at his belly, and heard the sound as of ripping cloth that accompanied his whole frame collapsing to a heap. In the moments that it took the priests to gather their wits and hurry to his aid, the enclosed space was filled with an unmistakable cesspit stench. The priests flinched back, and Rasa Belit let out a shriek of anguish.
Veraine knew what this was, recognising it even as he tried to stop breathing. They called it siege-fever or the bloody flux all across the Empire, though here it was the Kiss of Malia. Whatever its name, it was fatal.
Muth, to her credit, was
the first to reach the stricken man, pushing a floundering priest aside so that she could grab him under the arm. ‘Help me!’ she ordered one of the others. ‘Help me get him up, we’ve got to get him to his bed!’
They hauled him to his feet, though he seemed unable to take any of his weight upon his own legs. Rasa Belit’s eyes rolled open briefly.
‘Throw him in the pit!’ he gasped.
Muth seemed as if she were going to protest, but thought better of it. She jerked her head at the two remaining priests and they hurriedly pushed the raised flagstone aside. Light, green as water, spilled up into the room. It revealed the true terrible pallor of the high priest, and the pool of foulness that was already leaking across the floor. He groaned again as the waves ripped through his entrails.
Working like men in a nightmare, the two priests cut Veraine down from the beam and dragged him across the room. He tried to fight them, but to his despair found his arms had set through lack of bloodflow and movement, and were as weak as a baby’s. They hauled him over to the hole in the floor and despite all he could do to struggle, threw him down it head first.
He bounced off a sloping wall part way down; it probably saved his neck. Even so the impact with the floor knocked all the wind out of him and he lay there stunned for a long time. He heard the grinding of the trapdoor being replaced, and then only silence.
He raised his head. He could see the rock face in front of him. Slowly he rolled over, feeling the blood course back painfully into his cramped arms. Above him the roof disappeared in an inverted funnel to the flagstone door, the walls as curved as the inside of a wineskin. The light was coming from the side, not above. He turned his head and saw daylight, saw clouds, felt hope running through him like fire. He was on his knees and then his feet and three steps took him out from under the rock roof and into the open air – and the fourth nearly sent him over the edge to his death. He teetered on the brim, staring with disbelief.
There was only one exit to the tiny cell he now inhabited, and that led out into the yawning void. Hundreds of feet below him was the desert floor, a chaos of rubble and shadow. Above him the cloud cover was as heavy as another cavern roof. The cliff face was absolutely sheer. Unless he could fly, there was no way down. He looked across to the hills and saw that they were picked out in yellowy green light. Those were the hills that faced west from the Amal Bhad river; he was looking east, back towards the Empire. Even as he stared, mind working furiously, the light on the hills died and a great thick dusk settled like a veil over the whole landscape. The birds of Mulhanabin set up their sunset clamour, swirling flocks of starlings swooping out from the walls far over his head.
Sunset, he thought. I’ve been hanging there all day.
His legs, heavy and useless as sacks of flax, gave way beneath him and he slid to his knees. The stone was firm beneath his hands and he felt weakly grateful for it as he laid his cheek against the rock and let the darkness suck him down.
I am lying awake on my bed, just as I have done every day of my life. Strange how some things don’t change. Strange how some things do. This time, for the first ever, I am not alone on my mattress. My new lover stretches out beside me, his hands gentle upon my skin. I’m waiting for the moment he rolls on top of me and splits my yoni wide.
But Death is a considerate lover, and he does not intend to force me. Instead he tries to persuade me to yield, his touch seductive, his kisses soft on my shoulders, down the length of my spine. I’m in no haste to submit, so I let his caresses smooth my skin and I watch the darkness. His hand is cool on my belly. When he touches my breasts, cupping them in his palms, my nipples stir to life.
He explores every inch of my body, languidly, using fingers and lips and tongue. Every part of me. Even between my toes and my fingers, even down the cleft of my arse; stroking, tickling, teasing. He wants me to surrender to him. Death wants me to grow wet and pliant for his cold flesh, to part my thighs for him, to guide him into my intimate and aching places with sighs and little moans of need. He wants me to want him.
He is an experienced and implacable lover. It is only a matter of time.
It was sunlight on his face that woke Veraine. He flinched from the sudden discomfort and pushed himself partially upright, trying to blink, then found that his eyes were all but gummed shut and he had to rub them clear. The interior of his lids felt like the floor of the desert, but that unpleasant sensation paled into insignificance as he became aware of his thirst. There was no moisture in his mouth; none came even when he swallowed. And the pounding in his head was dehydration too; he recognised that pain. He scraped his hair back and stared about him, remembering with mounting dread where he was and how he had got there.
It was broad daylight. He had supposed at first that it was dawn that had woken him, but the sun was high overhead. Even so, the only reason he could feel its radiance was because it had found a gap in the boiling firmament of clouds, and that gap was already diminishing. The clouds were as swollen and black as gangrene and the air was thick with the smell of rain. Veraine felt his throat spasm as he inhaled, as if he was trying to slake his thirst on the atmosphere itself.
He checked himself over for wounds, flexing every joint, and was relieved to find nothing worse than bruises and scrapes. Dirt and sweat had left a dull patina over his exposed torso, broken in places by fresh and bloody scabs, but the muscles beneath were undamaged. Then he crawled to the edge of the precipice and looked down. It was as sheer as he remembered it. He looked up and found no better vista; the cliff face even beetled outward as it approached the top, far above, where the walls and rooftops of the Citadel could just be discerned.
To his left, looking out, he could see the huge wound made by the rockslide in the cliff face. That put him somewhere under the Outer Temple, he thought.
He climbed to his feet and walked to the back of his cave. It wasn’t far: only three times his own body length lay between rock face and void, and that was the longest dimension of his prison. The walls at the back curved like the interior of a water jar, providing no surface that he could possibly climb to the trapdoor directly over his head. And anyway, that gap was blocked by a slab that he would never be able to shift. Veraine chewed his lip, tasting blood where it had cracked, as he looked slowly all around him. The floor was even, the walls smooth, and his prison was featureless except for the hole in the roof at one end and the gaping abyss at the other.
He hoped distractedly that this place had been constructed as a cell for meditation, far from the tumult of the world. But in the pit of his stomach he knew better: this cave was a chamber of torture. It simultaneously confined its victim and taunted him with freedom – more freedom than anyone could bear. The void yawned like the mouth of a beast. There was no way out, nothing to do except wait for handouts of food and drink dropped from above – if they ever came – that would only prolong the agony and the degradation until you went mad or summoned enough courage to drop to your death on the rocks below. From this height, Veraine guessed, a man would burst into pieces too small to be collected. His empty stomach contracted painfully.
He walked back to the edge and turned his gaze down again, unable to resist looking into that terrible plunge. He felt light-headed with lack of sustenance and he had to struggle to control the swaying of his frame; here, he couldn’t afford to be careless. He noted that the desert floor was strewn beneath him with the debris of the landslide. Probably the Horse-eater camp was buried down there somewhere in that jagged litter of boulders. Now his triumph felt like it was a lifetime ago.
He raised the line of his sight, staring out into the desert, towards the hills, towards the home he had left for ever. He knew he would never get back to the river, or to the Empire that would give glory to his name. He had lost everything now, unless the gods in their infinite capriciousness decided to reach down and pluck him from his shelf.
He noticed a strange feature on the desert floor and he frowned. It took him a moment to recognise it for what i
t was, to identify shape or even movement at this distance, but when he did it felt like he had been kicked in the stomach yet again. The breath stopped in his throat and his lips peeled back in pain. It was a column of men in pale costume, heading east. Their horses were throwing up a lot of dust, but not enough to disguise from him their identity, once he knew the scale. It was the Eighth Host. They had left Mulhanabin. They were running out on him.
For a moment he didn’t believe his eyes, and then hope, as cruel as any torturer, ripped through his chest and he threw out his hands and howled until it felt as if his lungs were tom. ‘Loy!’
But the desert air swallowed his cries and the commander never heard him; the column of men marched on without a moment’s hesitation, and Veraine sank to his knees upon the precipice edge, his face twisted. He didn’t waste his breath in cursing them; it already felt like his throat was bleeding.
He felt nauseous. Frustration and despair curdled his stomach.
He was forced to watch his army as they slowly diminished into the distance, tracing the faint line of the road all the way back to the hills. He didn’t understand it. Even if they believed that he was dead, there was no way they should have retreated so soon, and with so little to show for their pains. At the most, he was sure, this could only be the third day since the battle, and though they’d buried their dead the full funeral rites wouldn’t yet be complete. And their column – the men had been mounted, presumably on Horse-eater steeds, but there should have been many more horses in the train, all laden down with loot, and long lines of prisoners strung out behind the rearguard. The Eighth Host he had seen there had been moving in tight battle formation without any significant baggage-train.
It was almost, he thought, as if they’d been fleeing from something. But nothing had been visible in pursuit.
When they were out of sight Veraine sat for a long time just staring into his hands. He felt as if he’d been emptied of everything: his power, his hope, his strength. When he tried to think, the only idea his fragmented mind could build was the bitter desire, as keen and stinging as a knife-edge and just as fatal, to have the Malia Shai in his arms once more, to bury his face in her breasts and taste the spice and the honey of her skin. But he thrust that image aside, knowing it was nothing but a need for sanctuary and that she couldn’t grant him that now. All that he was left with was a choice. Stay; climb; jump. And it was his decision, and he had to make it soon.
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