Hanjeel smiled, revealing small even teeth that glistened in the flickering light. Djahr’s tongue moved restlessly in his mouth, as though seeking to touch them, to taste them, to caress them. No revulsion came to him with the thought and he wondered if the drug had stolen his self-restraint.
‘I am only what you see in me,’ Hanjeel said, his lips so close to the mesh that Djahr had only to lean forward to touch them with his own. The scent of the boy’s skin was like fire and desire combined.
‘You are perfection,’ Djahr said, gazing at Hanjeel’s fingertips pressed against the grille, aching to touch them, to feel them on his skin, his eyes, his lips.
‘Or destruction.’ Hanjeel took his fingers away. Djahr watched them return to his sides and knew such disappointment inside himself that his chest felt hollow. Hanjeel turned away and Djahr could not help but stare at the long muscular legs, the thinly concealed buttocks and the broad smooth back. His own fingers moved restlessly at his sides, caressing his upper thighs as he imagined himself caressing Hanjeel’s back, firmly and yet with such tenderness as to make himself sick with longing.
Djahr doubted he could be more desirous than he was in that moment. ‘I would die to have you,’ he said softly. ‘To … touch you.’ Yet whether he meant Hanjeel’s bewitching body or his equally unreachable soul, he was unsure.
‘Such is the power of desire?’
Hanjeel reclined on the couch, his leg raised slightly, stretching the fabric at his loins tight. Djahr swallowed thickly, the throbbing at his forehead echoing throughout his body. He pressed himself against the metal grille, the hardness of his body crushing into it, his fingers gripping so tightly they stung.
‘Yet you desire wealth and control,’ Hanjeel said, ‘to rule a world.’ He gazed deep into Djahr’s eyes, as though the distance between them did not exist. ‘Would you give up this dream to possess me?’
Djahr tried to remember the ambition that had driven him to covet the throne, to ally himself with the cruel God of Haddash and lose Lae whom he had once loved. But the memory was lost in the haziness of the drug and his obsession with the enchanted Plainsman boy. ‘Your eyes have seduced me from myself. I have no care but to be with you. To…’ Djahr wet his lips, then could only stare, his breaths coming faster as the inevitable excitement built within him.
Hanjeel did not move, other than to tilt his head slightly to observe his captor. The hair that Djahr was so desperate to touch caressed the boy’s shoulders, longer strands reaching towards his chest. And all the time those enigmatic Plainsman eyes gazed into Djahr’s, knowing the torment he was causing, the passion that ate at Djahr’s soul — and he did not care.
Djahr pressed his lips tightly together, his forehead against the mesh, as was his lower body which strained with the effort of holding back pleasure. Blood pounded in his brain.
Hanjeel eyed him curiously. ‘You ruin yourself. It is not of my doing.’
‘Gladly,’ Djahr groaned, shuddering against the grate as the height of his passion encompassed him. ‘Again and … again.’ But violent pounding behind his eyes followed this release and Djahr felt the racing of his heart to be a dangerous thing. He gripped the mesh desperately, his body limp now, his vision clouding. ‘I feel faint,’ he gasped as the warm wetness at his thighs began to cool inside his robe. ‘In this room where I tortured my wives, you torture me.’
‘Exactly as you desire me to,’ Hanjeel replied, and lay his head down, closing his eyes as though to sleep. ‘Come closer. Look upon me while I slumber.’
The rush of blood within Djahr’s veins slowed then into a seductive rhythm, a cadence that tempted him to madness. Though breath was scarce in his chest, he moved the fingers of one hand to the latch on his side, the fastening that Hanjeel could not reach. With a soft sound the latch opened and the ornate metal grille Djahr had seen installed in the lavish chamber swung back with an audible creaking.
‘My Lord The Dark,’ came a faint voice from behind him. ‘Are you … safe?’
Djahr didn’t turn, but raised his voice to be heard through the solid timber door that separated him from a physician and two heavily armed guards. ‘I am well. Do not open the door lest you hear my command.’
‘My Lord,’ came the faint and reluctant reply.
Before him, Hanjeel did not move in the slightest, though his hair continued to caress him subtly. Indeed, he lay as though sleeping and Djahr felt emboldened to approach, albeit slowly.
‘Hanjeel,’ he called softly, testing.
From the threshold there were only five paces to the couch, yet his steps were slow to come and Djahr found himself stalled at four. A pace away Hanjeel reclined with one arm thrown above his head, the lithe, fine-boned body stretched out before Djahr, tempting, daring him to touch, to go mad.
Though he could bring himself to go no further, he reached out a hand and stroked the air between them as though to stroke the shiny dark hair that had slowed its caresses to a quiet undulation.
Hanjeel sighed then, as though the hand extended had indeed stroked his head, and he turned a cheek into the cushion beneath his head, snuggling against it in pleasure. His eyes remained closed.
Immediately Djahr was reminded of the bridal dance, an act he had performed twice now, firstly with Lae’s mother and then more recently with Khatrene — the dance of near-touching where senses were aroused and sexual bonds were forged prior to the consummation of a marriage. Was this what Hanjeel tempted him with? An opportunity to bond without actual contact? The pounding of Djahr’s blood grew, and beneath his robe he strengthened to the thought.
Djahr knew he must not touch, knew also that he should have stayed behind the barrier, but the temptation to be nearer to Hanjeel, to scent his skin and inspect his exquisite body without the distraction of the grille, was too great. He could no more resist the siren call than he could forget to breathe.
‘You will be my downfall,’ he said softly, and thought to see the corners of Hanjeel’s succulent lips curve. How tempting they were, like swollen oceanberries that he knew would burst with flavour if he only dared press his own lips to them, tasting them, sucking on them.
A jerking shudder ran through Djahr as his second release was torn from him and he closed his eyes. If Hanjeel’s face could arouse him to such explosions of passion, he dare not look lower for fear that his inhibitions would collapse, that in madness he would … Touch Hanjeel? Ravage him?
No. Djahr stared at the boy, at the perfect curve of his cheek, the long delicate line of his neck, his chest, and then to the cloth that covered him even as it drew attention to what lay beneath. Blood pounded in Djahr’s brain but he knew Hanjeel had spoken truth. To touch him would be to die. There could be no sly brushing of skin or tentative clasping of palms. Any breaking down of the barriers would excite such ferocious passions as could never be controlled. The violence of Djahr’s lust would kill them both, and for Hanjeel to offer himself in full knowledge that it drew his death was too intoxicating for words. Djahr’s desire to possess him increased tenfold.
Then a breath hiccupped in his chest and Djahr noted that his vision was clearing. The drug was fading and his protection fleeing, as he must if he was not to become a statue of adoration like the guardsman he had exposed to Hanjeel’s presence.
Yet still he stood and stared down at the immaculate flower of youth that lay before him, skin pale and luminous against the dark brocade of the couch. Djahr would never be able to take what was so blatantly offered to him, and yet to stand in the presence of perfection was surely reward enough despite the torment it offered him.
‘My Lord, the time,’ came the faint voice from behind the door.
‘I come,’ Djahr called back, and forced his legs into action, taking backward steps and closing the grille before him, latching it carefully but all the while keeping his attention on his paramour. ‘It is more than desire,’ he told Hanjeel hoarsely as the passions within him rose again, for indeed on this occasion his heart seemed ready
to burst when he looked upon the boy, such tenderness mingled with the throbbing desire in his loins. ‘I will find a way for us to be together. I will contact the Fire God and offer him anything. Everything. If only I may possess you.’
Hanjeel neither moved nor spoke, and as Djahr gripped the barrier between them and rattled its hinges with the third explosion of his desire, all he could think of was how long he must wait until he could return to Hanjeel.
‘I go now,’ he said, backing towards the door, his legs trembling beneath him, the dampness of his desire soaking his clothes. ‘But know that I will possess your soul, Hanjeel,’ he promised, ‘even if I may never have your body.’
The candles continued to flicker but Hanjeel remained perfectly still, like a painting of beauty so perfect it cannot be true.
‘Open,’ Djahr called, his fist thudding weakly on the door behind him. It opened abruptly and as dizziness and pounding desire culminated in his mind, Djahr fell backwards into the arms of his guards.
‘Take him to his chambers,’ the physician ordered, slamming the door and locking it securely. ‘I will follow.’ But once at the base of the dimly lit stairwell the physician watched The Dark’s guard turn left before he himself veered right, striding as briskly as his short legs would allow past the armoury to the Guardsmen’s chambers where he hoped to find the newly returned Guard Captain in his quarters. ‘Tulak,’ he called, rapping on a large polished door. ‘Are you within?’
The door swung wide to admit the physician whose gaze as always went straight to the shaved head of his lord’s young Guard Captain. His second glance swept the untidy room before him which was testament to Tulak’s growing dependence on magoria weed, and with their lord lost in obsession, Tulak’s problem was neither recognised nor addressed.
‘The Dark is alive,’ the physician assured Tulak, knowing the Guard Captain would be unsure of the purpose of his visit, ‘but his interrogation of the boy consumes his energy and his spirit. He will not survive at this rate. We must work together to protect our lord from his curiosity.’
Tulak nodded absently, his wide-eyed gaze centred well beyond the physician’s shoulder.
Did he not understand the full gravity of the situation? ‘If The Dark dies. The Balance will not be maintained.’
Tulak continued to stare past him.
‘The Blackness will come and cover the land. We will all die,’ the physician added loudly, wondering if Tulak was drugged at this very moment.
The Guard Captain shrugged. ‘The Maelstrom comes.’
‘The Maelstrom comes,’ the physician repeated. ‘Indeed it does. And I do not intend to be one of those killed. Do you?’
Tulak’s mouth hung open and the physician decided that he had indeed intruded only moments after the Guard Captain must have swallowed the weed. He was clearly in thrall.
‘The daughter of The Dark,’ the physician demanded, before it was too late and nothing penetrated. ‘Was she at the Volcastle?’
Tulak shook his head, mute.
‘Did you breach its defences? Were you inside?’
Tulak’s head again drifted from side to side but the glazing over of his eyes was now so marked, the physician doubted he truly understood the question. Anger would be futile so he simply led the Guard Captain to his bed, where he’d obviously been lying before his visitor arrived, and pushed him back down. The shaved head fell limply onto the pillow and the young captain continued to stare blindly at the bunched and tangled bed drapes above him.
The Dark believed his daughter dead, for indeed Mooraz had no reason to lie about her abduction by Sh’hale, but the physician hoped otherwise. His young lady’s stoic refusal to cry while he’d applied the tattoo of Be’uccdha to the right side of her face had showed a courage he greatly admired. She would make an excellent replacement for her father as The Dark, and for this reason alone the physician kept his hopes alive.
Djahr of Be’uccdha had been neglecting his spiritual duties and thus the Maelstrom grew around them unchecked. There had been no blackness across the land since the sad hour when The Dark had seen Sh’hale murder their king, but the physician knew it would return.
For their world to survive, The Dark who protected them must be strong.
And sane.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Barrion of Verdan awoke to the sound of tinkling and felt immediately sickened. His crusted eyes remained closed and he kept his rattling breaths even to feign sleep. Though his neck ached from hanging forward in sleep, and his wrists, tied behind the pillar, were cramped and needed stretching, he moved no muscles save those inside his ears which strained to close, to not hear the pitiful screams that would come.
A year had passed since his capture by the Northmen, and though Fortress Sh’hale had been attacked many times, by his men he presumed, on each occasion they had been repulsed. Barrion had given up hope of rescue from without, yet he still planned to exploit any opportunities to escape from within. The Sh’hale fool, whom the Northmen had kept alive to amuse them, would not take action against his new masters, but he had proved a valuable source of information. Barrion knew that one day an opportunity would present itself, a moment of inattention by his captors. That day he would be ready to escape.
For now he must continue to eat, to exercise when he was allowed, and to listen. But not to this.
‘Ready the fire.’
Kai’s voice, the Northmen leader. Barrion kept his eyes closed. Suppressed a shudder.
The sound of tinkling increased and though Barrion struggled to keep his thoughts elsewhere, he could not help picturing the huge warrior who wore the wind costume: a circle of poles radiating outwards from his neck, on which dangled thin cords laced with deadly metal shards. As he walked they tinkled like sweet music, but Barrion could find no pleasure in the sound for he knew the delicate notes would eventually give way to raucous clattering as the dance of the Maelstrom was enacted.
‘Where are the chosen?’ Kai asked and Barrion pressed his lips together. Would not look. Wished he could not hear. ‘There must be two. Was there not a child born last night?’
‘It was your child, Chief Kai. Your second-born. From your elder wife.’
Barrion opened his eyes then and raised his head, searching with blurred vision to find the Northman leader. He stood ten paces away, his half-shaved body gleaming in the torchlight, adorned with a mesh cloak of precious stones. The hall below their dais was filled with Northmen, adults and children, waiting for their most potent ceremony.
Light from the full moon poured through the hole they had made in the ceiling of the Sh’hale great hall, illuminating a central pit dug into the tessellated tile floor and this night filled with fire. Around that tiled square rose tiers of empty seating and above that stood the Northmen, circled around and staring down at the flames. On one side of the burning pit stood a naked child, no more than two, his arms stiff at his sides, eyes wide in fear. In sharp contrast to the children above him, this one’s hair was neatly trimmed and he was freshly bathed, his copper skin glowing in the moonlight. On the other side of the pit danced the Maelstrom, his dagger-sharp shards of metal swinging and rotating around his body as he gyrated to the rhythm of death.
‘My Chief,’ the Northman prompted, ‘shall we send for the babe?’
Barrion returned his gaze to Kai’s profile. Though the fool spoke often of the Northman chief’s humour, Barrion had never seen it. And indeed, there was no humour in his expression now.
‘A son?’ Kai asked coldly but Barrion saw the tension in his jaw. Indeed, during the months of his imprisonment, Barrion had taught himself to be keenly observant of his captors, and particularly their leader.
‘Another daughter,’ the Northman aide replied.
Kai’s shoulders relaxed slightly. He turned and raised his head, speaking loudly and clearly. ‘Let it be known that my own child is sacrificed this night to bring strength to Kraal.’ He nodded for the aide to fetch it and Barrion could only stare in di
sgust.
From watching Kai’s reactions and evaluating his words over time, Barrion was sure the Northman leader despised his people and felt that he was superior, particularly to those Northmen whose siege of the Volcastle had been unsuccessful. The fact that those clans stubbornly remained in the forest outside the castle, rather than joining Kai at Sh’hale, was the cause of much derision between the fool and his new master.
Further, Barrion was sure Kai felt no religious duty towards his God, but only maintained the façade of worship to keep control of his leadership. Barrion, as a leader himself, had known hard decisions, but not this. Nothing like this. In fact, the opposite was true. Barrion had risked his life and the life of his men to save his kin, to save Ellega …
Again Barrion closed his eyes and lowered his head. Ellega. He must not think of what Kai had told him, had spat at him in torment on the very night he had been brought to Fortress Sh’hale. when the Northmen had realised who their captive was. A year ago. A year in which Barrion had struggled to believe that Kai’s words had been lies. To cling to The Dark’s assurance that his sister had been raped by Sh’hale and that her last moments of life had not been spent in the unutterable agony Kai had so callously described. Barrion also struggled to convince himself that The Dark was not allied to the Northmen, despite Kai pointing out that his castle had not been attacked. At the time Barrion had believed The Dark’s rationale that Be’uccdha was too far south to attract the invaders’ interest, but now he doubted. It was a flimsy justification, and put together with Barrion’s own father’s ravings about The Dark’s disloyalty to the throne, it had a horrifying ring of truth to it.
Still, when he could not bear the thought of Ellega’s torment, Barrion convinced himself that it was Northman lies, designed to unhinge his mind. Further, he told himself that as soon as he’d secured his escape he would go to the Volcastle and if Sh’hale was still alive there he would beat the truth from him.
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