by J. C. Owens
The demon warriors drew back in awe and a certain amount of healthy fear, and that only made Brenaith’s own trepidation rise.
He stared at the knight, shaking, despair rising in his breast to choke his breathing. By the gods, how could he survive the possession of one such as this?
The answer was simple.
He would not.
It came to him then why his master had not used him since his re-capture, why his wounds had been carefully treated, why he had been well fed, not beaten nor raped once during that time.
Stratlin wanted him whole, attractive, enticing—all for his new master.
He shuddered and drew back from the window. Crossing to the bed, he knelt by its side, drew the covers to his face, and breathed deep, seeking the scent of his prince, anything that would give him strength for what was to come. He had never felt so alone, so without hope.
Bad enough the past five years, but now—another change, a worsening of his situation—if that were at all possible. He slumped against the covers, pressing them tighter to his nose. So faint, that scent, almost gone. The last remnants of his beloved.
Tynan.
It did not seem possible that his prince was gone. So forceful and strong a personality did not seem capable of succumbing to death. Even now Brenaith half believed that his beloved was simply elsewhere, not dead at all. His ravaged mind seemed to cling to that impossible hope, though in his rational moments he decried the insanity of such a thing.
For the first time, it sank in. They were all gone—all the companions, all his comrades in arms. He was the last one. Stratlin had told him so, Brenaith himself had spoken of it and the reality had been blatant, but his tired, maddened mind had not let in the true stark reality until now.
Tears blurred his vision, and he gritted his teeth against them. He had learned all too well over the years how tears attracted demons, how the sight of them was as provocative to them as the sight of bloody meat. It made him tempting prey. He had well learned to stifle such a display as means of survival.
The sound of footsteps echoing up the narrow stairwell of the tower made Brenaith start, and he scrambled to his feet, going back to the window and looking outside as though he had been there all along, his heart pounding.
The sound of the bar being swung back echoed in the small chamber, and then the door itself opened, admitting his visitor.
Brenaith’s fingers dug into the stone of the window embrasure.
He knew who it was, knew it only too well.
Soft footsteps sounded on the stone floor. Clawed, dark-skinned fingers gently combed back his dirty hair, traced down his neck and chest to hover over his pounding heart. The tips of those lethal claws flexed, as though they would pierce the tender flesh, rip the engine of life from his body.
“My sweet one,” Stratlin’s voice held that tone of amused fondness that always drove Brenaith to the edge of insanity. “The day has come for our parting, and I would not have you appear to your new master as you are, dirty, pungent, your beauty hidden.”
He gently turned Brenaith to face the door as two smaller demons, yet still larger and more thickly muscled than any human, carried in a small metal tub and others bore buckets of hot water. “You will prepare yourself for him. I would love to help, but I have duties.” He smiled at the faint breath of relief that Brenaith could not hide. “But should you refuse my generosity, be stubborn in this, I will return and our encounter will not be pleasant, my boy. Surely you do not wish our last bit of time together to be one of discipline?”
Brenaith gritted his teeth against the words that wanted utterance, then bowed his head, letting weary obedience take over, purging the useless anger. “I will do as you ask, my lord.”
Stratlin patted his head. “Make sure you wash and comb your hair. Such beauty needs to be shown. Oh, and prepare your channel with oil. I would not have you die at my table tonight when the knight takes you.” He leaned down and licked across Brenaith’s face, a pleased hum sounding in his throat. Brenaith gritted his teeth and remained still, enduring the touch.
“Such a good boy you are, Brenaith. If only the others had had half your sense, they would still be alive today. Go now, bathe, and I will send for you before the feast tonight. Do me proud, my little human.”
Brenaith stared at the filthy stone floor, burying his anger and fear with the ease of long experience.
“Yes, my lord,” he replied dully.
* * *
The sound of the raucous inhabitants of the great hall made Brenaith close his eyes tightly for a moment, and then a take a deep breath, bolstering his courage, his strength to endure what was to come.
He did not fight the pull of the chain attached to his collar, did not flinch at the leer of the demons they passed, their attention fastened on his nakedness. He had long ago lost any sense of modesty or pride. He simply padded silently in the wake of the large demon that Lord Stratlin had sent to escort him to the hall.
The rumbling laughter of those present only deepened with Brenaith’s arrival, and he wished he did not understand their tongue, did not know how they spoke of him. He kept his eyes staring forward, not wishing to see those who pressed close, a claw or calloused finger sometimes tracing over his skin. There were many here, no doubt, who had raped him in the past, many who had taken his unwilling body with the brutal callousness that seemed a part of demon society. They had no respect for humans in general, and still less for a captured enemy. Stratlin had given Brenaith out for favors owed, or sometimes merely for punishment, and so much smaller than his assailants, he bore the scars of their use, both physical and mental.
On this night, he struggled to remain blank, to give them nothing of his fear, his despair. He had perfected being nothing at all.
He reached Lord Stratlin’s throne and sank down gracefully to kneel at the demon lord’s feet. The chain was given into Stratlin’s hand.
Brenaith let out a quivering breath as he felt his master’s hand petting him, for once with nothing of ill intent in the touch. Stratlin seemed distracted, barely aware of Brenaith’s presence, and Brenaith could only be thankful for the blessing, however brief it might be.
The demon lord seemed restless, even slightly anxious, and Brenaith could only surmise that this unusual behavior could only be a result of the shadow knight. He lowered his head and peeked surreptitiously out from behind the curtain of his long hair. A quick survey of the room showed that the guest of honor was nowhere in sight. The evil moment of Brenaith’s gifting would not be imminent then.
Brenaith relaxed that tiny amount, remaining silent, hoping to avoid Stratlin’s notice until the last possible second.
The talk and laughter in the hall ceased abruptly, and all rose, even Stratlin himself.
Brenaith could not help himself. He looked up and began to tremble. This could only mean the arrival of the shadow knight.
Demons drew back, and Brenaith could see the creature for the first time.
Without his armor, the knight was so much smaller than Brenaith would have expected. He was far larger than any human and taller than many demons, but in comparison to the larger, winged ones, he was decidedly slender. He seemed more human-like in some ways, his body sleeker than the bulky muscle of the demons who surrounded him. He walked like a human, and long, thick hair cascaded down his back, a black cape of its own.
To Brenaith’s complete surprise, his skin was pale as snow, not the dark brown or black that characterized the demon race. Only the slant of his eyes, and their unmistakable crimson coloring, marked him clearly a demon.
He was beautiful.
Never had Brenaith thought he would say so about an enemy, but the shadow knight was unearthly in his perfection, in the grace of movement that seemed to make him glide across the floor. He wore an ornate, long tunic, vivid blue with black embroidery, while black pants and thigh-high black boots encased his long legs.
His tread was utterly silent, and it lent a certain chill to any watch
er, as though they were in the presence of something divine, a demon god perhaps. Old wives tales said the knights were spawned by the demon god himself, and now in the presence of one, Brenaith could almost believe it.
Brenaith watched, frantic thoughts chasing themselves about his head. This being would be his master—and there would be no promise of mercy. The knights were not known for any emotion at all, except perhaps a love of battle itself.
The knight’s expression was completely blank, like a beautiful statue. Only his eyes seemed alive, their crimson depths alert, aware of all around him.
As he reached the center of the vast hall, Brenaith became aware that the ordinary shadows in the dark corners of the room, so benign and lifeless before, seemed to creep closer, leaving their places and approaching the knight with hungry intent. They circled him, becoming more solid with each moment, making the watchers cringe back to avoid them, eyes wide with fear and reluctant wonder.
Brenaith caught his breath.
The shadows began to emit noise, a faint hum, and then they twined up the knight’s body. He seemed pleased at their presence, even reaching to touch one or two, his face softening for a brief moment into something approximating fondness.
One of the hellhounds, chafing at the tension, shot out from beneath a table, its fangs glistening, leaping…
Lord Stratlin leaped from his chair, horrified, but the shadows that surrounded the knight were faster yet. They engulfed the hound within a heartbeat, sinking beneath its flesh so that its snarl became a high-pitched yelp of agony. Brenaith felt bile rise in his throat as he saw the hound’s skin heave and bulge, then the beast screamed and collapsed at the knight’s feet, eyes glazing in swift death.
Stratlin froze, as did all those watching.
The power needed to slay a hellhound with such deceptive ease…
The knight welcomed the shadows as they abandoned the corpse, returning to him to twine once again about his form. His face was utterly expressionless as he looked down upon his attacker, then slowly drew his sword from the beautifully carved leather sheath at his back.
Demons fell over themselves to retreat, terror upon their faces.
Stratlin himself sank back into his chair, and Brenaith could feel the faint quiver of tension in the thigh that pressed against him.
The knight looked at none of them, simply pointed the black steel tip at the dead hound. Blackness swirled from the sword, formless, vast in its power, and Brenaith realized he could see into the darkness, as though what the sword represented was a void, far beyond this room, this piece of time.
The void howled as though it were alive, hungry, bestial, as though it could never be fed enough to be satisfied.
The body of the hound quivered, then was simply gone, sucked within the vortex of the sword. The terrifying sound of the howling ceased the moment the knight re-sheathed the weapon, if a mundane name could even apply to such a terror.
The knight simply resumed his measured pace until he stood before Lord Stratlin, nothing in his expression to indicate anger, or even the slightest bit of discomposure at what had occurred.
Stratlin rose to his feet again, his face pinched with tension. “My lord, I apologize profusely for what has occurred. I would never condone an attack upon your person…”
The shadow knight inclined his head, his eyes serene. “It was a hellhound, a beast. It only knew what it felt, and you are not at fault for that. Consider it done.” His voice was low and melodic, yet it seemed to echo about the hall, power in every syllable. The shadows that surrounded the knight slowly retreated to their proper places, and everyone seemed to release their tension in response.
Stratlin looked so relieved it seemed he might collapse, but he managed to pull himself together enough to smile, though it was wavering at best. “You are gracious, my lord, in your understanding. Please, seat yourself, and we shall eat. I am told you have many days travel behind you and before you, and I would give what hospitality we have to ease your way.”
“The name my god gifted me with is Shaynith-una. You may use it.”
The implication of this being an honor was echoed by Stratlin’s reaction. He bowed, something Brenaith had never seen him do to another, his eyes lighting to red fire. “Shaynith-una. Beautiful, dark one. Your god chose your name well, my lord. It has been long since we have been graced with a shadow knight’s company. Your presence is inspiring to my troops. They will have much to speak of in the days to come.” His light tone eased all around him as he gestured to the seat on his left, the place of greatest honor.
Shaynith-una seated himself with calm aplomb, and immediately there was a shuffle and muted noise as the rest of the room followed suit.
Brenaith watched the interaction, breathing shallowly and trying to remain inconspicuous as he pressed against the throne Stratlin occupied. His frozen stillness was that of a mouse in the presence of a hawk.
There was no protection here, no hope at all. Stratlin may be distracted, but he would not have forgotten his purpose in having Brenaith here at all.
The tension eased as food was served. Stratlin and Shaynith-una spoke in low tones to each other, while conversation elsewhere picked up as demons regained their courage and began to devote attention to the meal and their comrades.
Brenaith sweated in the unbearable heat of the hall. Demons preferred temperatures well above those humans found pleasant, and Brenaith, born and bred for northern temperatures, had often sweltered at feasts to the point of fainting. He almost wished for such a respite now. Perhaps the knight would take him while he was unconscious, and the torture would be halved, though he could not imagine such a blessing continuing for long. Stratlin had preferred his prey awake and screaming. Beautiful as he was, the knight, if rumor were true, was far more brutal that that.
He closed his eyes, and leaned wearily against the throne, wishing himself away from the dread that tore at him.
“My lord. I have a gift for you.”
Brenaith felt a faint tug on his chain, and his eyes flew open, his body tensing.
Stratlin was smiling at the knight, his posture easier now, as though perhaps he had gained some confidence through their interaction over the length of the night. “I have heard that your bloodservant died just recently, and I thought you might have use of a new one.”
The knight’s eyebrows rose, eyes hooding slightly, as Stratlin pulled Brenaith upright to present him.
“He is one of the companions of the late prince of Artepia, the lone survivor of all I took prisoner. He has lasted five years, so you have some idea of his inner strength. It occurred to me that such strength would match you well.”
Brenaith stood stiffly, eyes fixed on the far side of the hall, trying not to let his limbs tremble. He could almost feel the knight’s eyes on him, his skin crawling at the power of that gaze.
“He is well trained now in the pleasures of the flesh, obedient. He will give you no trouble should you accept him for the bloodbond. If not, he will do well for the bed, for however long you wish to keep him alive.”
The knight said nothing, and Brenaith could not decide if that was promising or terrifying.
Finally the knight spoke. “He is beautiful.”
The low voice made Brenaith shiver with fear.
“Golden hair, such vivid blue eyes, white skin. He is from the northern provinces, I warrant.”
“He is,” Stratlin said. “That pale flesh marks beautifully, my lord. He suffers well, and the sounds he makes in his pain—they are delicious in their intensity.”
Shaynith-una reached forward, and Stratlin laid the chain in his long-fingered hand.
“My thanks, Lord Stratlin. A generous gift indeed. He will be well used.”
Brenaith could not contain the trembling, the complete, overwhelming terror that made him glance sidelong at Stratlin for aid. Useless, he knew. Stratlin had warned him. When I gift you to the shadow knight, you will remember me with longing.
Stratlin shot hi
m an evil smile of pure relish at his discomfort. “I have no doubt you will enjoy him, my lord knight.” He pushed Brenaith forward. “I cannot think of a better fate for the last of the Artepian nobility.”
Shaynith-una pulled on Brenaith’s chain, half choking him, and motioned to the side of his chair. Brenaith hastened to obey the summons, then fell to his knees beside the chair, expecting to feel the force of the large hand, but it did not come.
As he knelt in perfect obedience, he could not control the shivers that wracked his frame. This close, the knight radiated a chill that seemed to seep into Brenaith’s very bones. His body was stiff with tension, waiting for his new master to act the monster he was considered to be, but as time went on and nothing happened, the waiting turned into a torture all its own.
His stomach growled with hunger, and he flinched as long, cold fingers slid under his chin, lifting his face up, forcing him to meet the knight’s crimson eyes. Those eyes searched his, and Brenaith gasped as he felt a probing into his very thoughts. He tried to draw back, escape the touch and stare, but a mere tightening of those fingers held him firm. He had heard of the compulsion that all shadow knights possessed, but his first taste of it brought terror beyond his imagining.
He could only whimper in protest, cursing his inability to do more than make such a weak sound. He was neatly pinned beneath that gaze, and the sensation of his mind being touched by another was rape of a whole new sort, worse than any violation that Stratlin had forced upon him.
At last the knight sat back and caressed Brenaith’s cheek lightly, the coldness of his touch nearly burning in its intensity. The eyes released him, and he sagged against the chair, shaking, feeling utterly defeated in a manner that his old master had never quite managed to achieve. A few moments’ possession, and already this knight had begun to make him crack. Stratlin’s earlier warning rang true. There was no hope of surviving this in one piece, and the knowledge created its own devastation.
The knight said nothing, made no move except to gesture for more food. After it was served to him, he speared a slice of meat with his fork and presented it to Brenaith’s lips, expression completely neutral.
