Dreamspinner Press Year Five Greatest Hits

by Tinnean

  At the tables, only Ehron and Llyan remained. All the others were running toward Daemon. Like moths to the flame, they went to him. When Ehron reached for Llyan’s hand, she was touched that he would want her with him even to greet his consul. She fell that much more in love and walked beside the man as he started across the meadow to his friend.

  “Daemon,” Penn said, his voice husky with emotion. “Blessed be the gods.”

  He held him close and patted his back even as Amelina tried to grab hold of his hand. “Fear not,” Daemon said gently, regaining his footing and stepping out of the fierce embrace.

  Amelina flung herself into Daemon’s arms, throwing him off-balance yet again. “I prayed and prayed,” she promised, tightening her arms around his neck.

  Daemon chuckled and squeezed Amelina tight. He had evidently been missed.

  “Oh, Daemon,” Amelina cried, the tears streaming down her cheeks as she buried her face in his shoulder. “Oh, Daemon, I am so pleased to see you.”

  Odessa pulled her daughter away gently so that she could take Daemon into her own arms.

  “Oh, my dear child,” Odessa murmured into his shoulder, squeezing him tightly. “My dear, dear child.”

  Daemon put a gloved hand on Odessa’s cheek before releasing the older woman and taking a step back. “All is well,” he said before turning to face Ehron, dropping to both knees in front of him.

  “My prefect,” he said loudly, bowing down before him, his face nearly in the dirt at his feet. “I return to you the sword you were granted by the warlord when you sacked the Crosan city of Talon. By its return, please know my loyalty. Your honor is avenged.”

  Ehron drew the jewel-encrusted greatsword from the scabbard on his consul’s back, looked at it a moment, and then turned and passed it to Penn. “Return this to my wagon.” He then looked back at Daemon.

  “Rise,” he ordered sharply, and Daemon got back up to his feet with a struggling effort. “Fool,” he growled, grabbing the younger man, hauling him into his arms, holding him tight. “Your presence, your good company, is a much greater gift than this sword. Stay, remain at my side. I would it were ever this way.”

  Daemon allowed himself to be held for only moments before he pulled free. The embrace was kind but not what he craved. After half a lifetime, he needed more, and at that moment the feeling was almost unbearable.

  He wanted to go home. He needed to go home. The desire was choking him. He was tired of being unclaimed. No one in Rieyn really knew him. No one whom he had laughed with and drank with and broken bread with for the last ten years knew him at all. They didn’t even know his real name. It was time to leave, and now that he had fulfilled this final task, now he could.

  Gareth pushed by his brother, stepping around Ehron so he was all, suddenly, that Daemon could see.

  He took a breath to steady himself, unsure if Daemon would pull away but unwilling to let another moment pass without touching the smaller man. Gareth reached out and drew Daemon slowly into his arms, tucking his head gently against his chest and holding him tightly against him.

  Daemon felt the difference instantly. He was being held tenderly, as though he were fragile. The hands that clutched at him moved quickly, one behind his head, the other on the small of his back, pressing him forward into the other man’s chest.

  He wanted to lean hard, surrender up his balance and weight, go boneless in the man’s arms. To be cared for, loved—this was his singular desire. Daemon ached to be alone with him. To lie down beside him would be so….

  And it struck him as suddenly as if the sky had fallen down and crushed him, where he was, who he was, what he was doing! He jerked back sharply, as if burned, and so sudden was the movement that he nearly fell down.

  “Ah,” Ehron growled, grabbing his arm and yanking him around to face him. “What has happened that you are so weak?”

  “I—I fought with….” He trailed off, unable to sustain his thought, incapable of doing anything more than waiting for Gareth’s next word.

  “By your silence my guess is that you have something to ask,” Gareth soothed him. “Come closer and speak to me.”

  Daemon trembled, and Amelina asked if he was well enough to be standing.

  “How long?” Daemon asked Gareth, unable to stop his words, visibly shaking now, unaware of all the attention focused on him.

  “How long have I what? Wanted to hold you?” Gareth asked softly, bending forward, his mouth close to the cowl so no one else could hear.

  Daemon nodded.

  “Since you first came to us,” he told him softly, gently. “Before you wrung pleasure from me and allowed me to give nothing in return.”

  “I—”

  “I would take you to my bed if you would allow it.”

  “Whore’s blood,” he gasped, and the ground rushed up to meet him. Daemon would have crumpled to the ground had Gareth not caught him, arm under his legs, scooping him up and tucking him protectively against his chest.

  He looked bigger than he was. In the robe and cowl, he looked dark, foreboding, and twice his real size. In a swoon, in Gareth’s arms, Daemon Shar was small, fragile, and a delicate, breakable thing. Gareth had an overwhelming urge to take him and run.

  “Mycah!” Ehron yelled, because he saw him first. “Hektar!” he yelled the second he saw the other prefect.

  Gareth took a step back, clutching Daemon tighter.

  “Mycah!” Ehron’s men cried out in joy from behind them, and everyone turned to look. “Hektar!”

  “By the gods.” Torbald grinned widely, seeing Janah Ilen’s son ride into camp. “It is the deliverer.”

  Mycah Ilen had ostensibly ridden to meet his friend and fellow prefect, Ehron Terhazien, who was a two-day ride from Castle Addah. He had brought with him Hektar Prahna, who had led the fifth legion, his own consul, Sagaso Fjohr, and his sleeping wagon, but no deployment of men, for who would dare threaten the life of the future Overlord of Rieyn?

  He had ridden hard and fast, and his eyes searched out what he had come for. When the gray eyes found Llyan, the woman every nobleman of breeding and title coveted, they darkened, and his deep scowl worried Torbald for reasons he did not understand.

  “Oh, Mother,” Amelina started, “that is Mycah Ilen?”

  “It is,” Odessa said breathlessly, as awestruck as her daughter.

  Mycah Ilen stood well over six feet tall with jet-black hair that fell thick and straight to just past his shoulders. The hair had been grown out during the war, worn long to help keep warm in the icy wind of the north. It was tied back now with a black leather cord, and the eye was drawn to the chiseled features, the hard line of his jaw, the short, well-groomed beard, before moving over broad shoulders and a wide chest. At that moment, watching him come toward them, Torbald had no doubt that this man would be overlord. Janah had sired a god, just as Nictorus had.

  With every eye on Mycah, Gareth was able to move away faster, thankful for the interruption, the diversion. When Daemon’s head fell back, the youngest son of the baron was rewarded with a long line of throat, smooth bronze skin, and the edge of a firm jaw. The collar showed the same unblemished flesh, and Gareth could not stop himself from tasting.

  Ducking behind the tree line at the edge of the camp, he leaned close, opened his mouth against the succulent, delicious skin, and kissed the pulse at the base of the man’s throat.

  Daemon moaned in his arms.

  The sound, the soft, sultry sound, sent a wall of heat through Gareth Terhazien. His cock strained against the laces of his breeches. Truly, after so many weeks of doing nothing but thinking of Daemon Shar, to now have the man in his arms was too much. To wait even another moment would have been torture.

  Kneeling, supporting Daemon’s head with a hand at the back of his head, he tenderly, carefully, eased the cowl back from the dear face so that all of the man was visible. The unveiling was a revelation.

  Daemon Shar was beautifully made. Full lips, smooth, skin, high cheekbones, and
a straight nose came into focus under Gareth’s close scrutiny. The dark eyebrows were delicately formed, slightly arched, and the eyelashes were long and thick. He had never seen such sharp, fragile features. Taking a quick breath, he reached out and ran the back of his fingers slowly down the smooth cheek, so soft and warm. The lips were even softer to the touch, but he moved his hand away as though burned. Dark brown curls framed his face, and when Gareth put his hand through them, they tangled around his fingers, soft to the touch, silky.

  As he took inventory of the beauty that was Daemon Shar, Gareth finally understood the feeling that had taken up residence in his heart. He wanted to keep him.

  Never had Gareth wanted a wife; he wanted instead a friend, a helpmate, another man to love. His eye was never drawn to the curves of women. It was also never drawn to large, muscular men like himself, but instead to smaller, slighter, sinewy, lean-muscled men who moved gracefully, fluidly, like Daemon Shar. The man’s looks, combined with what Gareth knew of a sharp mind, ready wit, and a deep sense of loyalty and honor, made him utterly irresistible. Daemon Shar could, Gareth knew, satisfy his heart, mind, and body. Here, finally, was the man who could stand at his side. Having his happiness within reach, Gareth was sorely tempted to simply slip from camp and return home with his prize.

  Daemon made a noise of waking, and Gareth quickly adjusted the cowl, the first piece that slid over the man’s face and the second that came forward, completely swallowing him in heavy black fabric. Gareth had no idea how Daemon could even see out of it.

  “There you are.” Gareth smiled down at the smaller man as he jerked in his arms, pulling away from Gareth, moving back until he hit a tree, stopping there to sit up. “Daemon,” he said softly, reverently, “would you come with me, allow me to care for you? May I tend to you?”

  It was there in his eyes. All of the Terhazien clan had gorgeous, clear violet eyes beginning with Torbald, who had gifted all his children. But in Gareth, the eyes had taken on a different light. His were brimming with warmth and kindness and… home. Gareth looked like home and sounded like home with his quiet voice and gentle smile. Daemon couldn’t speak, so he nodded instead.

  Gareth rose to his towering height and reached a hand down for Daemon. “Come with me.”

  When Daemon stood, the throbbing ankle brought back the last few weeks. The thieves he had killed, the inn he had fled. The deliberate jump from a second-story balcony that had caused his ankle only momentary agony on landing, as he’d had to change direction mid-leap to miss striking people suddenly passing below. The arrow hitting his shoulder had been a surprise. The one thief had led him back to a den, and the fight had been harder than expected. He reached to touch the scabbed-over wound through the robe, wondering what this new scar would look like when he was finally able to examine it in a mirror. It would be as grotesque as the rest of his reminders of the war; of that, he was sure.

  “Brocha bait,” he whispered to himself, turning in the direction of the eating-tables, meaning to collapse down onto one of the long wooden benches.

  “No,” Gareth said softly, wrapping his arm around Daemon’s waist as he tucked the man into his side. “I am taking you to my wagon.”

  Daemon caught his breath, and the sound, combined with the shiver, made Gareth smile. Perhaps he was not the only one feeling the crushing, devouring need.

  Gareth let out a deep sigh as he leaned in close, his mouth down next to Daemon’s ear. “Why are you so weary? What have you done?”

  Daemon couldn’t answer. There had been no sleep for the last few days, and fatigue was beginning to take its toll on his reflexes and senses. His body and brain were slowing. Daemon told him quietly about Ehron’s sword and what he had gone through to secure its return. Small in comparison to most of his deeds, it was nevertheless hard.

  “How many thieves?” Gareth asked to clarify.

  “Five, I believe, perhaps six.”

  “A ring of them.”

  “Aye.”

  “At least it was a fair fight with that number.”

  He groaned as Gareth laughed and the sound ran right through Daemon. He liked hearing Gareth laugh, liked all the noises the man made, liked him plain and simple.

  It was the sigh, the slight whimper of absolute surrender at the end, that did it. Gareth turned, faced Daemon, and grabbed him, crushing him to his heart.

  “My lord,” Daemon protested weakly, not moving, not trying to squirm free, not wanting to do anything at all to scare Gareth off. Having Gareth hold him, be possessive, was a gift. “Are you well?”

  Gareth dropped his face down into the other man’s shoulder, and his hands moved across Daemon’s back, tightening his grip, slowly, careful not to frighten him. “First you intrigue me, then attack me—”

  “Oh.” Daemon shoved free, realizing immediately what Gareth had been moved to say. “Please, my lord, forgive me. I….” Daemon searched for the words to assure the baron’s son that he would never, ever, touch him again. Gareth obviously did not want a second occurrence of the mauling that he had been forced to submit to the first time. He was revolted by what had been done to—

  “No,” Gareth cut him off, strong hand on Daemon’s bicep, yanking him forward, back into his arms. He held Daemon tighter, breathing in sweat and sun and dust and the rich, spicy scent that was the consul’s alone. “Listen, truly hear me.”

  Daemon trembled in his arms, not daring to return the embrace, desperate to hold the other man and terrified that he might pull away if he did.

  “Even though I am certain that there are greater words, more polished to declare myself to you with, I fear that I do not possess them,” Gareth said, clutching Daemon tighter. “So you must simply hear these and accept the weight that they carry.” He took a quick breath. “You belong to me, my dearest Daemon, for now until the end of days.”

  Surely Daemon has misheard. “My lord?”

  Gareth sighed deeply, leaning his head against Daemon’s. “You know nothing of me, you have taken me for less than I am, and I have allowed this false conclusion to be drawn.”

  “I—”

  “The day you pretended to drown my brother, I saw your true power and so know well that if you were not hurt and tired that I would not be able to hold you thus unless you allowed the touch.”

  “My lord, you—”

  “Would you have me hold you, touch you… tell me. Would you?”

  There was a path that duty demanded, that common sense demanded, and there was another that his heart hoped for, wanted. He had to choose.

  “Daemon?” Gareth asked hesitantly.

  He heard the growing apprehension in the other man’s voice, knew he was the cause and hated it. Lifting up, Daemon wrapped his arms around Gareth’s neck, pressing himself to the larger man so there could be no mistake. “Any touch that you would gift me with, my lord, I would greedily accept. I had thought that I frightened you that night I took my liberty with—”

  “No,” Gareth cut him off, hands clutching him tight. “You took nothing I would not have willingly given had you—”

  “There you are,” came the deep, booming voice.

  They flew apart, both turning together to face the huge man striding toward them, built square and solid and covered in heavy-plated armor. A huge broadsword hung at his hip. He was quite a sight with his bald head, beard, and mustache.

  “Stand still,” the man called laughingly to Daemon. “I would greet you.”

  Daemon began to drop down to one knee even though it hurt to do so.

  “No,” Gareth ordered, stopping him before turning fast and kneeling himself.

  “What are you—”

  “Silence,” Gareth cut him off, flipping Daemon over his shoulder and rising in one smooth motion.

  “My lord!” Daemon gasped. “I am the Consul of the Prefect of the First Legion, and the man you see walking there is the Prefect of the Fifth Legion, Hektar Prahna! Now put me down so I may greet—”

  “Be still,
” Gareth ordered sharply, liking the feel of Daemon Shar’s hands on his back, his groin pressed to his shoulder, and the swell of the firm, round globes of his ass under his fingers as he patted them gently.

  “You take too many liberties, sir, you—”

  “I will enjoy having you flat on your back, your legs wrapped around me. I can barely wait, Daemon Shar… truly, it is all my mind conjures.”

  Daemon’s heart stopped. “I—”

  “Come, Prefect,” Gareth yelled over to Hektar Prahna, cutting Daemon off. “If you would have words with the consul, then follow me. He’s hurt, and I need to tend him.”

  “Aye,” Hektar Prahna agreed, increasing his stride to catch up, falling into step beside the one man as he carried the other. “How were you injured now, Shar? More raiding for your prefect?”

  “I? Raiding? That’s a gross slur on my character, sir!”

  Hektar laughed hard, reaching out to tug gently on the cowl. “Can we not dispense with this artifice now that the war is won? I grow weary of it and would look on your true face instead of this present darkness.”

  “Prahna, I—”

  “Alma, Jalen,” Gareth called out to the two serving women he saw first when he entered the area where all the Terhazien wagons had been camped for the night. “I need bath water and food and drink for the prefect. Prepare my wagon for guests!”

  They ran to do as he ordered, and Gareth stopped walking and swung around to face the prefect.

  “My brother was Prefect of the First Legion, you of the Fifth. Are you friends or rivals, sir, for he will marry Llyan Tapal, I would wager you.”

  “You speak plain. I like this.” Hektar smiled wide, disregarding completely Daemon’s plight, as Gareth had not addressed it. “Aye, boy, we are friends, and if he has spellbound Llyan Tapal as he has every women that sees his golden hair and jewel-colored eyes, then I will not be the one to snatch her from him with my battle-worn visage. Well I know that both Ram Troen and Mycah Ilen thought to woo the girl, but as always they have forgotten the quick mind of his servant and so have missed the mark.”