by A. C. Ellas
Sura’s hands stroked his belly and Rak tensed again. Her eyes met his. “Relax, High Priest,” she said, but telepathically, Rak heard something quite different. Be still, slave.
He opened his mouth to protest, but no sound emerged. Sura pulled his wrap off and stroked his sex. He tried to roll away from her, but he couldn’t move. Sura stroked him erect, climbed onto the bed and straddled him. For a few minutes, all she did was ride him, but then, she reached up with a dagger and nicked his wrist. She collected the blood in a small glass bowl.
Once the bowl was full, she held pressure on Rak’s wrist until the cut sealed. She dipped a finger into the blood and used it to draw glyphs all over Rak’s belly. He tried to see what she was writing, but the angle was wrong, and the marks blurred whenever he focused on them. He gave it up as a lost cause and concentrated on reaching for Zotien. There was a peculiar void where normally his sense of his God was found. It wasn’t the same feeling of being cut off that he’d learned to associate with a control spell. This was something different, something deeper and more sinister.
Sura finished drawing on him and held her hands above his belly as she chanted in a foul, guttural tongue. Rak knew what it was, knew he should be alarmed, but somehow, he didn’t mind it. He made no effort to fight her. She rode him and took pleasure from him, and that was okay, because he was a sex slave. The glyphs flared with yellow and scarlet light then vanished, and Rak was happy when Mistress set her hands on his belly again. Her hand passed over his kironi opening, and it gaped for her. She pushed her finger into him and smiled.
“Thank you, Mistress,” Rak moaned as a wave of pleasure spread outward from his freak-hole.
“Good slave,” she said. “Very good slave.” She wiggled the finger.
Rak spasmed in ecstasy from the praise as much as from the reward. A moment later, he felt her climax. She withdrew from him, leaving him unfulfilled, and said, “Get dressed and go, slave. You will forget everything that transpired once you have passed through my door. We met, we talked, your baby is perfectly healthy and that is all that happened.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Rak dressed, walked out of the room and shook his head, wondering what he was doing down here. He glanced over his shoulder. Sura was locking the door to her infirmary. Rak remembered then. She’d examined the baby—he was perfectly healthy. Over the course of the brief exam, Rak had also lost his distaste for Sura. The woman meant him and his baby well. He’d been foolish to mistrust her. She was a fine woman, really.
He blinked at his sudden desire to please her, and to mask his confusion, he retreated upstairs. He went into the study Jisten had given him and spread out his sketches. He had to go wash and oil Scorth. But he felt strangely drained, as if all his energy had been sucked out of him. Jisten found him an hour later, took one look at him and forced him to lie down and rest.
Liast came in and examined him a short time after that. Rak heard him telling Jisten, “There’s nothing wrong with him that rest won’t cure. He needs sleep, food and sex, and in that order. Don’t let him to anything strenuous from here on out, either. Lifting anything heavier than a cat is right out.”
Jisten sat beside him a few minutes later. “S’Liast thinks you’re working too hard. I know you’re working too hard. You’re on bed rest now, he says. Sleep, food, sex and that’s it.”
“But, Jisten, I told Scorth I would groom him today. He’s probably at the lake right now, waiting for me.”
“No, I’m not risking you or our son. I’ll go to the lake and groom him, I know how.” Jisten kissed Rak and said, “Sleep. That’s an order.”
Chapter Fourteen: Chaos Monk
Okthεra Atεlio, Aoranz Fεngari
8th day, 2nd week, Auranz’s moon
Winday, the 19th of Auranmon
Pajel left his gelding tied to a tree within reach of both grass and water. He would walk the rest of the way to the ruins of the chaos temple. He had taken the time to change his garb once he was under the cover of the forest. Gone was the mercenary soldier, in his place stood a chaos monk.
He even had a scroll ordering him to assist the war efforts at the temple here, written the day after the big battle with Rak, by a well-known and respected senior chaos mage. The scroll was real, for Pajel had had the good fortune to be in Polemo when news of Dienok’s defeat and near death reached them.
Who better to trust this mission to than Paezin, the best of the scout-warrior monks and Kakofist’s left-hand man? He’d been ordered to Koilatha by the Polemics before Tyll had ever convinced their superiors to let them come.
He stepped over the border of the temple’s area of influence with a nonchalant air. The katrami wouldn’t bother one marked as he was. From his charcoal and scarlet robes, to the glyphs embroidered in yellow thread, to the tools hanging from his charcoal belt, to the very scent of his skin, he screamed the reality of his profession as a chaos monk. So complete and utter was his transformation that he’d fooled even the goddess he purported to worship in this persona.
The flies circled him as he walked, but they didn’t attack him. They didn’t threaten him. They saw him, they inspected him and they let him pass. He broke out of the trees and onto the blood-soaked battle plain. The skull flowers were so pretty that he stopped and picked a few, tucking them into buttonholes on his robe.
He walked up to the temple and paused, looking it over. It wasn’t a ruin. It had rebuilt itself once more. The stones were crisply edged, as if they’d been laid yesterday. The grey walls were featureless, and the spires on top were a disorganized, chaotic mess. He approved. He started forward once more, heading for the doors.
A man clad in maroon, the color of dried blood, appeared, glaring at him from dark, piercing eyes. “Who are you?”
“Paezin, m’lord,” Pajel said, bowing deeply. “Warrior-Scout, first class, at your service, sent here on orders of his eminence, Chaos Mage Kakofist, to aid in the war effort here.” He held aloft the scroll without rising from his submissive bow. The hierarchy of the Unmaker’s priesthood was stricter even than that in Okyro. As a monk, he was required to submit to any and all chaos mages.
Dienok took the scroll from his hand. “Wash my feet.”
It was a test, Pajel knew. He went to all fours and licked the tops of Dienok’s sandaled feet.
The chaos mage cracked open the scroll after inspecting the seal. “I see. You have been given to me by your master. He hopes that you prove as obedient and useful to me as you were to him. Most kind of dear Kakofist.” He looked down at Pajel. “Your tongue feels very nice, but that is enough for now. You may rise.”
“Thank you, master,” Pajel said as he rose.
“Turn around and bend over,” Dienok commanded.
Pajel complied. The pants of a chaos monk were crotchless, and the long tunic was slit in the back to allow the mages easy access to their play areas. Pajel even had the proper tattoos around his opening.
Dienok checked this before he plunged into Pajel’s body, chanting in the guttural Polemic tongue.
Pajel could feel his weak, distance-stretched bond to Kakofist breaking, only to be replaced by a much stronger, newer bond to Dienok. The chaos mage didn’t sense anything amiss, the proof of this was in the man’s continued use of him. Were his cover blown and his disguise seen through, the chaos mage would attack him immediately. It was an ingrained response they could not control, for it was their Goddess who dictated it.
Pajel squirmed a little, as much as he sensed he could get away with, to prove to his new master that he was not entirely mindless. There were degrees of mind and willfulness in the chaos monks, depending on how long they’d served and how much leash their chaos mage masters gave them. Pajel was accustomed to a light leash, for Kakofist liked a monk who could think and even, on rare occasion, take the initiative.
He could sense, however, that Dienok’s leash wouldn’t be that light, at least, not at first. Perhaps, once Dienok had come to trust his
toy, he’d give Pajel more freedom, but for now, if Dienok commanded Pajel to jump, Pajel would be in the air before the word died on his master’s lips.
Dienok bottomed out in him, and Pajel bit his lip to prevent himself from crying out in shock. The chaos mage was far bigger than anyone else he’d ever had to submit to. He felt as if the long, thick shaft had rearranged his insides to suit itself and even so was threatening to split him open. He wouldn’t be sitting easy for a while after this. The chaos mage proceeded to fuck him, thrusting in and out of Pajel’s pliant, stretched hole with firm command.
Pajel knew his place here. He remained in the position Dienok had placed him in and accepted the use in silence. Those who dared to cry out, either in pleasure or in pain, would be punished, and in Polemo, most punishments ended in death. Eventually.
Silence was difficult to maintain in the face of the sensations coursing through his body. His new master was exquisitely skilled at evoking both pain and pleasure in the body of his toys, and he clearly saw no reason to spare Pajel just because he was new. Either Pajel would manage perfect obedience or he would pay the price of disobedience.
* * * *
The chaos mage pumped his cock in Paezin’s body languidly, enjoying his new possession as only a chaos mage could. Every thought, every emotion his servant had was his to know. The monk could do nothing without his permission, for the goddess didn’t believe in free will. His new toy was still young enough to be lively, too, and Dienok would greatly enjoy playing with him.
He gripped the monk’s squirming, cooperative body and loosed his seed into the man. He held Paezin in position until he softened then pushed the monk aside, his irritation with life returning.
Paezin scrambled to his feet and bowed once more.
The continued submission mollified Dienok. “Come, Paezin, you may stand in my presence. Now, follow me.” Dienok turned and led Paezin into the temple, speaking as they walked, “You will be very useful to me. I have some isolated dark ninnies to deal with.” Dienok led the monk behind the altar, through the robbing room with its bone furniture and into an area of cells. “Pick any of these for your bed. Whenever you are not performing your duties, I expect to find you here and available to me.”
“Always, master,” Paezin replied.
There was something about the monk that Dienok wasn’t sure about. After a moment’s thought, it came to him. Paezin seemed almost cocky, as if he were the one in charge. Dienok shrugged internally. He’d soon correct his toy of that notion. In fact, he had an urge to scratch his itch again.
He pushed Paezin into the first cell, bent the monk over the narrow, hard cot that would serve as his bed and took him. The monk’s tight heat swallowed him and Dienok grunted in pleasure. He thrust vigorously until his entire weapon was sheathed in his toy’s body. He enjoyed the way Paezin squirmed and worked his ass to assist his efforts, but the difficultly his toy was having in remaining silent was even more enjoyable.
Dienok daydreamed of the punishments he could inflict on a wayward monk. There were worlds of pain to explore, and Dienok was a true artist when it came to the giving of pain, of blood, of death. Paezin would learn his will, and the breaking of the monk’s mind would be most enjoyable.
Chapter Fifteen: Plots and Plans
Єnatεra Atεlio, Aoranz Fεngari
9th day, 2nd week, Auranz’s moon
Firday, the 20th of Auranmon
Rak was cheerfully ignoring Liast’s command for him to remain in bed in favor of inspecting the café beans that the workers had just harvested. He ran the green beans through his fingers, studying them with his senses. “These are fine beans,” he told the lead worker, Gamasyth. “You do not mind us using them for this experiment?”
Gamasyth shrugged. “They’re Lord Jisten’s beans, and this plantation always produces an abundance of them.” He glanced sideways at the dragon. “Besides, I’m curious to see how they turn out meself.”
Rak laughed and motioned for the servants to proceed. They poured the first bag into the roaster then closed the hatch. Rak tested the long handle. It was easy to turn; the axle of the sideways steel mesh barrel was well greased.
“Step back, please,” Rak told the men. Once they had complied, he nodded to Scorth, who took a deep breath before emitting a small, steady stream of flame. Rak turned the barrel, causing the beans inside to tumble about. It took about three full breaths before Rak sensed the beans were roasted to the proper darkness. Scorth settled back and Rak used a heavy glove to open the hatch and a small scoop to remove a sample of the beans. He poured the scoop out on the table and the workers all inspected them.
“Amazing. A perfect dark roast in just minutes,” marveled Gamasyth. They scooped the beans up, ground them and set them to boil in a pot. Once the brew was done, they strained the café into mugs and passed them about for everyone to sample.
Rak raised his eyebrows. The flavor was bold, rich, complex and without the unpleasant aftertaste of fuel-oil roasting. It was, in short, the most perfect café he’d ever had. And from the expressions all around him, everyone else thought so, too.
“S’Rak, you’re supposed to be in bed,” Jisten said as he strode up. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“I am not doing anything strenuous,” Rak replied. “Here, try this.” He handed Jisten the last remaining mug of café.
Jisten took the mug, swigged it and his eyebrows shot into his hairline. “Wow! That’s good café!”
“Dragon roasted, three breaths at normal spin,” Gamasyth announced. “We should try varying the number of breaths and the spin speed of the beans in the roaster.”
“We should also try adding cocoa beans to the mix,” Rak said. Once the workers finished gaping at him, they agreed.
After that, Jisten firmly steered Rak back into the manor. “Back to bed with you, my dear.”
* * * *
Tyll reached Summertown by midmorning of his second day of travel. He rode through the downright bucolic town to what looked like a sprawled-out clump of villas with an abnormal growth pattern. The summer palace was built with absolutely no plan or anything remotely resembling organization. Tyll had to admit it had a certain chaotic charm and really made him wonder what subtle influence the ruined chaos temple had over the minds of the Koilathan courtiers.
He stalled his mare in the visitor’s section and asked the nearest guard where the dark servants might be found.
The guard looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “There ain’t any dark ones here. They all went north to inspect the capt’n’s lands.”
“Ahh, I see. I had so hoped they’d wait for me,” Tyll sighed theatrically.
“Sorry, Bard Tafflynn. They left nigh on two weeks ago. Rumor had it that the crown was going to lay claim on the capt’n’s slave, so he spit and took the slave with him. The rest of the dark ones went, too, claiming they had to consult with their temple up north, but I think they really just wanted to stick with the capt’n and the prince. They know who their allies are.”
“That they do. They have to, don’t you agree? They’d not last long without political savvy.”
The guard looked around then lowered his voice. “Well, certainly not, especially not with their high priest collared. I’m glad the capt’n won him and all, cause the chancellor’s the worst of the worst sort, but nothing good comes of enslaving clergy. The gods take a dim view of that, for sure.” He leaned closer to Tyll’s ear and said, “The chancellor was furious at losing the high priest to the capt’n. He’s planning something; I don’t know what. I’ve been trying to find out, but he and his men—they’re gone. Claimed they was going to his estate for the summer. Like anyone believes that.”
Tyll handed the man a gold royal. “Thank you. If anyone asks, I was never here. I am heading north. I will warn your captain of Virien’s plans.”
“Thank you, sir.” The guard made the coin vanish then resumed staring straight ahead.
Tyll left the way he’d come, openly. But as he passed the gate guards, he was muttering about ingratitude and the gall of certain nobles to treat a bard so poorly. He went to the docks. Koilatha was truly a Riverlands kingdom, if the most isolated. There were rivers everywhere. Certainly, every town of any size was beside a river or a lake and had a dock. He found a river steamer, and an hour later, he had passage north to Riftinmoor.
* * * *
Raevel stepped through the portal and looked about alertly. The temple complex didn’t look much different from the others he’d seen. The air was a bit colder but a lot wetter. He could taste the water in the air with every breath. He tilted his head back and looked up over the wall of the complex. Mountains. Real mountains, tall and jagged, with green fuzzy feet, purple-blue slate bodies and smooth white heads.
“Is that snow?” Tarryn asked, and Rave glanced at his brother. Tarr was staring at the mountains, too, but his jaw looked ready to hit the ground.
“Yes, I think so,” Rave told him and returned his attention to the mountains. “This temple’s a new one, eh?”
“S’Chirind said we’d never been here before, not that it’s new.”
“New to us,” Rave amended, waving off the wisdom of their teacher. “Still, the temple looks like all the others. Scenery’s nicer.”
“Yeah,” Tarr said after a moment.
Raevel glanced over his shoulder at the other students. It looked like the whole class was on this side of the portal now. As if in answer to his thoughts, the portal wavered and then folded in on itself. He traced the energy flows with his eyes and senses and nodded to himself. He was pretty sure he could make a portal if he had to.
