Sundrinker

by Zach Hughes

  "Perhaps there is an isolated place?" Duwan asked. The guardsman's eyes shifted, examined Duwan from head to foot. "Do you refuse to give way?"

  "Unless I am breaking some law, yes."

  Jai drew near, cringing. "Master, Master, beg forgiveness of this officer."

  Duwan ignored her. The guardsman nodded.

  "I will turn and make my way back to the square. We will settle this matter there, if that is your wish." the guardsman said. Duwan nodded. The uniformed enemy turned and walked away, back stiff.

  "Master, don't be foolish," Jai begged. "You will have to fight him in the center of the square, and every eye in the city will be on you."

  "And if I kill him?"

  "The weapons will be padded," Jai said, "but whether you win or lose, Master, great attention will be focused on you. Can you risk discovery?"

  "I'm curious," Duwan said. "These guardsmen seem to be the finest warriors of the enemy. I will test this one's abilities." By the time Duwan reached the square, with Jai and Tambol following behind him, a crowd was beginning to form in the center. The guardsman was there, and white-robed priests were filing down the stairs of the temple. Duwan took his place in the open area. The crowd stared and pointed and there was a great deal of wagering going on, most of the bets being placed on the guardsman with the odds against Duwan. A priest walked to stand in front of Duwan, padded sheaths for weapons in his land.

  "The captain allows you to use both your weapons," the priest said.

  "Will he use only the longsword?"

  "Yes," the priest said.

  "Then if you will hold my shortsword for me I will be grateful," Duwan said, extending his longsword for the priest to cover with the padded sheath.

  The two combatants faced each other at a distance of a few paces.

  "There is still time to give way, stranger," the guardsman said.

  "My sword arm needs exercise," Duwan said.

  The guardsman came in a rush, and the muffled thud of blade on blade came time and again. Duwan held up on offensive thrusts, wanting to determine the extent of the warrior's skill, and he was not disappointed. The guard captain seemed in a hurry to end the bout, his blade seemed to be a living thing, thrusting, slashing, hammering. So skilled were both men that gasps of admiration went up from the crowd, and Jai noted that the odds against Duwan kept going down until, as the shadows of the sun moved by inches and both combatants were drenched in sweat and no blow of either had penetrated the other's defenses, it was even money. After a lightning series of thrusts, all parried by Duwan, the captain stepped back. "You fight well, stranger."

  "I have never faced a more worthy opponent," Duwan said.

  "Is your sword arm as weary as mine?" the captain asked.

  "I fear so," Duwan said. He tossed his sword, caught it deftly by the hilt in his left hand. "But, since I fight in the manner of the ancients, I have a spare."

  The captain's face went grim and he came to the attack with a renewed fury. However, he had gauged himself to Duwan's right-handed technique and so, as he faced a left-handed attack, with Duwan unleashing all his offensive tricks, he had to give ground. Duwan was now eager to end it. He pressed his attack, going for the guardsman's head, for if there was a weakness in the captain's defense it was at head level. He saw his opportunity, sent a great smash downward, felt his padded blade thud into the enemy's skull but even as he felt the shock of impact his breath went out of him in a great huff as the captain's padded blade took him in a full slash on the stomach.

  The guardsman went down, dazed, and Duwan fought to get his breath, felt a great wave of weakness as he could not breathe, fell to his knees, gasped and finally got wind into his lungs.

  The officiating priest stepped forward. The crowd was screaming in delight. "You are both dead," the priest said. "Let me commend you on a display of swordsmanship seldom seen in these peaceful days."

  "Stranger," the captain said, getting to his knees, "you've addled me properly."

  "And you have given me a blow I will feel for days," Duwan said.

  "When we meet again in the streets," the captain said, "I suggest that each of us take one half-step to the side."

  "A sensible suggestion," Duwan said. He was reviewing the bout in his mind, trying to remember places where he could have applied this or that technique.

  "If you seek a place in Arutan, come to the guards quarters and ask for Captain Hata. Your sword would be a valuable addition to the High Master."

  For a moment Duwan considered accepting the invitation. How better to learn all of the Enemy's secrets than as one of them? But then he reconsidered. He had enough information. "I am honored," he said. "But I am a wanderer."

  "So be it," Hata said, giving a polite little nod of his head. Duwan returned the nod. The crowd began to disperse, still haggling over coins. Jai came to stand behind Duwan.

  "Are you hurt, Master?"

  "I will ache for a while," he said. He started walking toward the inn. He was tired. When his way was blocked by an ornate portable chair carried by four gaunt pongs, he started to walk around it.

  "You," said a feminine voice from behind the lacy curtains of the chair.

  "Come here."

  Duwan's inclination was to ignore the command, but he felt his tunic being tugged by Jai, who whispered, "Master, you must obey. The chair bears the royal crest."

  Duwan stepped close. The slaves stood, heads hanging, panting. The lacy curtains were pushed aside and he saw a female half-reclining on luxurious cushions. She wore a garment unlike any he'd seen, a thing of smooth and gossamer construction that showed the shape of her, the swelling of her bud point emphasized by a circular pattern of lace.

  "Who are you?" the female asked, in a soft, inviting voice.

  "I am Duwan."

  "She is to be addressed as High Mistress," Jai hissed.

  "Please!"

  "Forgive me, High Mistress," Duwan said. His only desire now was to get back to the inn, rest, and then start his journey to the north. "I am a wanderer, strange to your city and your ways."

  "So, Duwan," the High Mistress said. "I have not seen such sword play since my father was a young one. You will present yourself at my residence at the time of the evening meal." She tossed a ring toward him, and Duwan caught it in the air. "Present this to my guard." The curtains closed and, after a soft command, the chair moved off at a trot.

  "We must flee now," Jai said. "For that was the daughter of Farko, himself. She will find you out, master. Let us not even return to the inn, but make our way to the gate and put a night's distance behind us."

  "I am tired," Duwan said.

  "If you stay and do not obey her orders she will have the entire guard out looking for you," Jai said. "If you go to her, she will see through your stories of travel to the southwest, for she has access to all information as the High Master's daughter."

  Perhaps it was only pride that formed Duwan's decision. He was young, and he'd held his own with one of the Devourers' finest swordsmen, and he was convinced that had the swords not been padded, had he used both his weapons, he would have killed Captain Hata. Perhaps it was just that he did not feel like running, that he was weary. He led the way to the inn, washed himself, brushed his rather soiled clothing, and, as Du sank beyond the western walls of the city he followed Jai's directions, walking into a section of the city enclosed by a separate, interior wall, into a place of wide, lush gardens and stone mansions with painted decorations that provided unexpected color amid the uniform grayness of the city. Uniformed guardsmen flanked the gate leading to one of the more impressive mansions. He showed his left hand, on which the High Mistress' ring gleamed, and was admitted. He was escorted by two guards to an ironbound, high, thick door and then he stepped into brightly lit luxury.

  Bowing, smiling slave girls guided him down a long hallway whose walls were decorated with carved and painted things of considerable beauty. Another great door was opened by a male slave. The room beyond was large
enough to be spacious, small enough to be cozy, and there, at its center, reclining on brightly colored, fur-covered cushions, was the High Mistress. Before her was a table laden with dishes that sent a variety of odors into the air of the room. She motioned Duwan to come forward, indicated that he was to sit beside her. Her gown was even more revealing than her apparel of the afternoon. It seemed to float near her rather than bind her, and through the gossamer thinness of it he could see that she was either naturally dark or that she exposed herself to the rays of Du. Her long, shapely legs were positioned attractively. Her bud point was enchantingly visible through one single thickness of the material. Her eyes, he noticed, were the red of the molten rock in the land of the fires.

  "Your earlier efforts, have I trust, left you with an appetite?"

  "Yes, High Mistress."

  She waved one graceful hand. "Here in privacy we waive the formalities. You may call me Elnice."

  "Thank you," Duwan said.

  "Your weapons show great care, but your apparel—" She reached out and fingered the crude cloth of his tunic.

  "I am but a wanderer, High Mistress." At her frown he smiled and said,

  "A wanderer, Elnice."

  "A body as well formed as yours should be adorned," she said. She clapped her hands and two pong females scurried from behind hanging material. She gave orders in the language of the Devourers. Within minutes, the females were back, carrying fine garments.

  "Your kindness is great," Duwan said. "Where shall I go to change."

  "Go? Are you so modest?" She smiled. "Help him," she ordered, and Duwan was pulled gently but insistently from the couch by the two females who, gigglingly, began to divest him of his clothing. He saw the flame red eyes narrow as his powerful chest was exposed. He felt his face grow hot as his lower garment was removed and he stood, naked, with the flame red eyes sweeping him. Then a kilt of soft, comfortable material was fastened at his waist and a loose, luxuriously made tunic pulled over his head. Elnice clapped her hands again and the two females began to serve. There was fruit and flesh and various dishes of green things and, of course, dishes made from the staple of the Devourer diet, the nuts of the tall grass.

  "The meat is special," Elnice said, as Duwan refused a serving. He looked at it in doubt, wondering if it was the flesh of a Drinker young one.

  "My own hunters range far," she said. "This is the flesh of a grass eater and it is brought to me from far beyond the plain of Arutan. Do you have an aversion to eating flesh?"

  "I do," Duwan said. "In my wanderings I have acquired odd tastes." She shrugged, and the motion gave her upper body so much grace that Duwan felt a flush of pleasure.

  "Then drink to new friends," Elnice said, lifting a cup. Duwan raised his own cup. The contents smelled like the fruit juice he'd once tried, and as the female drank deeply he did the same. The taste was fruity, but there was a tang, a tartness, that he'd never experienced.

  He did well by the food, for he was hungry, and the cooked dishes of green things and the bread made from the grass nut were delicious.

  "Tell me now of your travels," Elnice ordered, although her voice was soft and sweet.

  To be safe, Duwan stuck to the truth, telling of the north, of the vast tracts of trees—he'd learned enough not to call them tall brothers—of the snows and the frozen lakes. His detailed account seemed to bore the female, so he paused.

  "How do you like our city so far?" Elnice asked, arching her back, smiling at him.

  "I am overwhelmed by the numbers," he said, "and by the odors of the streets." He smiled. The fruit juice, he was finding, tasted better with each glass. A female stood behind him and filled his glass each time he emptied it.

  "Do you not find it beautiful?"

  He cued himself from her little frown. He was finding her to be quite transparent. If it was a compliment she wanted… "I find, in this room, great beauty," he said.

  "Do you?" she asked. "Is it my furniture, my works of art?"

  "If I may be so bold, it is you," he said.

  "Ah." She rose, came to take his hand. "Come, then." The room seem to roll as Duwan arose. She put her arm around his waist, pressed her soft, female flank against his, guided him through a doorway into a chamber which seemed, to Duwan's eyes—and there seemed to be just a little something wrong with his eyes—to be nothing much more than a huge, luxurious, covered bed.

  "Since you know beauty," she whispered, releasing him and stepping away. Duwan's eyes went wide as, in one graceful motion, she denuded herself, leaving the gown heaped on the floor. "Make yourself comfortable," she told him, guiding him toward the bed, pushing him down. He felt a bit odd, so he allowed this, and sat there leaning against a pile of cushions as she stepped back, and began to do things with her body that seemed almost impossible. She moved in sensuous waves, arms striking poses that showed her at her best, hips undulating. As she danced she made a low, humming sound and her fiery eyes never left his. One of the serving females came in, left a pitcher of the tangy fruit juice on a table beside the bed and, to cover his confusion, Duwan drank deeply. He was wondering what was happening to him, for he felt his body as he'd never felt it before, felt his bud point swelling.

  When she came to him, swaying, a picture of such beauty that he was breathless, he made no objection as she took his kilt, his tunic, and lowered herself to him, lips to lips, bud point to bud point. He felt the heat, the moist union, felt himself extending and then entering and after that only an excitement that made his brain spin and his blood race. That it was his first grafting was lost to him, for his movements were instinctive, and as he rolled, putting his weight on the female whose beautiful face was pressed to his, as he knew her bodily juices with his mouth and that other part of himself, she was making that soft, humming sound that, to his ears, was the most pleasant noise he'd ever heard. They lay, joined deeply, the after-pleasures coursing through their bodies. Duwan slept, and so skilled was the female that when he awoke, in darkness, she still held him within her and the fire rose up in his blood again so that she was awakened and began that low, musical hum of satisfaction.

  With the light of day, with his brain pushing against his skull in painful throbs, he wept quietly as Elnice of Arutan still held him within her and, his mind clear, if pained, he knew what he had done.

  "Alning," he whispered. "Ah, Alning." The sound roused her and, to his shame, her lips, her arms, her movements kept him there.

  "This weapon," she said, touching him, "is used as skillfully as you used your sword. You will stay with me, Duwan the Wanderer."

  "High Mistress," he said, "I am honored, but my business—"

  "Is to please Elnice of Arutan," she said, with a hint of metal in her soft voice. "Now we will eat."

  He found that a few cups of the fruit juice stilled the throb in his head. The bed was soft, the female soft and her commands irresistible.

  "How long will you allow me to stay?" he asked, putting the question as tactfully as he could.

  "Until I cool that fire in you," she smiled. "You act as if I am your first female."

  He felt heat in his face, but he did not admit that she was right. "Am I so different from others?" he asked.

  "Some can make it through one night without cooling," she said. He resolved to make his own fire dim, and to his chagrin it roared higher. Her touch was enough. The next morning he knew that he would stay as long as she would have him, for his body controlled his mind now.

  "Elnice," he said, "I have two pongs at the inn. I would send for them. Can you house them here?"

  "Don't concern yourself with two pongs. They'll be taken to the pens."

  "I have these two trained to serve my needs," he said. "It's such a nuisance to have to train others."

  She laughed. "I know. When I had a serving pong peeled for spilling food on a new gown it took months to train a new one. Sometimes it is better to put up with the stupidity of the pongs one has than to train others. I will send for them." She reached over and pin
ched him painfully on his bud point. "But you will have no use for the female." Three days and three nights were spent without either of them leaving Elnice's inner quarters. But now there were more periods of talk, as they lay joined, and Duwan used that time to learn more about the enemy. Elnice's father, Farko, a direct descendant of Farko the Great, who, in antiquity, had led the Devourers out of the steamy, dense jungles far to the south, ruled the lands from the western mountains to the eastern sea. In his realm were twelve major cities, Arutan the queen of them. Thus it had been for generations. Of the lands to the south and the west Elnice knew nothing, so it was safe, at the rare times when she questioned him, to make up lies about the southwestern desert and the mountains of the far west. It was when he was telling a tailored version of his encounter with the great animal, the farl, that he garnered some interesting information.

  "In your travels to the west did you encounter any of the escaped pongs?" she asked.

  "Of course not. Had I done so I would have killed them."

  "Captain Hata continually advises my father to mount an expedition to the west, to exterminate those escapees."

  "I don't think there are many," he said. "And what can pongs do against our blades?"

  She mused for a long moment. "In the guards quarters, once each full moon, it is required that all guards hear of the past," she said. "The telling is done by a priest of Ahtol, and it is to remind those whose responsibility it is to guard the throne that pongs were not always docile and stupid."

  "I would like to hear this telling," he said.

  "It bores me," she said, reaching for him, "but if you so desire, I can arrange for a priest to give you a private telling."

  "It would please me," he said.

  True to her word, a priest came to her quarters at midday, and Duwan had to admit that he was a bit relieved to part from her for some brief time. He left her lying in graceful beauty among the colorful cushions, her bud point swollen attractively and invitingly.

  The priest was an old one, with wrinkled skin. Duwan, politely asking the priest's age, was amazed to hear the number of years, and it was then that he learned another difference between Devourer and Drinker, for Devourers did not harden as did Drinkers, but seemed to crumple in on themselves, judging from the old priest.