Date: Fri, 22 Mar 2013 05:00:33 +0000
From: Michael Offutt <kavrik@hotmail.com>
Subject: Chapter 24 of The Assassin's Apprentice - gay science fiction
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*****
Chapter 24
Outside Braedir's palace, I stand in the shadow of two-story
opulence. Its gaudy window dressings and ornate architecture possess an
offensive beauty. It belongs in a city known to be the undisputed ruler of
the obscene...that flaunts its lewdness with naked statues of boys and
girls having butt sex over gardens of lovely poppies.
Just outside the gilded gate to the palace walls, I marvel at the
detail on a statue featuring a slavering woman eating the leg cut from a
wailing child. I wonder what the bronze plaque says that's mounted on the
pedestal beneath it. Maybe it's a dedication to whoever the woman was,
perhaps a great leader who made flesh the business of Soulwarden AND its
most thriving trade. Perhaps it bespeaks of the horrors the nameless
suffered at her hands. And what a horror she is too! With bulging eyeballs
and exaggerated mandibles, chomping forever at a bronze foot that drips
bronze blood and dangles mutilated metal flesh.
I love artists who can bring their passion to life.
"Milk of the poppy!" a man calls from his wagon. "Opium! Powder of
Eros...all is for sale! Cocaine! Heroin! We have it all for you! New
tools! Needles for a speedy delivery made of the finest steel and imported
from the tinkering gnomes of the Icewall Mountains!"
Eros... I suck on my lip wondering when I can get some more, and I
watch the wheels turn on his cart as if they rotate for an eternity. I feel
aches growing in my muscles, Eros takes those away. In addition, everything
I see and experience is somehow more intense. It also has given me
incredible insight. For example, now I know everyone else is wiser than
me. It's okay to be the stupid, illiterate one, because they'll steer me
right. And since I've been taking Eros, I've not come across a single
selfish person. Spider's advice is so precious. It brings tears to my eyes
because I can't see him. He's so wise, so powerful. I've never felt more
loved than I was by Spider.
I wonder where he is.
Gone.
Like my thoughts. Mist. Pixies. A sparkling diamond necklace attracts
my eyes.
Verrr rolls on the ground. He's a cute kitten. I think owning a lot
of cats would be fun.
A boy approaches the dealer's cart, a cloud glows red, a woman calls
for help.
The boy hobbles on one leg. Next to him is a girl; she moves in a
stupor. Maybe they're brother and sister. She has her hands bound and the
boy passes the girl to the man with the cart and in return he receives a
small package. I bet it contains pure pleasure. I'm jealous.
I smile. What a great system that allows for trades other than
money. The boy is definitely resourceful, even if the girl cries and goes
with the man who disappears with her. He no doubt intends to enroll her in
a school so she can be educated.
So she can be somebody.
And the boy is so happy. Even as he hobbles away, it leaves me with a
warm feeling inside.
By now, I've grown used to staring through the narrow slit my visor
affords me, and my gaze lifts to the crimson clouds spewing forth from
Tempest Mountain. The fiery red glow is everywhere, and it rises from the
summit which is some ten leagues to the west.
The ground rumbles and shakes.
"The gods are angry with us," a man says to my right. Several other
men nod and continue with their work, preparing the royal column to move
out into the streets. "They will punish this wicked city."
Is Soulwarden wicked? What a curious word, but maybe he's right.
Perhaps the gods ARE angry with Soulwarden.
The blood drains from my cheeks as fear grips my guts. I say a prayer
to Tethyr. Despite my memory lapses and my inability to remain focused, I'm
always able to remember the mysterious "Gray Warder" as he's known. It's as
if my love for my god wells up from a place inside me that can't be
touched.
Sometimes I think Tethyr's watching me. I feel eyes move over my
body, but when I search around me, I see nothing at first. But then,
there's the black wolf with yellow eyes. Sometimes he's a dog. Sometimes
it's a picture on the wall like the one decorating the meditation room of
the dojo in Clothol. Sometimes it's a tattoo on the arm of a bare-chested
warrior walking down the street.
The yellow eyes seek me out when I least expect it. Why? I can't
answer that. But when I close my eyes, I frequently dream of them. They
bore into my soul; they tell me I must fight. But fight what? They tell me
that my ordeal will challenge both my mind and my spirit, that I will be
faced with an opportunity for revenge or forgiveness, and that my single
choice will define my destiny in Tethyr's eyes.
They say only the PROPER choice will make me a Black Dragon Assassin.
Is that superior to a Nightshade? What's a Black Dragon Assassin?
I've no idea. But the yellow eyes say that a person who's consumed by
revenge and hate will never walk at Tethyr's side.
Even with Eros, I'm worried. My clouded mind tells me that the future
holds a reckoning for someone I love. My ultimate destiny will be tied to
my ability to forgive them, whoever they are.
But I've no idea why I would want revenge against someone I love?
I'm so at peace. And no one I love has wronged me. Not Spider, certainly
not Talen, not the beautiful girl with mahogany hair...wow, I love a lot of
people. The faces keep surfacing, even the servant that gave me water five
minutes ago.
Why do I love so many people? I laugh. Maybe I'm just lucky.
Another tremor shakes the earth.
The air in the crater smells of smoke. Outside the ten-foot walls
surrounding the palace grounds, the streets teem with Meronese who conduct
daily business without fear. They've learned to live with it so long; it's
like a cloak to them.
Fear profits a man nothing.
Why am I afraid? I blink with tears in my eyes, suddenly aware that
everything frightens me.
I hunker down and wrap my arms around myself, trying to breathe.
"Please, please, please...stop," I mutter.
"Stop what?" the yellow eyes say to me in my mind. "You must stop
taking the drug."
"The Eros?" I question. "But it gives me strength."
"No," the yellow eyes say. "Love is what gives you strength. Only
Talen can help you. You must remind him, or he will take his own life for
what he sees tonight." And then the eyes are gone.
After a while, I feel all right. And I can stand again without
trembling.
There's a noise. The girl with mahogany hair on the arm of the king
emerge from the palace. Talen's there too; he looks so handsome; I wonder
if he likes me. The eyes say he loves me; I must remind him.
Or he will take his own life for what he sees tonight....
Why would he do that? What's he going to see?
Angelaria is treated like royalty. She scoops up Verrr and follows
Braedir onto one of two decorative palanquins. Each has a bamboo frame and
roof, the latter to keep rain off the heads of those seated
within. Mosquito netting hangs in drapes from the frames and the palanquins
themselves are carried upon the backs of black-skinned Amserran
slaves. I've difficulty recalling what I know of the Amserrans. But their
squat, heavily-muscled appearance brings back a single memory from my
father's adventures.
I think I was six when he died.
Four slaves are chosen to carry each palanquin; poles rest on their
muscular shoulders.
I wish I could ride on a palanquin. It's so hot and sweaty in this
armor; they get fanned by people; I want to get fanned too.
It's like they want me wet, and it makes no sense.
A hot breeze tugs at my cloak. It swirls around my leather boots;
they're soaked through with the sweat from my bare feet.
I walk amidst a throng of twenty nameless young people. They're
divided evenly between men and women, most are comely, but none make me
rise between the legs. Laughable costumes wrap some of the men. These
garments are homage to various armors, and I catch a word I don't
understand: "fetishist garb."
I wonder what it means. It sounds funny, and I scratch my nuts with a
gauntleted finger as I contemplate it.
Because I'm a knight of course, mine is authentic. I wonder why
anyone would want to pretend to be something they're not. The "fetishist
garb" is mostly leather and rubber, much like my boots and priapus. That
makes me ponder...do these count as "fetishist garb?" How strange would
that be?
My mind clouds again, and I know I won't remember to ask someone what
the words mean.
In fact, I've already forgotten them.
I'm no longer surprised by that. I sniff; my nose burns but I'm
afraid to lift my visor to scratch it. I feel slightly dizzy but try to
steady myself by crouching on the balls of my feet for a moment to regain
my balance.
Breathe, I think to myself. Just breathe through your mouth.
And remind Talen of your love...I can't forget that. Or he'll take
his own life after what he sees tonight. He's my only hope but hope for
what?
The air's so hot. That must be the reason for my dry nostrils, and
why I've been bleeding. I close my eyes for a moment and draw the air into
my lungs as slowly and deliberately as possible. This stops the world from
spinning so much.
Ten of the twenty around me are men, and I wonder if they're
perfect. I must remember what Spider said: I'm not perfect, but I can get
there if I don't eat anything. I blink and once again stand to wait for us
to move out. I quash my hunger with my mind; someone hands me a water
bottle with a nipple on the end. I drink from it. Maybe the water will
quiet my belly; it has a strange taste...kind of like sulfur, but it slakes
my parched throat.
Their leather and rubber suits cling to the skin; none are helmeted
save me. Three have black skin, two are oriental with almond-shaped eyes,
and one looks like a Daar Clansmen because of his sweeping brown
hair. There's even one with pointed ears. He's an elf, and he stares at me
with an expressionless face. I see bruises on his cheeks and a few missing
teeth. Each is fitted with a solid gold circlet around the neck, and
they're all impeccably clean shaven and smell of perfume.
In the ranks of women, there are so many beauties. Some are dark and
exotic looking, with hair braided in cornrows and jewels dangling from
their earlobes. Others have smoky kohl over each eye. They wear flimsy
dresses made from mist silk that sweeps around their waists and breasts; it
leaves nothing to the imagination. All the girls have shaved genitals, and
I wonder if this "denuding" means something. I've no hair at the base of my
cock. I don't know how long it's been that way, but it makes me ask...am I
the same as them?
I can't be. I've no gold collar.
I bet it's a sign Spider finds them perfect. Blast!
I look around me just to make sure. Yes, I'm marching with them as if
I WERE one. But wait. Perhaps I'm supposed to be their leader? But wouldn't
someone tell me this? Just in case, I start preparing a speech to say to
them, in case they want me to lead. I've got to show them what kind of
knight I am.
A black Amserran woman with thick lips and bleached hair sidles next
to me while we wait. I can't help but stare at her, the nipples forming
points on her mist silk dress so that she looks like she's got cones rising
from her chest. She wears the gold collar, holds herself regally, and
stands straight like me; I bet she knows I can't read. I also like how
she's pulled all of her hair into a single braid that falls to the top of
her butt.
"Are you a Timeron knight?" she asks me, accent thick on her voice.
I blink, not knowing if I should answer. Finally I say, "Yes."
Nervous sweat rolls down my face, and I try to quiet the trembling. Please
don't make fun of me, I think. Don't call me stupid...I- I just can't
handle "stupid" right now.
"Where's your sword then? Why are you not wearing spurs?" she asks.
They're good questions. I look down at my boots; they look lovely on
my thin feet. I wonder if anyone else might enjoy them. "I'm supposed to
have spurs?" I ask.
She snorts, and looks through the slit of my visor at my
eyes. There's a lot of shuffling going on in the column as we prepare to
move out, and it's difficult to hear anything over the din and clang of
weapons and so many voices. But I hear her.
"I'm Mudrufamesa," she says. "You are not from here. If you are a
knight, know that I was once a rich woman, but now I'm a slave. At the age
of ten, I became the most sought-after whore in Soulwarden. At the age of
twenty-five, I'm a pauper. How life changes...it's like the wind.
Sometimes, fortune blows your way, and at other times, it brings you
nothing but dust. You and your kind are to blame, because you and your
demon god chose to invade our lands. All because the Queen of Demons has no
mercy for those they conquer unless they're white boys who happen to be
beautiful."
"I'm an invader?" I ask.
She stares at me again. "Maybe. Maybe not. Huge pupils speak of Eros
addiction. I think perhaps that you are not a knight. Perhaps you are just
like Mudrufamesa."
"Who's that?" I ask.
"Me," she says, rolling her eyes. "They've given you too much."
"I can't pronounce your name," I say.
"Don't worry about it," she responds. "You can call me "Famesa."
"Famesa," I begin, "I'm not a knight?"
She nods. "They probably told you that, but you aren't. It doesn't
matter. Believe that you're a knight, because I've a feeling they want you
to be convincing when the time comes. Know that the most valuable currency
in this vile city is sex."
"This is a vile city?"
"One of the worst in the world," Famesa says. "A great war has come,
and it fills all the lands to the south. To the north, forces are
invading. I hear tales of ten thousand men killed in a single day, and of
death giants who wander the forests looking for humans to sacrifice to
their god to bring them fortune in war. Here in Thorn, It all
collects. Those who are too cowardly to fight, those who flee from the
armies, and those who have sexual appetites that run to the extreme all
come here for one reason or another. There is no law in Thorn, only the
rule to exploit or be exploited. And it makes the gods angry...the true
gods...not the ones of evil."
I shuffle in my boots. "I-I think I've had sex," I say. "I honestly
can't remember."
"Virginity is only prized amongst females; that rule is universal,"
Famesa says, eyes scanning the long line of my body.
I sigh. "That sucks. I think I'm a virgin."
"Don't despair, Blue-eyes. The knights are the most sexually
desirable men in 'The Pit' right now and have been since their occupation
over seven years ago. The military has a strict fitness code, and the
babies the women beget from their seed end up nobles in Noremost, their
great empire across the sea. The boys end up knights like their
fathers. The girls end up in the priesthood. So the Timeron knights choose
only the most fit and most beautiful females to breed."
"I'm a noble? If so I'd breed her...the girl with mahogany
hair. She'd make great babies."
Famesa laughs. "You can't have children. Eros robs you of that, so
you're definitely not a knight. And making beautiful babies has much to do
with the parents, but in the end, the gods have their say. Some are born
with much less."
"What happens to those kids?" I ask.
"They die. The knights use them for target practice to hone their bow
and arrow skills; their remains are burned. I told you, the knights only
have mercy for beautiful white-skinned boys."
"Where does this happen?"
"In Greasy Tops, the foulest section of this city. I worked there for
five years. Sometimes, as many as a hundred lives are ended in a day, drawn
from the birthing pits where women pregnant with Timeron babies must go to
release their water. Imperfection can result from something as small as a
birthmark. A fountain in Greasy Tops flows red; I hope you never see
it. The Meronese refer to it as the 'Blessing' and many believe washing in
it bestows the youth of the slain children upon them for it is THEIR blood
that runs through its pipes."
I swallow, uncomfortably. "They kill babies?"
Mudrufamesa says, "Yes. If you are not a knight as I suspect, then
they have you in this armor because they intend to take you INTO Greasy
Tops. Perhaps to the Bathhouse of Oiled Flesh. Are you an assassin?"
I blink trying to comprehend what she's saying. "Are we going there
for dinner? I'm not supposed to eat--" But she interrupts me with a shake
of her head.
"Eros," she mutters.
"I like Eros," I say. "Please, if you have some, can I buy a hit off
you?"
She glares at me for a moment. "I've pity for you, Blue-eyes," Famesa
says. "They'll take you into Greasy Tops and make you do things you may not
like were it not for the drug. Eros takes over your mind; displaces your
personality. It's popular for interrogation and for rape. If there's
anything of you left in there, you'll take no more."
"I-I can't."
"You must," she says. "It comes from under the Icewall Mountains in
the caverns of the squid-faced mind lords who created it to enslave the
world of men."
"I've eaten squid before," I say.
"This is different, Blue-eyes."
"Why do they call it Greasy Tops?" I ask.
"Because the smoke from cremating the dead produces an oil that makes
the roofs shine. The streets are no wider than the length of a man, and
each building rises, one stacked on top of another, until the suns are all
but a memory. All the brothels, the bathhouses, and the sex dens are
there. Anyone can purchase anything they want. It is said, there's even a
place where one can eat another human, if that's what you wish. But these
unusual extravagances are very costly, and you must know the right people."
"Why would anyone want to eat another person?" I ask, horrified.
She shakes her head. "Who knows the why and the how to this world?
They say those who go to Greasy Tops never return. It's a place of disease,
where the sewers run with the blood of the living, and torture is as common
as water. Demons walk the cobblestones of Greasy Tops clothed in the skin
of men, brought here by the Timeron Knights who command them...brought here
by men like you."
"Are you saying I'm wicked?" I ask.
She shrugs. "There's a reason you ended up here. There's a reason why
YOU are in this predicament. Good people don't come to Thorn. Though I
don't know you, I believe you WERE not...perhaps ARE NOT...a good person,
but what we call good is a matter of perspective, right? I think there's
hope for you yet, Blue-eyes. Perhaps if you try, you can channel your life
in such a way that your career works against the agents of wickedness."
I breathe slowly trying to commit her words to memory. 'Perhaps if I
try I can channel my life in such a way that my career works against the
agents of wickedness.' As odd as it seems, I only repeat this sentence
once, and it stores itself beyond the fogginess in my mind.
"Why do knights go there? I-I mean...if it's so wicked?"
"They go like everyone else...for sex free of the pressure to
breed. Their chosen hangout is the Blood Dungeon. You're definitely not a
knight, or you would know this. Blue-eyes," she says, "In their religion,
you see, a woman can only have sex for procreation. It has to do with the
nature of their goddess...a very sad tale. Any man that willingly breaks
this law is flayed alive and his blood is drunk by the female
victims. Women are never punished, even if they seduce a man and have sex
for pleasure. If a man is weak and does so, he can be killed. So outside of
procreation, a man must sate himself with another man, or with a woman
who's free of the religion associated with the Queen of Demons. Here in
Soulwarden, that is all but impossible to find, as anyone reports on anyone
else for a small pittance of money. What each man desires can be as
different as colors of the rainbow. The Blood Dungeon's specialty is
knights for they are elite clients, despite the syphilis they carry."
"That sounds rather unfair," I say. "The bit about flaying the men
alive."
She laughs. "Much in life is unfair. Take for example being employed
at the Blood Dungeon. Boys barely out of puberty aspire to work there for
the gold. Not just anyone gets a job. You have to be gorgeous to work in
the Blood Dungeon. But it's more than a pretty face. The standards are
incredibly high."
"Like what?" I ask.
"Athletic and possessed of a cock of above-average length; a body
with less than 15% fat. The best have less than 8% body fat, measured by
calipers or through the machine of Eilustriel. Magundu is currently their
prize bull and the biggest asshole in their employ. It's said he's fucked
20,000 women and 40,000 men. He has a legendary girth and a length some say
is nine inches...the largest they've ever seen at the Blood Dungeon. Size
is the first thing the employees of the Blood Dungeon respect, and Magundu
takes 10% of the profits from every other man who works there simply
because he was born with the largest dick in the land. The shortest that
works there is 7- inches. The priests of Chagidiel all claim Magundu's cock
shall be bronzed upon his death as it is the largest endowment they've seen
on a human male. It raises Magundu's status to faux royalty. He sometimes
requires new workers to kiss it, as a sign of their obedience."
"That's crazy," I say. "Is 10% a lot?"
"Yes, Magundu is a very rich man. He could've retired several years
ago, but he enjoys his work too much. He enjoys being the most legendary
man in 'The Pit.' And he has good doctors to treat his syphilis, chlamydia,
and gonorrhea."
"Nine inches is impressive," I remark. "I've never measured mine. At
least I think so." I scratch my head. "On second thought, I don't even know
what it looks like. Isn't that weird?" I laugh. "I don't know what my own
dick looks like."
"Eros," she mutters. "They've given you too much."
For some reason, I think she's said that before.
"Most men I've seen are average. Most knights despite their physical
fitness are average as well. I expect you to have a five-inch
endowment. Magundu will dwarf your own, but as a knight, you'll have your
choice to take him as a partner if you go there. Do not be ashamed. Not
everyone is a Magundu, but he can teach you things and bring you untold
pleasures you've never experienced. And when your body becomes diseased,
your faith will buy a healer."
I almost salivate at her words.
"You must be some kind of spy. I wonder why the king is sending you
there," she says.
"Hopefully for pleasure," I say. "Don't worry about me. I shan't be
ashamed that Magundu is bigger than me." I speak the words with as much
sincerity as I can muster.
"If you go there in that armor, you'll be treated like a
king. Everyone wants to fuck a knight, and if you ARE a spy, they no doubt
have a man picked out for you already, but to what end, I've no idea. Know
that the demand for attractive men in Soul Warden is far greater than the
supply. Soul Warden's population has suffered wars, plague, drugs, and the
rule of the Guildhouse of Assassins for a thousand years. The population
has many missing limbs, scars from battle, and other hideous
ailments. Disease transmitted through sex with no access to healing or
education has left entire neighborhoods devastated. There's no good within
the pit, only suffering."
I swallow nervously. "No good at all?"
She nods her head. "Huge crowds gather outside the Bathhouse of Oiled
Flesh where the workers of the Blood Dungeon bathe before their doors open
each night. Because the Blood Dungeon caters only to men, it's the only
time that their physically gifted staff is available for unrestricted
coitus. So the women are there for one reason only: for seed. Some of the
women want to become pregnant and give birth to a child who's not native
Meronese. This gives the offspring a much higher chance to emerge without
deformity. Others are wealthy crones too ugly for a handsome man; they go
there to be serviced by Magundu. If he's not available, then they buy
others to satiate their pussies. However, men are there for only one
reason: to sodomize those who cater only to Timeron Knight
standards. Because the bathhouse is operated by the clergy of Chagidiel,
anything goes. The bathhouse is a great opportunity for very rich men to
scout out prospects for the night."
"That's pretty sensible. It's like window shopping," I say.
Famesa laughs, "This is not buying a pair of shoes. All of the
workers at the Blood Dungeon range from a scale of 6 to 8 as judged by
Eilustriel, while those male customers who frequent the bathhouse rarely
achieve a 4. These are secretive men, well past their prime or those who
have trouble getting any sex because they are so repulsive. Some are
politicians, others warriors and statesmen. Most are universally hideous,
and the lower they rate on the scale, the more money they must pay before
being allowed in. But those that DO get in are entitled assholes, wanting
to get all their money's worth. Depending on how much they bribe the
gatekeeper relates to how soon they can be squeezed inside. I've seen men
who rank as a 1 move to the front of the line for a thousand gold...men so
grotesque, the one they have sex with could end up with incurable leprosy
and even vomit during the act. But this just means an opening in the
brothel's workforce. No one who works for the brothel can refuse sex with
anyone, no matter how dreadful they are."
"Wait," I say, "people are ranked in numbers? Who's Eilustriel?"
"She's the goddess of beauty. A wondrous machine at the door places a
number on anyone who enters based upon the goddesses' explicit standards. A
10 is the highest rank and is considered god-like comeliness. A 3 or 4 is
considered plain. No one in the 2000 years since it was invented has ever
achieved a 10. This machine can only be purchased directly from the church
of the goddess of beauty."
"Wow," I say, trying to imagine what the machine looks like. "This
place must be packed to the walls with people." I get semi-hard just
thinking about it, and that's incredibly uncomfortable as the priapus is
too restrictive.
The Bathhouse of Oiled Flesh only has room for 200 souls, but at
least three times that number wait outside for a chance to get through the
door at sunset. They wait to see if they can pass the test of Eilustriel
for a discount rate. If they're a 3 or below, they must wait for the
bathhouse to fill with those that rate higher first...either that, or pay
even more than normal. If it's a slow night, then those in line can be
admitted but are restricted to employees of the Blood Dungeon who rate no
higher than a 6, which is incredibly handsome. However, they'll have no
access to Magundu, who is a 7."
"I wonder what I'll rate," I ask to no one in particular. I'm mostly
just talking to myself.
"You won't know until you've asked Eilustriel's machine." Famesa
pauses, "Knights rarely visit the bathhouse, for they've got exclusivity to
the Blood Dungeon whose doors are open from midnight until dawn; those that
do visit receive automatic entry because they've got money and looks and a
contract with Chagidiel. Very rarely, some knights have achieved the
ultimate in beauty: an 8. Only one in a million men rates this high. There
is no one who gets a 9 or 10; Eilustriel says 9's exist only 1 in every ten
million and none have ever passed through one of the machines. That would
make history the world over, and even the Goddess of Beauty herself would
be aware of this man."
"What about a 10?" I ask.
"Every hundred years one is born. There's only ever one 10 on the
planet, and his naked body is the object of desire for anyone that sees
it. That is the legend."
I shake my head. "That must be something."
She shrugs. "A man who ranks as a 10 would be physically irresistible
even to the most trained priests of Soulwarden. They would break oaths and
promises to their gods just to touch his body. Women would desire his seed
for their womb without question, and it would take all their willpower to
put a face to the world that says otherwise."
"Fascinating," I say. "A 10 would never be lonely then. That guy
could have sex with anyone he wants."
"Sex and companionship are different things," Famesa says. "But I
think they'd be lonely, for their partner would suffer insecurity and
jealousy. Someday you may learn that lesson."
I nod, thinking about her words. There's something calming about
them, or maybe it's her amber eyes. I feel like I'm meant to talk with her.
"Know that in Soulwarden, sex with any Timeron is prestigious for the
brothel workers," she continues. "But some take it too far. Magundu flaunts
his conquests as well as his wealth. To date, Magundu and four other men
are the only ones to have 'couched' Timeron Knights in the actual
bathhouse. In the Blood Dungeon, everyone has done so, of course. Workers
at the Bathhouse of Oiled Flesh who achieve this are compensated with
enough gold to buy ten slaves for just a few hours of their work. In a
month's time, one could retire for the rest of one's life. Some choose
this, and the job opening is quickly filled."
"I like the idea of it being prestigious to fuck me," I say.
She chuckles. "You're a funny man, Blue-eyes. But I think you say
this because you've not been fucked after you've said no. Be selective on
whom you choose if you end up at the bathhouse. Anyone who couches you,
employee or not, will receive a gift from Chagidiel. It's considered a
token of appreciation for the alliance between the gods of evil: Chagidiel
and Taleta. This person's flesh will be molded in one single area to
correct a perceived imperfection through magic, a highly desired gift for
the vain and the disfigured both. However, this can never extend to a man's
penis or a woman's vagina, as Chagidiel teaches these organs are sacred and
must be worshiped and untouched by divinity or sorcery. In exchange for
treating the knights so well, the church of Taleta protects the church of
Chagidiel with its armies."
"Couched?" I ask. "What's that exactly?"
"They have several couches in the bathhouse. If a patron gets a
knight onto one and seduces him into fluid exchange, their reward is the
gift of Chagidiel. It can be bestowed three times, in case the knight
wishes to have more mouths and fingers and other things within AND upon his
body."
I hear some noise and six of Braedir's house knights walk up to
surround us; they're all women. Famesa winks at me and doesn't say another
word.
"Thank you," I whisper to her.
She nods.
I look at the girls and think, Braedir sure loves his women. They're
dressed in leather and studded armor and carry spears instead of
swords. Each spear has a red ribbon tied to the end, and they look flexible
like you'd expect a martial arts weapon to be. Talen comes up behind me
then in his usual confident swagger. However, there's no palanquin for him,
and he's definitely put off by that because his face looks pinched in the
way mine does when I suck on a lemon.
It almost makes me giggle.
Last, a few men round out our contingent, but none of them is
Spider. Inside my helmet, I feel my nose bleeding again, and I try to sniff
it up back into my nostrils. When I fail, a little runs into my mouth, and
I can taste the salty hotness of it. I notice that each of the men that
join us is carrying a large wooden paddle. I soon understand the purpose of
these clubs as we make our way from the palace onto the crowded street.
"Make way for the king!" one of the men carrying the paddles
shouts. He smacks an old woman in the head, dropping her
instantly. Although I step over her, I see she's soon trampled. Another
woman, inspecting oranges from a man's cart gets struck about the shoulders
and kicked into the wall of the building on my left. This is all done so
that the Amserrans carrying the palanquins have room to maneuver.
Our pace is fast.
If I fall behind by a few paces, the women behind me prod my backside
with a spear.
I expect the king to be popular. However, crowds jeer at him from the
side of the road. Those given over to boldness throw tomatoes. They are
quickly beaten back by the men carrying the wooden paddles.
After ten minutes, Braedir's palanquin stops in the middle of a stone
bridge spanning a sluggish river. The whole of it stinks of shit. I peer
over the edge and see that it's really nothing more than an open sewer. As
if to make my point, a hundred feet away, a cow near the embankment drops a
bucketful of its waste into the water with a huge splash. Urchins so filthy
I can't tell if they're boys or girls crowd the bank on both sides.
Braedir parts the mosquito netting and extends a hand. "My
people...behold the generosity of your king!" He throws a handful of copper
coins into the water and then the kids all dive-in to try and grab them.
The spectacle raises bile to my mouth.
Angelaria claps and Braedir turns to speak with her in the
neighboring palanquin. "I love watching the poor swim for the scraps. It's
my favorite pastime to see a child with a mouthful of shit. Well worth a
copper farthing."
"You're so clever dear," Angelaria says.
I have to admit suddenly that it is kind of clever.
One child emerges with dung clinging to his emaciated body and holds
a copper coin proudly. I notice he has leeches on his back from the
swim. But before I can make a comment or even feel sorry for the child, a
woman appears holding a box. It has the Eros in it, and she pokes a straw
through the bottom of my visor so I can take a sniff.
"He's got a bloody nose," the girl says loud enough for Angelaria and
Braedir to hear.
Several feet behind me, Talen steps forward but is blocked by the
girls with spears. "Braedir, what's the meaning of this?" Talen asks. "I'm
still a partner despite you thinking otherwise! Blood means he's
hemorrhaging...you're killing him, Angelaria.' I'm as much invested in this
as you!"
"Oh shut up!" Angelaria yells from her palanquin.
I see Talen's hands are trembling. When I stare at him through the
visor, I note a twitch in his eye, and I suspect he's hiding something... I
wouldn't be surprised because Talen HAS to be clever; he's too good-looking
not to be. I wish I could see him naked.
Fascinating. He wiggles his fingers at me, and I think it's a kind of
language, but I don't remember how to understand those fine movements.
"A hemorrhage may be a sign of an overdose," Braedir indicates
quietly to Angelaria, but his voice is loud enough that I hear it. "Are you
sure you know what you're doing, my princess? We don't want him to die now
do we?"
She looks at me, and then snaps her fingers. "Give him another dose!"
she calls out.
Talen knocks the spears out of the way and manages to reach the girl
holding the box before I can take another sniff. He snatches it from her
and she complains loudly.
"Talen," I say, getting his attention. "I-I love you," I tell him as
softly as I can. It's all I can do to remember what the yellow eyes told me
to do. I need to remind him that I love him, or what he sees tonight may
make him take his own life. That's what I remember, and I'm worried because
the skies are darkening. It will be night soon.
I think this is what yellow eyes meant.
Talen's face pales, and he swallows hard.
"Give him another fucking dose, or I'll kill you!" Angelaria yells at
Talen, fire swirling around her fingertips.
"Play along buddy," Talen whispers to me. He holds the straw through
the crack. I try to take a sniff but get nothing. He's pinching the straw.
Why would he do that?
Angelaria turns to Braedir. "Stop lecturing me, both of you. Now
Talen, get back in line and return the box to the woman! He won't die. He's
too physically strong for that. I want him as pliable as a blank page. He
can have no resistance to orders of any kind. He's very dangerous when not
in the grips of that drug."
I hear them talking; I know it's about me. But all I can do is stand
there and think of how beautiful and perfect her face is, how round and
full her breasts are, and how soft her pussy must feel. I close my eyes and
the rush of the Eros that I did manage to take hits me full force, filling
my whole body with pleasure and warmth. I feel as if I've consumed liquid
happiness.
"Move along," a female knight says. She prods me in the back with the
end of her spear, and I immediately oblige her.
The trek we make ends another twenty minutes later. I'm not even
tired, but the slaves are slick with sweat. I'm positively
drenched. Because of the jungle heat, every porous hole, greave, and joint
on my armor leaks with my own perspiration. And my nose is bleeding so
much...for the first time it's leaking past my helmet. No one seems to
notice. No one cares. Why should I? It's not like it hurts.
We stop in front of a church soaring fourteen stories above me. It
has crenelated walls and onion domes. Everything is white marble and
sheathed in gold. It's incredible. I wonder if Tethyr lives here.
Some kind of auction is taking place before the walls of this
citadel. Men and women are standing on a stage auctioning off other people
to the highest bidder. There's literally a crowd of thousands in this
square, and I'm forced to huddle amidst the perfumed men and women so
tightly that I can't raise my arms. Those who stand at the outer circle are
sniffed over by huge hounds with glossy black fur and large pink tongues
that drip drool on the cobblestones beneath my boots. The dogs menace and
bark and bare their teeth, and it frightens the men and women who are one
by one torn from Braedir's column to be escorted to the stage where the
throng of thousands awaits to bid on them.
One of them is Famesa.
"Goodbye," I whisper.
"Salut, Blue-eyes," she responds. And like that, she's gone.
"We must always pay tribute," Braedir says to Angelaria loud enough
for her to hear over the crowd, "to gain entrance to the church of the god
of wealth."
"Why are we here?" Angelaria asks.
Braedir shrugs, "I wasn't born yesterday, princess. We're here so you
can sign a contract of Moh-Dehl. I don't trust you, quite frankly, and this
will assure that I get all my money back and then some from this 'favor'
I'm doing for you."
"I'm not signing anything," Angelaria states. "I insist you stick to
our agenda."
"I will, princess," Braedir says, inspecting his fingers, "once the
contract is signed. And you WILL sign it. Here's why: we need Talen to
follow your slave inside the Bathhouse of Oiled Flesh to assist with the
sale to Leto. You've given him so much Eros that he's almost a
dullard. Witches are not allowed in, and invisibility is not something
sorcerers can cast. Invisibility is exclusively a spell for the gold eyes
of Moh-Dehl, and as you know, they do not share power. The guards for the
Bathhouse of Oiled Flesh are Timeron squires, which is another reason to
have your man gussied up like he is. They'll let one of their own through,
but not you, and not me."
"I-I could use magic to put them to sleep..."
"No, you can't," Braedir says. "Even Timeron squires have the ability
to recognize a spellcaster on sight. They're accompanied by shadow demon
vultures possessing an all-seeing eye. And let's not even count that
demons are immune to your sorcery and transfer this to their charges."
"Why can Talen get in?"
"Because, dear lady...Talen's skinny, good-looking, and a teenager
with all his body parts accounted for. Getting him in will be free, and I
like free. Some girls in my employ say he's 'dreamy.' Does that answer
your question? You do realize there's a reason he and your slave are
boyfriends, right? If Talen were straight, he could have any woman he
wants."
"He couldn't have me," she snorts, folding her arms.
"Aye but I bet he could at that, so you're a liar. Which is precisely
why I need you to sign the contract of Moh-Dehl. Be aware, princess, this
column is also surrounded by seven sacred champions of Moh-Dehl even as we
speak. They're immune to the spells of magicians. Only divine magic can
harm them. You would be cut to ribbons were you to try and use your
wizardry to harm me or anyone in my charge. And an invisible priest on that
wall there is ready to paralyze you with a divine spell by turning your
feet into solid gold. Let's see you try to escape while that magic is in
effect. Oh, princess, you WILL sign the contract, I assure you!"
"Bastard," she says. "I'll get even with you."
"Perhaps. But right now, all I want is a fair deal from a known
serpent. I assure you, the contract is a formality of our business
arrangement, to ensure that you uphold your end of the bargain. That's
all."
The crowd around me eases up a little as three women are led off
kicking and screaming to be sold on the stage. I hear some of them
commanding as much as a gold piece, but most get only a silver farthing
before the bidding generates no more interest.
Talen appears at my side and whispers, "Kian, I'm sorry I got you
into this. Please forgive me. I swear by Tethyr himself I'll right this
wrong." He looks to either side to make sure no one can hear his
words. "I'm working on a way out of this right now for the both of us. If
you see me playing along, that's all that is. But you've to play along
too. Our situation is very dangerous." His eyes are darting everywhere;
sweat drips from his nose and chin. "I'm so stupid. I was jealous of the
attention you gave her. I wanted to say 'fuck you,' and I thought if I made
something of my life, I could live without you." He starts to cry.
Another tremor shakes the ground and my eyes look to the angry
mountain in sunset.
"But now I know I don't want that. I had these dreams of ruling my
own guild or being master over several guilds. I saw a future where I'd
never hunger and have more gold than I could possibly handle, but it means
nothing if you aren't there with me. I've been so resentful that you seemed
to take me for granted...that I seemed nothing more than a fuck buddy. It
was a slap to the face that I might lose you to a girl. Angelaria pointed
that out, see? That I was losing you...and that it was just a matter of
time." Talen takes a moment to wipe his eyes. "She's insidious, and I-I've
messed things up bad, I know. J-just give me time...trust me."
I stare at him, and somehow I comprehend most of his words. I know
I'll even remember them. I hug him and say, "I love you. I trust
you. Yellow eyes says to trust you."
He looks at me with a questioning expression? "Yellow eyes? What's
yellow eyes?"
"God," I say.
"Tethyr's speaking to you?" he queries, wiping his nose. "You're
hallucinating, Kian. It's the Eros."
I shake my head. "Not hallucinating. God says you'll do the right
thing; that I need to trust you."
"What else does He say?"
I think and recall the warning. "Please don't hurt yourself tonight,
Talen."
"Why would I hurt myself?"
"You'll see something, I think...it's so foggy. Something that'll
make you want to take your own life. P-please don't. I love you so much," I
tell him.
Talen looks horrified; it's not the reaction I expect. "What am I
going to see, Kian?"
But I don't answer him. I honestly don't know.
One of the slave dogs with black fur makes its way toward me and
sniffs at my crotch, pawing, and barking. I drop down and stroke his head,
and the dog immediately calms. A moment later, it starts to lick the
outside of my visor.
"Nice doggy," I say.
Only then do I see it has yellow eyes. None of the other dogs
do...just this one.
Famesa gets sold. I watch her being led off and realize she has amber
eyes.
Amber is yellow. Was Famesa Tethyr?
A huge albino man walks through the crowd toward me. He stands
slightly over seven feet tall. The giant's boots are made from heavy bronze
metal and rise to mid-calf. They're strapped with tight leather cords and
covered in small hooks. He's got a bare chest and bare legs. His thighs are
as wide as tree trunks; pure corded muscle. I rise and come only to the
middle of a chest as big around as a large ale keg. He looks mighty enough
to uproot trees with his hands; he could probably split coconuts in the
crook of his arm.
"Tethyr's teeth," I say, craning my head to stare at his enormous
melon.
His shoulders are protected by leather pauldrons tied to his chest by
several belts; he wears shorts made from dangling strips of leather,
fashioned like a gladiator's kilt.
But I wish I never looked him in the face.
Hideous, monstrous, ugly...no words do it justice.
The albino's eyes are so far apart; his head looks split in
two. One's an inch above the other, crowned by a misshapen and dreadful
forehead. He's got a squat, fat nose streaming boogers down over his
lips. He has a huge mouth with only two teeth in it and he grunts and
squeals with his fat pink tongue dangling like a plump worm shiny with
mucous. Inside my helmet, my jaw drops because he looks so incredibly dull,
so horribly thoughtless that his pink eyes don't even glisten with a spark
of intelligence. And he smells awful, as if his body has never been touched
by a sponge or soap. It's the scent of old sweat, urine, and feces.
He squeals again and raises mitts with fingers the size of boiled
Alphatian sausages.
Talen steps between us and tries to thrust him back from me. "Leave!
And take your dog too."
"Why does the knight stand amidst the slaves?" a deep male voice
queries from atop the giant's shoulders.
I look again and see there's a saddle attached to the leather
pauldrons worn by this huge retard. I spy a small man seated there. His
large head is disproportionate to his short fat limbs. He slaps the albino
unceremoniously on his enormous, deformed head.
"Stop, Piggy!" the dwarf yells. "He isn't wearing the gold collar."
"He's not a slave," Talen states. "He's a knight."
Around me, I hear women screaming. I look only to see men raping
their purchases. They grab breasts and finger holes: some are already
getting fucked by warriors who don't bother to buy lube. In fact, they
don't even take off their armor. One girl looks barely thirteen, if
that. They lean these slaves up against a barrel, a wagon, or even their
horse, and rip the mist silk away from their privates and plunge their
hairy, filthy dicks into pussies too small and unready for such intrusion.
No one comes to their aid. A vendor walks amidst the orgy taking
place and sells beer or other drugs from a wagon. I know this is wrong, but
when I concentrate, I'm distracted by visions of pink fairies sprinkling
dust over my shoulders. It makes me smile.
"Look Talen," I say, "pixies are here..."
The midget on the big man's shoulders looks on in silence, scratching
his head.
A bag containing the gold and silver made at the auction is slowly
collected by some of the female guards to be delivered to Braedir.
The dog, unable to reach my helmet, starts licking the chainmail
cupping my sweaty sack.
"Stop it," I say, cheeks growing hot with embarrassment.
"He likes what he smells there," the dwarf observes. Then he
addresses Talen. "I've got good money. I've a fetish for armored men, and
I've not seen someone who's the exact height I like and has this narrow
body style and obviously fine bone structure."
Braedir snaps his fingers and two women with spears force Piggy and
the little man atop his shoulders back into the crowd. "He's not for sale,"
the king adds. "You insult a good knight."
I stand proudly with my chest out.
"Pahhh!" the midget says, pointing. "Knights are gifted spurs; he
wears none on his boots. You're a deceiver, king. I'll give you a thousand
gold for him right now."
Talen glances back at me, clearly worried.
Men with paddles show up and strike Piggy and he squeals in
fright. The midget howls. "Stop it! Stop it! We'll leave, then. We won't
forget this Braedir! May Chagidiel turn you into a woman and cover your
body in diseased cunts!"
"Who's that?" Angelaria asks. "What a repulsive man. I could smell
his unwashed body from here."
Braedir chuckles. "The midget or the giant?"
"Both," she answers.
"The dwarf is Maven. The giant, as you heard, is called Piggy. He's a
mute with little to no human intelligence. Piggy's the offspring that
results from the union of a human woman by a forest ogre, in case you
wondered how that would ever turn out. Maven's a foul-mouthed piece of shit
with twisted legs and hobbled feet. He's so ugly his own father, a rich
merchant prince by the name of Ja-Mir, tried to smother him when he was
born."
"Ja-Mir has a bastard dwarf as a child?" She couldn't stop her
laughter.
"Yes. Though many of the warriors and curs that visit the slave
market daily are in search of women, Maven always buys slaves who end up
dead within a week. I think he likes to give them to Bull to breed while he
watches...Bull being Piggy's twin brother. Piggy loves to kiss and when he
does, the one who's on the receiving end of all that slobber almost drowns
in it. And Bull fucks anything Maven gives him. Both of them never say a
word, and Bull's so strong, no human can hope to fight back. Bull IS
slightly smarter than Piggy though. He can understand about a hundred
words. Maven takes care of them and they in turn carry Maven around and
break the necks of anyone who insults Maven. He's quite wealthy, and gives
the lion's share of his riches to the church of Chagidiel, the god of
perverted sexuality and cannibalism. His house has suits of armor on
display...he collects them...and he's wanted a suit of Timeron Knight armor
for a while, but there are dangers to this kind of desire. He in particular
wants the one Kian is wearing as a display piece because that particular
suit was created by the church of the goddess of beauty."
"Oh really?" Angelaria asks. "Do tell...there must be a story behind
that."
"There is," Braedir says. "I suppose we have time to wait while more
gold is collected from the sale of my property. The goddess of beauty,
Eilustrial, holds a contest to declare the most beautiful male athlete in
all the world once every ten years in her patron city of Passion's
Cove. One year a Timeron Knight and a Valion Knight (two orders that hate
each other) competed for the honor amongst thousands. Stripped naked, they
tied every game, but were not chosen. In fact, no winner was chosen at
all. When they asked why, Eilustrial said that only men who won all the
events and who had perfect physical proportions could be declared the most
beautiful male athlete. When they asked what the proportions should be, she
used her powerful magic to transform both the Timeron Knight's suit of
armor, and the Valion Knights suit of armor, to reflect them. THAT
miraculous piece, princess, is the one Kian now wears. Keep in mind, that
no one has ever been able to don it since it was altered over a thousand
years ago."
"You've got to be kidding," she says.
"No...I'm not. The armor was never returned to the Church of the
Queen of Demons...the insignia is on one side. When Passion's Cove got
sacked by a pirate attack five hundred years ago, the armor
disappeared. I've owned it for some time now, wondering if I should sell it
to Maven. When your request came in many days ago via your spells, I knew
I'd have to see if your man could fit into it. And he does...that's quite
extraordinary...but so is his appearance."
Angelaria frowns.
"What? Having second thoughts about sterilizing what may be the most
handsome man alive?"
"Absolutely not. I-I mean I thought Kian pretty but to pass standards
set by the goddess of beauty herself is ridiculous. You're lying to me,
Braedir, and that's a dangerous pastime."
"I assure you, I'm not," Braedir counters. "The facts are true,
whether or not you choose to believe them." He pauses to take a bag of
coins. "I think we're ready to see about this contract."
Now light of twenty men and women, we proceed forward. No one seems
to mind that Talen has taken up station at my side, and I extend my
gauntlet to take his hand in my own. It feels good to hold his hand, but
Talen looks anxious.
And the black dog that licked my crotch and helmet follows along the
side, making its way through a crowd occupied with the buying and selling
of slaves. "Yellow eyes," I whisper gazing at him. Then I send yet another
prayer to Tethyr, and I hope he's listening.
The dog barks at me and almost seems to smile.
I look to Talen who's busy wiggling his fingers to someone in the
crowd.
Two thin men with shiny black cassocks nod and then vanish into the
throng of people gathered before the church of Moh-Dehl.
What's he doing?
The gates in front of us open. I'm marched inside to a much quieter
courtyard. It's dominated by a statue of a platinum fat man standing in the
middle of a fountain. From an oval mouth spews forth crystal clear water
flecked with gold. He's so tall I have to crane my neck to see the top of
his bald pate. Everything in sight is sheathed in marble or expensive lapis
lazuli tiles. The stones of the courtyard itself are meticulously clean,
even with seven regal Clydesdale warhorses sporting ferocious battle armor
and well-worn leather saddles. Each is decorated with a fine black
caparison, noble houses displayed in bold color. I see fine stirrups of
black steel and manes so glossy and long, they could only belong to a
noble.
I pause for a second to marvel at how pretty they are. Why does their
barding have the regalia of my armor on it? Does one belong to me? I start
feeling excited; I would proudly mount such a steed. I imagine flowers
decorating my path, thrown from baskets held by girls who celebrate my
return from war, and my chest puffs out just a little more.
The entire courtyard is beyond grandeur, with frescoes and paintings
of such color that the world pales in comparison. Peacocks walk amidst
statues, and cups of jewels glimmer in the sunlight. Talen's eyes sparkle
and I squeeze his hand to restrain him when he tries to go and inspect one
of the many chalices.
However, there are some sights that instill horror once I realize
what they are.
In velvet draped alcoves covered by crystal clear glass, there are
young girls seated on cushions, their legs spread to show the velvety
smallness of their tiny vaginas with hymen still intact. They are perfect,
with breasts no larger than a wine glass, and eyes that never blink. Even
the skin looks slightly moist and sweaty, as if ready to breed. The
slightness of their waists, the hint of ribs, shows not an ounce of
unnecessary fat has been allowed. Each finger and toe is a perfect length
and their hair flows in fullness to the middle of their back, cascading
about the shoulders as if blown there by a phantom wind. Some look on the
verge of laughter.
The horror comes when I realize that these are the skins of several
young girls stuffed and put on display. By the looks of the silky flesh,
the girls died in the prime of their lives. Whoever made these dolls from
their skin has skill beyond anything I could possibly imagine.
I wonder how this happened. How much does it cost? A lot apparently
if they are here on display in a church of the god of wealth. Their deaths
could not have been accidental.
"What's the meaning of these horses, Braedir?" Angelaria asks hotly.
The palanquin holding the king settles on the ground followed in turn
by hers. He emerges with an oily look on his face. "All in good time,
princess. All will be explained inside."
"I don't like this at all!" Talen yells. "Those are Timeron Knight
horses...seven of them by my count. Where are their riders?"
"I was worried," Braedir says with a smug tone. "I thought you too
stupid to count but maybe you used your fingers. Yes, there are
seven. Relax, they're not here doing business for their church. They're
conducting business with the gold eyes. And with me."
"What kind of business?" Angelaria asks.
Ahead of us, doors open to the palatial hall that leads to the inside
of the church. I'm so busy watching figures approach us from inside, that I
don't hear the gatehouse close at my rear. It makes a resounding boom, like
the sound of a tomb sealing shut forever.
My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my mouth. I've never
felt this anxious before, and I think I'm siphoning it from Talen. He looks
so worried, so I should be too.
The king gestures for us to follow. With little or no choice and
surrounded by a contingent of Braedir's female knights, the four of us
sally forth to meet these men. Angelaria looks nervous, and it makes me
afraid. She's always been so calm before. However, Talen's in an absolute
panic.
As we step into the shadows, I find the coolness soothing. I see
seven Timeron knights in resplendent if not dirty armor. They walk next to
a floating fat man with gold coins dangling in front of his face. One of
the men is in intense negotiation while the others listen. They all have
spurs and swords and have tabards that are torn in some spots because
they've seen battle. These men wear their visors lifted, revealing the most
stern and handsome faces I've ever seen. Each is defined by high
cheekbones, sinew, and eyes so deep they're overshadowed by aristocratic
brows and prominent noses. The flesh on each is impeccable, the teeth white
and gleaming, and their jaws strong. Most are clean shaven, one has a
well-trimmed mustache. He has incredible emerald green eyes that speak of
intelligence I can barely comprehend. Their waists are narrow and tapered;
they stand on average about six-foot four, but despite this height, each is
well-made and quite a few have colossal manly feet. They walk loudly, as if
there's not a care in the world that someone could hear them
approaching. Stomp, jingle, stomp, jingle goes the rhythm of their gait
with the clink of their spurs.
As for the priest, well his rolls of suet overflow his fabulous
garments covered in grotesque amounts of jewels. He has a ring on every
chubby finger; gold and emeralds are sewn through his beard.
His feet are round, wrapped in fine silk, and his toes sit atop them
like thin-skinned grapes.
The doors to the church clang. Almost instantly, Talen is apprehended
by the female knights and hurled to the floor in front of the floating
priest. The knight with the emerald green peepers, steps forward, black
cloak swirling about the floor, and puts his leather boot on Talen's
shoulder. It's covered in drying mud as is most of his armor. I know he's
mortal, but he has the presence of a demigod.
"Is this the little thief that worships the god of thieves?" he
asks. Beautiful black hair hangs from his head. It catches the light
perfectly and is exactly the proper length to frame his elegant face. A
strange shadow plays along the ground and for a second, I think I see a
pair of eyes looking at me.
Talen spits. "What's it to you? What care you of the god who hears my
prayers?"
He laughs and kicks Talen in the side. I step forward but am cut off
by spears that lower to bar my progress.
"Address me as Ser Chezbernon," he states. "I'm a Darkglory of the
Queen of Demons. Are you unaware that Timeron knights have an enmity with
all followers of Tethyr and are required to kill them on sight?"
Talen whimpers, and then shakes his head no.
Another knight steps forward and motions the ladies to move their
spears aside. This boy can be no older than 22, and he has mysterious
violet eyes and creamy unblemished skin. His pupils occasionally light up
with lightning bolts. Red hair so fine it looks like threads of silk fall
against his sweaty forehead. And his features are bold and chiseled,
featuring a most aquiline nose above a set of perfect pink lips.
The sight of him is breathtaking.
"Incredible," he says. "Is this the assassin? This...it's the
legendary armor. Isn't it said no one can wear it?"
"You know your history," Braedir remarks.
The knight smiles; Angelaria asks, "Assassin for what?"
"Why...to kill Calisto of course," Ser Chezbernon states. "Which will
make me general of the armies of Meron. A fine reason not to kill both lads
right here and now, don't you think? Let's just hope that this one," he
says pointing at me, "is up to the task. Or I'll feast on more than the
steaks cut from your skinless beauty queens tonight."
*****
I shall post Chapter 25 next week