by J. C. Owens
The Emperor’s Wolf
J. C. Owens
The Emperor’s Wolf
Copyright © October 2010 by J. C. Owens
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eISBN 978-1-60737-875-4
Editor: Mary Harper
Cover Artist: Anne Cain
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Chapter One
Black sat in the sunlit corner window of the harem common room, the scrollwork bars on the windows casting curved shadows across the page of the book he was reading. This was his special place, apart from the rest of his mistress’s slaves. The other men sat or lounged about the large, ornately decorated room, conversing, napping, gaming—anything to pass the time until the mistress’s next summons.
As one of the men’s exchanges grew particularly heated, Black looked up from his book. He glanced at the harem doors and saw the guards outside open a smaller panel in one of the doors to look in and see what the commotion was about. They would interfere with nothing as long as no one was injured enough to impair their efficiency. The pecking order of the harem was of little consequence in the scheme of things.
Black had made it abundantly clear in the past that he had no interest in harem politics. He kept to himself. It was the best way to avoid confrontation and to stay both sane and alive. There could be no weakness here. The harem was not a place to display anything but strength. Strength kept Black from being the victim of his fellow slaves’ jealousies and bitterness, directed toward him because Black was the mistress’s favorite. It also kept him from being destroyed, consumed by the shadows of both his past and his present.
He felt a grim smile come and go. He was not afraid of anything his mistress, the guards, or his fellow slaves chose to do to him now. At times he had found himself longing for the sanctity of death, the release of what lay beyond this life, but the soldier in him and his duty to his sister wouldn’t let himself succumb to it. Though slavery had forced him to submit, in his heart he was still Jaden—not Black, as the mistress had chosen to call him—and he was still a fighter. Even they couldn’t take that away from him.
His thoughts scattered as the ornate doors opened and the guards thrust a boy of perhaps fifteen or so into the confines of the harem. The boy watched the guards close the doors with a heavy thud, then turned to face the room. He stood there shivering, arms wrapped around his thin torso in what looked to be a vain attempt at self-comfort. His gaze darted around the room before settling on the men at its center.
The hitch in the boy’s breathing was audible as one after another, all the men in the room turned to inspect this new addition. They sized him up, judging him as either prey or rival. He was beautiful, with curly blond hair and blue eyes, delicate in form.
Observing the scene unfold from his place in the corner, Black willed the boy to stand up straight and hold his ground. To show no fear. But it took only moments for the rest of the men to see prey. Warnar—the self-styled leader of the harem’s bullies—rose lazily from his little knot of admirers and sauntered toward the newcomer. A small, cruel smile spread across his handsome lips. The boy’s eyes widened in apprehension as the other man towered over him.
“What have we here?” Warnar asked. “A new bit of fluff for my collection?” He stepped aggressively close to the boy, grasped his chin, and tilted his face this way and that.
The boy stepped back, scowling, trying to cover his fear as others rose and came to join the fun. He tried to back up, but hands came down on his shoulders and held him fast. He broke into a cold sweat as he met Warnar’s gray eyes glinting with malice.
“My name is Warnar, little one. I look forward to hearing you use it, begging.” Black’s fingers gripped the book hard; he forced his gaze away from the scene unfolding and tried to focus on the words in front of him. He didn’t get involved in harem politics. It was none of his concern what happened to the boy—yet another innocent thrown to the wolves. Just like Yamina. Just like his little sister…
The sounds and odors of the slave market made Jaden want to retch. A base and primal smell of fear permeated the very air, and the sight of so many people milling about, staring and discussing the various slaves up for sale was truly terrifying to the young soldier. He held his sister, Yamina, closer, hiding her eyes against his chest.
To expose her to this travesty of human nature made the anger in him rise, but what use was anger in their situation?
“And what a pair we have here, my friends,” the auctioneer said from the stage. “Brother and sister. Young man, military background, fit and strong, handsome. Look at the exotic slant of those green-gold eyes, the luxurious color of that chestnut hair. Approximately twenty-three. The little girl is eight and has beautiful, golden hair, big blue eyes—fit for whatever you wish to make her. Do I hear twenty thousand lyrei for the two?”
When Jaden realized the auctioneer was referring to him and Yamina, he stiffened with anger, a snarl contorting his lips as he stared at the buyers who would dare look at his little sister. By the gods, nobody would touch her.
“Separate them. I only want the girl.” The male voice from the crowd was calm and strong, unfazed by his proposal.
Jaden tensed in disbelief even as Yamina let out a little cry and clung to him more tightly. The guards came forward, and Jaden prepared to fight, putting Yamina down and pushing her behind his body.
“Don’t be stupid, boy,” the first guard rumbled as more men came out from behind the curtain. “There is no place to go.”
Jaden gritted his teeth, trying to back toward a wall, but the guards knew better than that. They surrounded him, hemmed him in. When one of them leapt forward and grabbed Yamina, Jaden turned on him, and the others moved in.
Jaden got in a good number of punches, but it was five against one. He had no chance.
He could hear Yamina crying, sobbing his name. Even when the guards got him down, pinned to the floor, he continued to fight blindly, calling Yamina’s name.
When he managed to turn his head, he saw her being held toward the front of the wooden stage. The bidding began anew.
“No!” he cried in horror. This could not be happening, this could not… He felt the prick of a needle and thrashed harder, cursing them all as
he tried to hold back the helpless tears of anger and fear. The multitude of hands held Jaden firmly as whatever they injected him began to work. He watched helplessly as Yamina was sold, the sound of the auctioneer’s hammer ringing in his ears like a death knell.
As the guard picked her up and carried her away, her teary, fear-filled eyes fixed on Jaden. She held her arms outstretched…
Yamina.
“No.” Black’s voice rang out clear and strong. “Leave the child alone.” Dead silence fell over the harem. The men turned, and the boy’s eyes widened even farther.
“Stay out of this, Black.” Warner sneered. “This is no concern of yours.”
“Have you not got enough asses presented to you, Warnar? What in the hells do you need another one for? Leave him alone; he’s just a boy.” Black kept his voice smooth despite his rising anger. Though stepping into this situation was strongly against his better judgment, he couldn’t sit idly by and watch as Warnar and his followers destroyed what was left of the boy’s innocence.
The men seemed to freeze in place, indecisive as their leader’s face twisted in hatred. They were understandably cautious of Black; he was strong and had military training—a potentially lethal combination.
Warnar snarled. “Want him for yourself, do you, Black?”
Black’s expressionless eyes settled upon the boy, then the men. He raised an eyebrow and curled his lip in disgust. For long moments there was utter silence before Black rose with lithe grace, like a wild animal with its curiosity at last roused. The men seemed to melt away, all but the leader, who held his ground, a half snarl curling his lips though his body shook with tension.
Black but gave him a look, and he bristled but slowly and reluctantly gave way and stepped back to a safe distance. The boy shook, staring.
“What is your name?” Black questioned, no hint of emotion in his tone.
“Rem, sir,” the boy answered hesitantly, glancing from Black to the others, perhaps wondering if he had gone from one hell to another.
Black slowly circled Rem, soundless in his movements. The boy stared straight ahead, seeming to wonder frantically if he would have been better off with the others. At last Black stopped in front of the boy and stared down into his eyes. His stomach clenched at the innocence still evident there. Despite his intervention, Black knew that in the life of a slave, that innocence wouldn’t last nearly as long as it should. Rem blinked and stared back. A shiver racked the boy’s slender frame.
Black made a faint noise in his throat and stepped back, shrugging slightly as his mind shied away from additional harsh memories. “Your choice, boy. Come or stay. It makes no difference to me.” He turned his back then, and there was a hostile silence in the harem as he crossed back to his window.
Rem hesitated only a second before following in his new protector’s footsteps, nervously eyeing the other men. Black reseated himself while Rem hovered uncertainly, obviously waiting for the older man to indicate what he wanted.
Black frowned at him, an annoyed tilt of his eyebrows. “Sit, boy. Stop looking like a kicked puppy. No wonder you attract the wrong attention.” He picked up his book again.
Rem stared at him, then slowly sank down to sit on some cushions near enough to Black to be safe from the others yet far enough to stay out of the man’s personal space. After a few moments, Black felt more than saw the boy’s shaking slowly subside, then felt the boy’s gaze upon his face.
He cursed himself that he had gotten involved at all. He could hardly survive himself, much less protect an innocent. Memories of Yamina and of the past threatened to overtake his thoughts once again. Remnants of a dream that had died in his first year at the harem flickered. The dream that somewhere, after the past four years, Yamina still lived and was waiting for him to find her. Somewhere, far past any country he knew of, they would find freedom, a place where a man could give honest toil and build his own life with the strength of his hands and mind. Somewhere the ravages of war and slavery could not touch them.
Tears hovered just under his control, and he gritted his teeth. Taking a deep breath, he pushed both thoughts and tears aside. He glanced down and found Rem peering up at him. Setting his features in a stonelike mask, he looked away. There was no room for weakness in this life. The sooner the boy learned it, the better.
Later that evening, the mistress came to the harem. Immediately the men fell to their knees wherever they were. Rem followed suit, face pale. Black could feel the boy’s disbelief and nervousness as Black slowly put down his book and then—and only then—sank gracefully to sit upon his heels, eyes downcast.
Rem’s worried thoughts were clear upon his face. Surely Black would be punished.
The mistress walked through the harem, stroking a head here and there. For once, her face seemed relaxed, without the malicious dominance that often characterized her dealings with the harem. She came to sit down upon the cushions Black had just vacated and patted her leg. He came closer and laid his head upon her thigh. She sighed with pleasure and stroked his thick hair.
“My beautiful man,” she whispered, a great affection in her tone that surely would have surprised a great many who knew her. “You will attend me this night, my Black. I need you.” The deceptive softness gave way to steel as she looked at the others. “We have important guests, potential clients. You will all dress accordingly and present yourselves well.” Her hard stare scrutinized all of the harem slaves, and they bowed with heads to the floor as she preferred.
In his position of privilege, Black controlled his emotions, his abhorrence of her touch. There had never been a choice in the matter, and he had long since been taught his place. Although he seemed passive under his mistress’s hand, there was no compliance in the set of his expression; he stared into the distance, eyes cold and empty as he remembered all too well how he had come to be there, the first moment he had seen this woman from the slave pens, little knowing how she would change his life by taking away all that he thought strong in himself.
Even now the echoes from the past were so clear, so real… Black closed his eyes, fingers slowly unclenching, wishing he could block out the feel of his mistress’s fingers as she stroked his hair. The possessiveness in their touch made sickness rise in his throat. Once he had been free, a skilled soldier of Astoria, a loving brother; now he was less than a man, merely a body to be used.
* * *
The feast that night was long and raucous. Mistress Mailyn treated the visitors to all the hospitality and wealth she had at her fingertips. As the daughter of a wealthy warlord and the head of her own mercenary army, she had the means to woo allies for better trade in supplies, passage through disputed territory, and connections to those who would hire their services. Wine flowed freely, and by the middle of the evening, the partygoers had long since discarded their inhibitions.
Three men from the harem had been chosen for stud service to breed the guests’ servant women. Black was put on exhibition for the crowd’s entertainment; they had made arrangements for him and the woman they wanted him to mate on one of the tables.
Black was oblivious to it all. He felt the sweat running down his body from the smoke-filled heat of the vast hall, but his focus was on the woman on her hands and knees beneath him. He rutted strongly into her. His eyes shuttered as he ignored the guests running their hands over him and admiring his sleek form. At one time he would have fought this, would have felt shame, but that time was long lost. Now there was only obedience and the prize of self-satisfaction.
When he finally came, he let out the smallest of gasps, and his body froze for long moments. Then he withdrew from the woman, his shaft slick and glistening. Sliding down from the table, he knelt, head down, next to his mistress, his breath harsh and erratic.
Mailyn’s eyes were hot as she stroked his head, her own breath rapid from watching him. Then she took hold of his hair and guided him onto his knees under the table to tend to her needs. When she came, her eyes fluttered shut, and her breath came
out in a shuddering gasp, a soft cry of completion. She did not move for long moments, her body utterly relaxed, her breathing gradually slowing. Then she drew Black out to kneel beside her chair and resumed her conversation as she stroked his hair gently.
Black wished he had something to drink; not only was he truly thirsty, but he longed to wash the taste of her from his mouth. Hatred surged once again, then sullenly subsided under his usual numb acceptance. Long ago he had well learned that resistance meant pain—inescapable, agonizing, soul-destroying pain. Her early lessons, the brutality that had broken him to her touch, kept him tame enough for her liking. He still bore the scars of that in both mind and body. The beatings, starvation, isolation, the lash upon his back, and the contrast of her seemingly gentle touch afterward, repeated until his will had broken and he had accepted her touch rather than endure the consequences.
His mistress’s voice suddenly lost the pleasant casualness from moments before. “We have no choice, Sayra. Our assignment lies east; we must pass through Tranaden territory.”
The conversation over his head came to his full attention suddenly with the advent of that feared name: Tranaden. His body stiffened almost without his knowledge, so cruel was that name against his mind. Memory washed over him with harsh clarity.
Hatred coursed through Black’s mind as he remembered the cruelty of the Tranaden commander, his soldiers, and war machines as they had destroyed the capital city of Astoria—his home—and captured him.
Black’s fists clenched and unclenched. Then his thoughts veered away sharply. That line of thinking would lead to nothing but madness and served no purpose in his current situation. His attention veered back to the conversation at hand.
Sayra, his mistress’s second in command, answered sharply, deep concern in her tone, “You know he will take great tribute. We did not part on good terms after the last battle.”
Black could feel the tension in his mistress. Her fingers tightened cruelly in his hair for a moment until she recalled herself and loosened the touch. “He can be reasonable if he wishes. We will be careful in our dealings, regain his good will. He was not greedy in the tributes he asked for in the past.”