He attempted to sound out the words burned onto the leather cover. “C-coi-tu-s, Coitus…Mm-a-g-mag-nificenzuhhh…”
Giving up on the strange, foreign words, he opened it to the middle and found drawings of men and women not wearing any clothing, intertwining with each other. Suddenly hot and clammy, he flipped several pages until he found a drawing of what she had done to him with her mouth an hour ago.
Dropping the book with a grimace, he turned to the bedframe and tried the post. It wobbled. He yanked on it, tugging it out of the joint which connected it to the crossbeams with the ropes threaded through. He braced his foot on the crossbeam at the foot of the bed.
Crack-crick! The more he pulled, the more it cracked and the looser it became. Crack! He fell backward on the last jerk with a broken bed post in his hand. Its thickness required two hands wrapped around it.
He practiced a few heavy and awkward swings. It would have to do since it was the only weapon this room offered. He returned to the bag to stuff the largest oil bottle into the fold of his tied shirt and went out the door. Trying to remember which turns they had taken on the way to his new room, he traversed back through the halls.
A man stepped around the corner wearing a threadbare red mantle. “What are you—?”
Dorhen bashed his head with the wooden post and rushed forward. Not looking back to inspect his work, he flew down a set of stairs he remembered walking up…unless it was the opposite stairs they’d taken.
The house stretched on before him. Fancy carved panels lined the walls, though aged and damaged. Some were stained black as if this place had caught fire years ago. The wicked burn stains sent a cold shiver through him and emerged through his pores as misty sweat on his palms and sides. The smell of his house burning with his mother inside returned to his nose after all those years. With an increase of his heartrate, he rushed on.
The corridor wound around for a long way, offering many doors. A sculpted wooden archway announced a curling stairway descending again. That…might be right. As long as he could find the ground floor, he could find a way out. Although climbing out a second story window wasn’t a bad idea either…
“The elf is out!” someone cried.
From the dining hall, a handful of scowling men dashed out, red robes flowing around their feet. One pointed a finger, and the other three drew long, glinting daggers.
“What are you doing, new brother?”
“I’m leaving!”
The nearest one with a long dagger charged, but Dorhen kept his eye on the others.
Whoosh! He swiped his club wide across the others after side-stepping the first dagger-wielder. The three men tumbled and climbed to their feet again, none of them injured.
Dorhen sprang backward and ran the way he had come, managing to disappear into a complex of corridors branching off from the central hall. He found a dark room with a desk holding potent, inky bottles and quills. No windows, though. He ducked behind an ornate bench against the wall.
Voices were rising, alerting all the manor residents to his violence. “Get the hookah!”
Not the flower smoke! He couldn’t let them use it to daze him again.
As he watched the doorway from his hiding place, a candle glow rushed past with a group of men. As their voices faded, Dorhen took the chance to slip out behind them. He couldn’t hide in one place forever, or they’d eventually find him in a thorough search.
Hoisting his club, he exited the room and sprinted down the hall; his soft leather shoes aided in running quietly. He navigated a set of dark, winding corridors with the help of the moonlight shining through windows.
Another set of voices approached from behind. Throwing his free hand into his shirt, he fished for the oil bottle, which had made its way around to his back. Pulling the cork with his teeth, he dumped the bottle’s contents onto the floor and darted through the nearest door.
A woman shrieked, startling him in the dark.
“Please don’t,” the woman said. Dorhen squinted until his eyes adjusted to the room’s dimmer lighting. “I recently pleased one of you. I need time before I can do it again.”
It didn’t take long for the angry footsteps to echo in the hall on the other side of the door. Dorhen put his finger to his lips, hoping she could see it, and shushed her.
She whimpered. “I’ve been here a wretched two weeks. I can’t—”
He lurched forward and jumped onto the bed where she sat nestled into its sagging straw mattress, then snatched her, causing her to yelp until he put his hand over her mouth. The voices in the hall were too close now. He shushed her again. Silent sobs rattled her in his arms.
“Shut up,” he whispered. It didn’t help, and he was forced to squeeze her tighter. She was naked under the sheet bunched around her middle. He’d apologize later.
The voices and footsteps herded in beside their door, and some angry grunts and yelling erupted when they slipped on the oil pool he’d made. Their odd sounds made the naked woman quiet herself, though she hiccupped in his embrace.
At the highest point in their noisy crescendo, Dorhen released the woman, pushing her aside and leaping off the bed and out the door. He left the door open because her crying might provide more distraction.
Vaulting over a man who cursed and collected himself from his hands and knees, he sprinted past some other stunned men, who were wiping their oily hands on their handkerchiefs and dusting off their soiled red garments. He headed through the corridor in the opposite direction.
“Hey!” a voice yelled behind him. “Was that him? Little bastard!”
Groaning at his bad idea, Dorhen ran on, around the curving corridor and down a few gently sloping landings with carved steps.
Without a moment to think, he took the first available door, a warm door with a soft glow. A kitchen. Large pots boiled, letting off cabbage-scented steam. A haunch of meat steamed on the stone slab, ready for carving.
A woman gasped at his intrusion. Selka!
“What are you doing?” she shrieked.
Dorhen shushed her and ducked beside her, behind the central hearth with the largest cauldron.
“I don’t believe this.”
Kneeling beside her, he took her tiny, graceful hand and kissed it. “Please,” he whispered. “Help me. Help me.”
She studied his expression. He kissed her fingertips. “Please.”
The voices echoed through the corridor toward this room, and Dorhen shut his voice off, using his eyes instead to win any kind of support he could from this woman. This woman whom he didn’t know, but had already shared such a deeply intimate moment with. Her lips pouted. He only needed her to tell the men she hadn’t seen him.
Footsteps tapped outside the door. Dorhen shook his head slowly at her, his mouth opened to form the word please. He caressed her palm with his thumb. The door hinges whined open.
She screamed and pulled her hand away. “Aiiih! He’s got me! He’s attacking me! Help! He’s bewitching me with elven magic!”
She ran across the room and covered her face. The men stormed forward and seized Dorhen, tossing his club aside. As they dragged him out, he locked his eyes with Selka. Her face rebounded from her fake fear, now showing blankness.
They dragged him through the tallest set of doors he’d seen yet, into a large hall where people smoked and murmured by a roaring fireplace. At the center back of the room, an array of red velvet and shimmering gold draperies spilled from the ceiling and pooled on the floor behind a chair where a crowned figure lounged with one knee up.
“Hello, Dorhen. You’re early. Did you have a good lay already?”
It was Lamrhath. He didn’t bother to turn his eyes; instead he kept them focused on a man standing in front of a wooden rectangular panel, smearing pasty colors on its surface to make Lamrhath’s image. Lamrhath kept still, posing one hand on his bare abdomen and the other on the side of his face.
“How did Selka do? She’s the best chamber mistress in this outpost, you know. Only
the best for my little heir.”
The men let go of his arms, and Dorhen stood on his own. He stepped forward. “I want to leave.”
Lamrhath turned his eyes to Dorhen. “Why?”
“You took me against my will. I don’t belong here. I live in the forest.”
“Excuse me. You interfered with our official business.”
“What official business? You attacked young girls!”
Lamrhath dropped the rest of his pose, and the man with the brush and colors exhaled and sat on a stool beside his panel.
“If you weren’t exactly who you are, you’d be dead right now, you follow?” Lamrhath leaned forward. “Those girls were promised to us, and we merely arrived to collect our dues. But you showed up—a bizarre surprise—and killed three valuable people. You deserve a slow death.”
Dorhen swallowed and stepped back again.
“But you happen to be the famous Dorhen! Dorhen! Dorhen! A name I hear daily! Dorhen! I have plans for you, Dorhen! You’re alive because of your name. I have a great reward set aside, Dorhen! If you want it, you’ll follow orders. If I send you out for sage, you’ll bring it. If I send you out for gold, you’ll bring it. You’ll say the chants I ask you to say. You’ll cast the spells I assign you. You’ll fuck whom I ask you to fuck! You’re on a road to great things, and all you must do is obey!”
He leaned back again and continued the glare. Dorhen had always assumed he had no family, but this was his uncle. For an uncle who’d promised him rewards and greatness, he displayed an awful lot of hatred.
“How have you heard my name so many times?”
Lamrhath curled his lip into a sneer. “And there he goes, asking questions.”
A fist hooked around and punched Dorhen’s stomach. He curled over and fell to a kneeling position, determined to keep upright.
“I’ve been kind to you. You’re my kin. I welcomed you. I promised you a reward when we go home. I also sent my best chamber mistress to your room. And you want to leave?” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I thought you’d be thrilled. You lived in the dirt before I brought you here. We work hard, but we also enjoy luxury, as you can see. I can’t believe you’d be so rude to your loving uncle.”
Dorhen clenched his teeth and shook his head, trembling as he returned to standing straight.
“This is awkward… Dorhen, we have a policy. Well, it’s a program actually. Sometimes we get recruits who don’t quite know how things work. So we put them through the program to help them learn. Normally, these recruits go on to be servicemen, but you’re still my heir, rest assured. You’ll be kingsorcerer one day. Do you understand the meaning of this?”
Dorhen kept silent.
“We’re making progress. Our faction, Ilbith, will own the Darklands soon, and we’re easing our way into the Lightlands to better gather their available resources in gold. As kingsorcerer, I’ll be the most powerful person on the continent, and if I should die, you’ll take my place. Don’t you want that?”
He worked his response out, determined to stay strong. “No.”
“See?” Lamrhath threw a hand out. “This is what the program is designed for.” He waved a pointed finger across the room. “Put him through the program. Oh, but first he must be officially initiated. Let him take the test, and then give him the sacred mark.”
The men grabbed Dorhen again and wrestled him, limbs thrashing, toward a table. A man opened a splintery wardrobe, mismatched with some of the cushioned and gilded items in the room, and brought out a small iron cauldron with a linen cloth bound around the rim. Untying the twine and removing the cloth allowed a rancid smell to waft out of the cauldron and churn Dorhen’s stomach.
Lamrhath descended his throne and approached the table. “This’ll be interesting,” he said. “We give this test to many people to find out how they can be of use to our establishment.”
Dorhen wanted to ask what was in the cauldron, but he couldn’t force any words through the nausea. His answer was provided by the liquid’s dark red color, which showed as they poured some into a smaller stone bowl. The stink churned and spread farther during the pour. Dorhen covered his face and turned away, heaving. Nothing came out, but that could change.
“Pay attention,” Lamrhath said, stepping closer. Another sorcerer grabbed Dorhen’s hand and held it over the table. “We call this the Sacred Wine of the Hound. It’s made from a mixture of animal and human blood, and blessed by Naerezek in our rituals. Naerezek teaches that everyone has a place in society, and they must all be sorted. We use this sacred potion to see your worth, and in some cases, your potential magical ability. Many a valuable new sorcerer can be discovered this way.
“Now, Dorhen”—his voice lowered to a hiss, his eyes bright—“put your hand in the blood.”
Shaking his head, Dorhen pulled away. The sorcerer holding his hand jerked it forward again. Other sorcerers joined in to control his arm. It stank like death, like sour meat in the sun! If he touched it, he’d throw up.
He held his breath, growing sluggish as they fought against his muscles. His hand drew closer. He could barely see the bowl anymore as they pushed forward to dip his hand in.
“Stop struggling!” Lamrhath said.
A thick, slimy liquid splashed out and engulfed his hand. They’d won. Holding his hand in place, they all stared as the blood suddenly moved. Bubbles. Hundreds of small orbs rose and popped at the surface, churning up more of the noxious smell.
Lamrhath’s mouth dropped open as he stared hard at the ever-rising bubbles, as if the blood were boiling. “Is it not hot?”
It wasn’t hot, but Dorhen couldn’t answer either way. He held his mouth with his other hand. Even the texture, sliding and squishing against his immersed hand, pushed him closer to illness.
“I’ve never seen it do this before in my life.” Lamrhath’s eyes shot to Dorhen. “Let him go.”
They finally released Dorhen and he fell backward with his own force of resistance. On the floor, he hastily wiped his hand on his leggings. The smell didn’t let up.
“What type of magic do you know?” Lamrhath asked, coming to stand over him.
“N-n-none!” Dorhen responded, still trying to wipe the stench off his skin.
“Tell me now, and I’ll consider letting you take a bath. You can change into fresh clothes too.”
As tempting as that sounded, he couldn’t produce an answer that would please his uncle. “I don’t know any magic.” Gagging and choking on hopeless grief, he tucked his smelly hand under his arm and leaned forward. Now the stink was trapped in the fibers of his leggings. “I don’t have magic. I don’t.”
Lamrhath’s lips drew thin and his eyes narrowed. “All right. There’s a possibility that some rare talent dwelling inside you, dormant for now, was detected by the blood potion. You’re more valuable to me now than you’ve ever been, my little heir. We’ll work with you to discover your secret. As you’ve been learning, cooperation earns rewards. All you must do is listen and obey. Can you do that?”
Dorhen didn’t answer. Of course he wouldn’t cooperate—he had to get out of here and find Kalea. He gasped and buried his nose in his sleeve.
Lamrhath grunted at him. “Oh, grow a pair. You’ll get used to the smell of the potion. In fact, you’ll be administering it to others in time.”
He turned to the other sorcerers. “He needs full initiation. Now give him the mark.”
The sorcerers seized him again and dragged him to the opposite side of the room where the fireplace blazed. They clamped a set of cold shackles around his wrists.
“To minimize your struggling,” the stoutest sorcerer with a deep voice said.
Dorhen fought and kicked and wriggled anyway, until they grabbed his feet and carried him closer to the roaring fireplace. The heat baked his skin a long way before they stopped.
A man put a long iron pole into the flames.
“If ya don’t stop kicking, we’ll put the mask on ya,” the man holding his feet said.
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Someone laid out a wide plank and they placed him on it, stretching his bound wrists above his head and securing the chain on a hook at the far end. Other men tied his feet together and fixed them over a hook at the opposite side. Fastened down to the board, stretched out, he was helpless. The man standing over him drew a long, shiny dagger like he’d seen earlier; the flames reflected off its polished surface.
His nightmare was coming true. They were going to cut his heart out! Dorhen lost control of his breathing. He might’ve been crying. He might’ve wailed. But the intense heat dominated his awareness like the inside of a kiln. Burning, the way his mother had burned in their flaming house.
This was supposed to happen. This was how he’d die. He had never been meant to live like normal people, to live in peace beside Kalea as her protector and provider. She’d told him there was a hole in his heart. She hadn’t known how right she was.
The man with the dagger balled Dorhen’s shirt in his fist and sliced through it. Dorhen tensed up. He clenched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. He knew precisely how much this would hurt. He began to hyperventilate.
No blade touched his skin. He opened one eye, unwilling to see it happening, but the anticipation would kill him if he didn’t.
The man with the dagger stood again and sheathed it after only cutting open Dorhen’s shirt, exposing his entire naked torso. For an instant, relief graced him, although the fire’s heat seared, causing his skin to bead over with sweat.
To his right, a man kneeling at the hearth stood up, holding an iron pole with thick gloves. The end of the pole glowed bright orange. Another man kneeling at his left chanted monotone words in another language. He dipped his hand into a small bowl and brought them out glistening with amber oil in the light.
He put his oily fingers at the base of Dorhen’s ribs, where the witches always cut in his dream. They still meant to cut him open! Dorhen wriggled frantically. The man continued his chant and drew a pattern on his chest with the oil.
The man with the hot iron stood over him, and Dorhen screamed, “No!”
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