by A. C. Ellas
“Where was the last place you sensed
him?” Jisten asked. “I think he’s in the suite,” said Scorth, a little calmer with the Valer taking charge. He tried to keep up as the captain broke into a run.
Jisten threw open the door to Rak’s suite, then raced through the empty reception chamber and into the parlor.
Hueltar’s pants were open but not down, his hands gripping the hips of his hapless victim, a very bruised, battered, and bound Rak. Hips still pumping, he looked over his shoulder and sneered, “Wait yer turn, virgin, and we’ll show you how a real man uses a sex slave!”
Thaxor laughed from Rak’s head, where he was pumping in and out of Rak’s mouth vigorously. “A prime mare like this would be wasted on the virgin. Gods, I’ve never had a better screw or suck.”
“Ya got a point,” agreed Hueltar, just before he stiffened and grunted in climax.
Rak’s dependent orgasm spattered to the floor as Jisten ran Hueltar through. He used so much force that he slammed up against the man, and snarled in the dying man’s ear, “Never use the high priest so. Sacrilege can be deadly.” He twisted his sword. “Si’Yeni, I beseech thee to take this rapist’s soul.” The formal words in the Valer language flowed easily and a sunset flared in the room. It sent sharpened fingers into Hueltar and drew out his soul, twisting and screaming. Both the soul and the sunset disappeared.
Thaxor scrambled back as the slumping Hueltar’s blood sprayed the room. His enormous cock glistened with Rak’s saliva. “Murderer!” he roared. “You’ll pay for this!”
Jisten had to tug his sword out of the corpse, giving Thaxor plenty of time to draw his heavy double-handed broadsword. Thaxor’s broadsword smashed down. Jisten deflected the strokes because his slender saber hadn’t the strength to stop them.
Thaxor advanced like a tornado with a sword. Jisten was hard pressed to even deflect the blows and took several deep cuts. Scorth kicked Hueltar’s corpse into Thaxor’s path. Thaxor stumbled on the body and Jisten darted around to continue his attack.
Thaxor evaded Jisten’s attack, abruptly snatched up Hueltar’s body, and sprinted out the door.
Jisten held off pursuit in order to gather the limp Loftoni into his arms. “Are you okay?”
Rak stirred at the sound of Jisten’s voice. “J-Jisten?” he whispered. “I’m here,” Jisten told him as he untied Rak’s wrists. “Where are you hurt worst?”
Scorth brought Rak’s healing kit and mixed some morphea into the wine. He handed the goblet to Jisten, who pressed it to Rak’s lips. The priest swallowed convulsively and tried to open swollen, purpling eyes. “Did I please them? Is my punishment for trying to kill Murson over?”
“Let’s just check your injuries first. Just a precaution.” Jisten masked his rage as his large hands carefully explored Rak’s body, looking for serious wounds. “I don’t feel any sword or knife wounds. I prescribe a bath, a wing oiling, and food.”
Tebber ran in the door. “What happened?” he asked. He came closer and got a better look at Rak’s condition. He made a small noise in his throat, then he hung blood amulets everywhere, including on the captain.
Scorth patted Tebber’s shoulder. “Get the bath ready, lad.”
“I ache,” whispered Rak. “Then into the bath with you,” Jisten said. “Healing oils added to it.” He picked Rak up and rose to his feet without effort.
“Daxi,” Rak said softly, his shock and confusion plain to see. Tebber was drawing the bath when they entered.
“Thank you, Tebber. Would you lay out S’Rak’s sleeping robe now?”
“Of course, sir. I’ve put the oil by the massage bench.” “Thank you,” Jisten said. He added some oils to the bath after he’d eased Rak into the hot water. “Do you want me to wash you?”
“Please,” whispered Rak. He kept his head bowed, his eyes nearly swollen shut.
With gentle hands Jisten washed off the blood and probed for deeper injuries. He was relieved not to find anything. Rak was battered, yes, but it wasn’t anything night flames couldn’t deal with once the priest was able to call them. His sensitive fingers found the bruises on Rak’s wings and he scowled fiercely. “I’ll kill them all,” he promised. “No more abuse.”
“ Pol’åvhra, ix,” said Rak. “Please, no.” When Jisten gave him a questioning look, he whispered, “Whatever you try, he will take out on me.”
Jisten rinsed Rak with warm water because the Loftoni was shivering. “Now for the wings,” he said and helped Rak out of the bath. Rak’s wings immediately flapped, spraying water droplets everywhere. Jisten ignored the splatter as he swathed Rak in a pile of soft towels and tenderly patted him dry. “Are you able to call night flames yet?”
Rak’s face held a bemused expression as he called the flames. They responded, covering him from head to toe. Some of the excess leapt to Jisten, but they struggled and drowned in the blood of the deep cuts. The flames died down on Rak, leaving his skin whole and unblemished.
Rak suddenly turned and flung himself at Jisten. “Hold me.” Jisten wrapped his arms around the lapful of naked Loftoni and tried not to react. When the slender body finally stopped shaking, he murmured, “Let me oil your wings.”
“Daxi,” Rak whispered, and allowed Jisten to guide him to the massage bench. He lay down and Jisten draped a towel over him.
Jisten looked at the oil Tebber had laid out and shook his head. He pulled a vial from his pocket.
Rak spread his wings invitingly. Jisten turned his attention to the task. He missed no spot, and the oil was perfectly applied. Rak sighed softly in contentment when Jisten touched him, and he squirmed in pleasure when Jisten gently scratched the flakes from his wingbases.
Once the oiling was done, Rak stood up and walked carefully into the bedroom, Jisten at his elbow. The captain frowned at Rak’s careful motions, as if he was still hurt. Rak slipped into the simple sleeping robe and Jisten smoothed the wings through the slits without being asked. The priest smiled at him for his efforts until he saw the still gaping sword slices.
Rak pulled his kit off the table where Tebber had left it and dug out the suture case. “Sit,” he commanded.
“Yes, sir!” Jisten knew better than to argue. Blood needed to be stopped. Rak mixed morphea into a goblet of wine, handed it over, then threaded the first needle. Jisten raised the goblet to Rak with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “We know what this means.”
“That you have pain?” But Rak’s eyes were twinkling.
“That you’ll have a better partner.” Jisten drained the goblet quickly. Rak snorted. “You are always the better partner, sober or not.” He made short work of stitching the cuts, not really giving the drugged wine a chance to kick in before starting. When he finished the cuts he could see, he asked, “Are there more?”
Jisten obediently showed him. When Rak came close, Jisten kissed him. “Do we have time to take advantage of my condition?”
Rak nearly stabbed him with a curved needle, but managed to pull it away in time. “After I finish.” He doggedly finished suturing the last cut, but Jisten could see that he was in bad shape. His pale hands were trembling, there were dark circles under his eyes, and it seemed that will alone kept him on his feet.
“I take that back, S’Rak,” Jisten said. “You need food, and sleep.”
“I would not mind it,” said Rak softly. “You have needs, too.” Jisten traced Rak’s facial scar. “They are only wants, not needs. And right now, I want you to rest.”
“Sirs,” said Tebber’s head, peeking in the doorway, “I have laid out food in the parlor.”
“Excellent,” said Jisten. “He needs to eat, then sleep.” He had heard somewhere that even magical, Godgranted power took a priest’s own energy to call and direct.
Rak didn’t look so sure, but he walked into the parlor, sat down, and let Tebber fussily arrange the table and the contents to his liking. When the servant bowed, Rak said, “Thank you. Please, take the rest of the evening off.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll be in my room if you need anything. Scorth gave me a book to read, and I’m not sure he was joking about the quizzes.” The servant walked out and left Rak and Jisten alone.
Rak pushed the food around on the plate, not eating. He stared at the congealing juices of the roast as if the secrets of existence could be found in their swirls.
“You must be hungry,” Jisten tried, but Rak gestured negation and shifted his weight again. The captain’s sharp eyes saw the growing stain on the seat cushion. “You’re bleeding!”
Rak followed his gaze, blanched, then doubled over, shoving the unwanted meal away to crash on the floor.
Jisten stroked Rak’s back and wings. “What did the night flames miss?” “Flames,” gasped Rak, “only heal the surface.” He swayed, threatening collapse for all that he was sitting down.
“Let’s get you back into the bathroom,” Jisten decided. “We can wash the blood off and see where the wound is.” Rak moaned something that sounded like an agreement, so Jisten scooped him up and barged into the bedroom that lay between the parlor and the room he wanted.
Scorth held open the door to the bathroom, followed them in, and helped Jisten remove Rak’s robe. They placed Rak on the tiled floor so that they could reach him easily. Jisten filled a bowl with warm water, dipped a clean rag in it, and started washing the blood off of Rak’s legs.
Rak whimpered and tried to move away from Jisten’s touch, but Scorth’s large hands held him fast. The dragon’s presence calmed Rak and made Jisten’s job easier.
“I can’t find the wound,” said Jisten. “But there’s lots of fresh blood undoing my work.”
Scorth cocked his head. “The wound is inside, Captain.” “Inside? Inside what? There is a lot of inside of a person!” Jisten said, concern making him terse with the dragon.
“They used him, Captain. That inside. Do I need to draw you a picture?” Jisten let lose an impressive steam of invectives that ended with, “We need Forael.”
“I will retrieve him,” said Scorth, his expression solemn, but Jisten swore he saw a gleam in those yellow eyes. The black man swooshed out of the room before the Valer could think it through. Chapter Sixteen: Forael Retrieved
Forael made a note and signed the report before setting it aside and picking up the next sheet from the stack. He was eternally behind in his paperwork, and wondered if his cousin S’Rak had similar troubles. A shadow crossed over the sun. The window exploded inwards, and Forael used the parchment as a shield, covering his head as the glass shards rained down.
There was a black, carnivorous snout inside his office and the sense of something much larger and attached to the reptilian, fanged maw lurking just outside. “I taste terrible!” Forael shouted at the dragon.
In the nave of the temple, the Temple Guardian flared into golden, glorious awakening. The Ylion was in danger. It rushed towards Forael’s office, the fiery feathers of its enormous wings setting the wooden pews ablaze. Soon, the junior priests would be practicing their magic under the direction of those more senior to extinguish the flames.
Scorth withdrew his snout as the Temple Guardian attacked the wall separating Forael’s office from the rest of the temple. Scorth reached into the office with his forefoot as the golden beak shattered the office door. He grabbed Forael in a gentle grip and extracted him through the window before the gryphon was in the office. Its shrieks of rage only grew with the Ylion’s abduction, so Scorth launched for the sky.
Below, the sun priests were running around like ants whose anthill had been kicked over. “I’m fine! Really!” Forael called out uselessly. He waved in what he thought was a reassuring manner.
“He’s being tortured to death! Look at him waving in agony!” Nithios screamed.
“No! Really! I’m fine! Shoo! Go back to the temple!” Forael called out. Arrows rained onto the dragon from the guards below, mainly bouncing off the hard, armored black scales. One nearly hit Forael.
The gryphon was in the air now, powering after the fleeing dragon. It was smaller and more agile, but the dragon had the altitude advantage for the moment. The gryphon had divine will to speed its wings, its Ylion imperiled and the enemy in sight.
Another arrow floated by them with almost no energy remaining. “Fascinating.” Forael watched the arrow fall back towards the ground. Then they were too high for arrows, and he was mesmerized by the miniature look of the city spread out below. They seemed to be close to the palace. The dragon pointed his nose at the ground, folded his wings, and plummeted. Forael told himself that if the dragon wanted him to help S’Rak, it wasn’t about to kill him. That thought helped, a little. Then the dragon spread his wings and they stopped. It was like hitting a brick wall and Forael was certain that his stomach had shot out of his body and kept going.
Forael noticed that they were in the stable yard. The dragon gently uncurled his toes from around the Ylion before launching skyward in a tornado of grit and leaves. Forael covered his face against the gale, but he could hear the angry screech of the Temple Guardian, still on the hunt. Forael raised his hands and chanted the prayer that would send the Guardian back into dormancy.
The gryphon was on the dragon before the black beast could gain enough altitude to maneuver. The dragon twisted to bite the gryphon that was latched onto his side and trying its best to remove large chunks of his flesh. Forael reached the end of his chant and the gryphon dissolved in a shower of golden sparks that hissed and scorched the dragon’s scales.
* * * * Rak would be displeased over the amount of work Scorth’s hide would require. Scorth thought about making Jisten help. All he had to do was wave his wings and the man was his.
The Sun Temple emptied out to the least novice and lowliest guard to rescue the Ylion from the clutches of the evil dragon. The evil dragon landed in the plaza and began to groom his claws. He radiated a satisfied aura of having recently eaten that the sun priests were sure to misinterpret.
* * * * “Do tell the onslaught of panicked sun priests and sun guards that will arrive in about thirty minutes that I’m fine,” Forael told the guards. He knew where the guest suite was so he hiked up his robes and ran there. The door to the suite was open, so he went right in. The reception hall was empty, as was the parlor. Forael entered the bedroom, and then followed the noise into the bathroom. Tebber and Jisten were holding Rak down as they tried to keep the blood under control. There were at least a half dozen blood amulets hung on various fixtures.
“The bleeding won’t stop, Ylion,” a white-faced Jisten told Forael. “Unfortunately, I am not a mystic or a seer. I need to examine a patient to determine their wounds. And examining my cousin would have disastrous consequences,” Forael said bitterly.
“Scorth said the injury was inside,” said Jisten, blushing. “Inside what, son?” Forael asked patiently. When Jisten’s blush covered his entire face and neck in a deep purple, Forael could guess. “No, surely not.”
Jisten stopped holding Rak down and simply held him close. Rak clung to him and neither would meet Forael’s gaze.
“You have to do something,” wailed Tebber. “It’s not stopping! Heal him!” “That would be unwise, if you wish this building to remain standing,” Forael said. At Tebber’s blank look, he added gently, “The day does not heal the night. The sun scalds the moons, and the moons fight back. Captain, please get my healing kit from the throne room. I keep spares all over the palace.”
“There’s a full kit in the parlor,” said Tebber. He dashed off to get the kit, returning in a short time with the black leather satchel marked with a teal glyph.
“Excellent. Do you have morphea?” Forael asked. At Tebber’s affirmative, he said, “Mix ten drops into some wine, and get S’Rak to drink it, please. Jisten and I will rinse off our patient, I want a clear view.”
Tebber took the morphea bottle from the satchel and returned with a goblet of the doctored wine while Forael and Jisten rinsed the blood off Rak by dumping a basin of water over him.
Jisten took the goblet from Tebber and boldly stroked Rak’s cheek. “For the pain. Drink.” Rak opened his eyes and looked at Jisten for a moment before he drained the goblet.
“I have to check him,” said Forael, worried. “This is a lot of blood. Foolish if I miss an external injury. But how to touch him?” The Ylion fretted over the limitations imposed on them.
“There has to be something that we can do,” Jisten said. Inspiration struck. “Tell me what to do. I’ll be your hands, at least for the exam?”
Under Forael’s direction, Jisten ran his hands over Rak’s legs, feeling, probing, for any source of the bleeding. Jisten made his way up to the thighs. Rak moaned, whimpered, sobbed, and squirmed.
“I’m sorry,” said Jisten, but he didn’t stop.
“Please do not,” Rak gasped out, over and over. “Please do not.” “We must find all the sources of bleeding,” Forael told Rak, trying to gain some of his attention. Jisten reached Rak’s blood covered buttocks but Rak twisted away. Tebber clung to the Loftoni, forcing him to endure the captain’s gentle touch. The panic in Rak’s eyes could only have one source and Forael grew angrier with every whimper.
Jisten sang a soft hymn to Si’Yeni, perhaps in hopes of soothing Rak. He began to glow red-gold. First his feet turned gold, and then it moderated to reddish gold on his calves, like a sunset on a summer’s night in the desert.
“Keep singing, son,” Forael said. The hymn washed over Rak and calmed him. He stopped struggling and fell silent, clearly listening to Jisten’s hymn. He relaxed so much that Tebber was able to let go.
“A plea for healing to Si’Yeni,” Forael observed. “And She is answering.” He touched Jisten, curious. The sunset colors swept over his arm. He observed calmly as the sunset colors flowed down his arm and into his torso. He waited for it to flow into his other arm and hand. “Cousin, look at the captain’s hair.”
“I see stars in it.” “I think your lord has agreed to this. I am going to touch you now, cousin,” Forael said. He touched Rak. A light touch, to the shoulder. Nothing happened. “Hold him tight, Tebber. I need to see how extensive the tear is and if I’ll need sutures or just packing.”