Pain, and then darkness.
When he woke, he was choking.
His eyes flew wide, and he spluttered. A familiar weight on his tongue, heat and salt and musk, something pressing at the back of his throat.
He was on the bed, the edge of it, on his side, with Mehmet’s cock in his mouth. The fingers of one ringed hand were wound tight in his hair, holding him steady while Mehmet fucked into his mouth, fast and rough.
Val had become damn near professional at this over the past few years, but now, being forced, lying awkwardly like this, without a chance to ease into it – he gagged, and felt the sting of bile coming up his throat.
Mehmet pulled out with a sharp, angry sound. “You’re awake.”
Val gasped for breath, and only got to inhale once before he was being manhandled across the bed, flipped over onto his belly. Cold, hard weights bit into his neck and both wrists, tension pulling tight. He wore a new collar, and cuffs, thick chains connecting them, rendering him helpless. Pain bloomed in his head, and his ribs, and arms, places where he’d been struck with spear butts. And cool air touched his bare legs and backside; he’d been stripped from the waist down, and knew what for, as Mehmet hoisted him roughly up to his knees, his face pressed down into the pillow.
He gritted his teeth, and braced himself for it.
But the pain was still awful when Mehmet forced his way in dry, without opening him up first.
It took him several tries, short, sharp jabs of his hips, working in just a little more each time, grunting to himself; he smelled thrilled.
Val bit the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut, and didn’t scream. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.
Mehmet shoved in the last little way, and started moving straight off, drawing back, and slamming forward. The hot wetness Val felt, that began to slick the way, was his own blood.
“You…belong…to…me.” Mehmet punctuated each word with a thrust.
Tears burned Val’s eyes. The pain was terrible, but worse was the ache of having been found out. Of having failed. Dream-walking was his one secret, his only means of escaping this man. And now that had been stripped away from him.
For the first time since he was a boy, he cried into his pillow as the Ottoman sultan fucked him bloody.
~*~
Dawn brought clear skies, and a flurry of activity as Mehmet’s slaves rushed in to bathe, groom, and ready their sultan for the day’s assault.
Val didn’t stir. He heard the bustling about, and kept his eyes shut, sinking down deep into his battered, throbbing body. Wearing so much silver, he hadn’t healed overnight as he should have, and everything from his feet to his eyelids, and everything in between ached fiercely. Including his heart.
He’d been defeated last night, completely, in every way that a man could be conquered.
When he was dressed, Mehmet walked over to the side of the bed, and Val barely managed not to flinch away from his touch when he smoothed Val’s hair along the crown of his head. “Good morning, my beauty,” he sang softly.
Val bit down on the end of his tongue to keep from shuddering.
When he didn’t stir, Mehmet laid his hand on the side of his head, and said, “I know you’re awake, Radu.”
Val opened his eyes. He was weak, again, as he’d been as a boy. He could heal from almost any wound inflicted, but his body felt now like one big bruise, and he quailed from the thought of any more hurts. He couldn’t take it now. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day, maybe when he had the strength to sit upright. But not now.
Mehmet smiled down at him, a warm and friendly smile, pleased, loving, even. He did love Val, and that was the worst thing of all.
He was dressed in all his battle finery, functional armor plates and lengths of mail draped with gold-embroidered silk and linen. His turban was snow-white, its center set with a massive ruby to mark his wealth and authority, and the slaves had drawn crisp lines of black kohl around his eyes, so that he would look foreign, and fierce, and beautiful to his Greco-Roman enemies.
“Today will be my victory,” he said. “I can feel it. And my new mage, Timothée, has predicted it. I ride forth.”
Val didn’t respond.
“Sit up and give me a proper send-off.”
Val’s body didn’t want to cooperate; neither did his heart, but he dragged himself upright, supporting his weight on shaking arms. He saw blue, finger-shaped bruises all down the lengths of them, places where Mehmet had gripped him, and held him down. He’d lost count of how many times it had been; blessedly, he’d passed out at some point.
Mehmet hooked a finger beneath his chin and drew him forward the last inch. Kissed him hard, and forced his tongue between his lips. Looked triumphant when he pulled back.
After, Val subsided back to the pillows, and closed his eyes again, listening to the guards come to collect their sultan, the clink and jangle of armor and gear, the raucous shouts. Mehmet’s army was tired, but they could scent victory, and it compelled them to greater action.
After a while, Arslan crept up to the edge of the bed. “Your grace, you should take breakfast.”
Val cracked an eye open. “Did he hurt you last night?”
The boy shook his head, lower lip trembling. “No. Only you.”
“Good.” And he fell back into a deep, unrestful sleep.
Arslan woke him again, later, and managed to get him to his feet, and to wrap him up in his robe. The cuffs and chains and collar made it too difficult to dress properly, but Arslan persisted, fidgeting with the heavy silk until Val was at least covered, sitting barefoot at the table with tea and honey-drizzled flatbread. “Eat,” he said, and Val did eat. He drank the horse blood brought to him in a cup.
Once some of his strength had returned, Val finally became aware of a low roar. Like the ceaseless crashing of the ocean, but louder. The din of battle, he realized.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
As if summoned, the tent flap lifted, and in walked Nestor-Iskander, his scribe’s satchel draped over one shoulder, his boots dusty from his walk through camp.
“Nestor,” Val said, when Arslan didn’t answer, “what’s happening out there?” His heart lurched in his chest, and began a painful gait.
He dumped his gear out onto the table, and without looking up, said, “Battle.”
“I know that. What’s happening in the battle?”
He shook his head, and bit his lip, and began sorting out his quills.
Val got unsteadily to his feet. “Nestor,” he said sharply, voice cracking. “What is happening?”
He finally stilled, and lifted his head, lip still caught between his teeth. He whined softly, in the back of his throat, a wolfish noise. “I think – I don’t know, we’re too far away, and no one would say – but I think they’ve finally breached the wall. The inner wall,” he stressed, when Val began to protest.
“They’re inside the city,” he said, and his lips went numb.
His whole everything was numb. It didn’t matter, he told himself. He didn’t care, didn’t feel it. He was numb.
Except that wasn’t true at all.
He turned away from the table, and his legs nearly gave out. So he turned back, and snatched up the cup, drained the last few drops of blood. “I need–”
“Here.” Nestor held out his hand, and Val put the cup into it. He set it on the table, and pulled a sharp little blade from his kit; cut his wrist, clean and quick, and let the blood run down into the cup. “Is that enough?”
“Yes, thank you, that’s plenty.” Val wanted to stammer out his thanks, as intense and true as it was, but the scent of fresh wolf blood hit him like a slap, and he could only take the cup and drain it down.
The burst of strength it gave him was immediate. His shaking eased, and his head cleared, and his legs straightened.
He went to the center of the rug, and sat down on it cross-legged, his chains clinking together.
“Your grace?” Arslan asked, worry in his voice.
&nbs
p; “I won’t be gone long,” Val said, folding his hands in his lap and closing his eyes. “But I have to see…”
He pushed himself down, and up, and dream-walked into Constantinople.
Into chaos and blood.
A beam of sunlight pierced the patchy cloud cover, and fell, like a spotlight from heaven, on the armored figure atop the white charger, his blade glinting as he drew it. Ornate armor, and a rippling golden cloak emblazoned with the two-headed eagle of Byzantium.
Constantine. And all around him, Ottoman soldiers, weapons raised, screaming, energized by the impossible gap in the wall; fevered with impending victory.
The walls were breached, at long last. Constantinople could not stand.
Val didn’t care. His astral projection took off at a run, flowing through Ottomans, leaping over fallen bodies and great chunks of blasted wall, quick as smoke. He had only one goal, now – now that all his good intentions had failed so spectacularly: save the emperor.
Save his friend.
He burst through the last line of soldiers with a great smoky surge, spiraling and coalescing with a dramatic curl of mist. He heard startled shouts, and cries of alarm. Someone screamed that he was a demon.
He threw up his arms, and Constantine’s horse half-reared, eyes rolling. Constantine wrestled him back down with a few tugs of the reins, and turned his head aside. The emperor’s face was red and slick with sweat, his eyes nearly as wild as those of his horse. He was terrified, but he wasn’t fleeing, even though he should have been.
“Val–” he started.
“Go!” Val shouted at him. “Go! The city is all but fallen. You have to run!”
A sword cleaved right through Val’s projection, turning his shoulder, and chest, and hip to smoke. The man who’d done it shouted, and then lunged forward through him.
“Constantine!” Val screamed. “Run! Run, please!”
Constantine turned his attention to his attacker, wheeling his horse, bringing his sword down in a swift, vicious arc. The Ottoman ducked the first blow, and struck next at the horse. The stallion danced sideways, well-trained despite its fear, and Constantine’s next blow hit home, carving a line of blood down the man’s neck, nearly taking his head off. He fell, gurgling, blood fountaining from his open vein and from his mouth.
The emperor’s personal guards rushed forward, blades drawn, and engaged with the enemy. They were vastly outnumbered; they would all be slain. But they could buy their lord some time – if he would run.
Val got closer. He felt his pulse in his throat, and pain at his back, his ribs; someone was kicking at his body, it must be.
“Constantine–” he started again, a catch in his voice.
Constantine looked down at him, and for a moment, a stolen moment between just the two of them, as men screamed, and crossed swords, and died around them, his face softened. His mouth turned down at the corners with sadness.
“Valerian,” he said, “I can’t abandon my people, son. I won’t. If my city falls, I shall fall with it, but I mean to fight until that happens.”
“But – please.” Val’s vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears. He felt a sharp pain in his ribs, and his breath caught. “Constantine, please, run away. Run to me, and I can save you. I can turn you, I can–”
“No, no,” he said, gently. “I love you as if you were my own, you know that. But what you want isn’t possible. My place is here.”
“But–”
“Look after yourself, Val. I have every faith that you were born for great things.” And so, saying, the emperor turned his horse, and re-entered the fray.
Val went to his knees, boneless, weak. He felt the pull of his body – someone was hurting him, and bound in silver, already weak, he couldn’t maintain the projection for much longer.
“But, please…” he whispered, tears spilling over, pouring down his cheeks. “Please…”
Constantine swung with wicked precision, hacking and slicing from his saddle. But Ottomans poured in through the gap in the wall, wave upon wave, trampling one another in their haste, screaming like banshees. There were too many. They swarmed the emperor; hamstrung his horse and toppled him from the saddle.
Val watched it all in helpless horror, sobbing, gasping for breath. He saw polished armor, a flash of gold cloak, the glimmer of a sword.
“Please,” he said again, an airless whisper.
And then everything spun, and he slammed back into his body, just as someone kicked him viciously in the ribs.
He opened his eyes to find that he lay on his side, curled into himself, sobbing brokenly, aching in a dozen places as if he’d been beaten – because he had been. As he twisted his head and glanced up, he saw three janissaries swarm forward, shouting brusque orders, pushing off the seven regular foot soldiers who’d been laying into him.
“Leave off! He belongs to the sultan, you idiot!” one of them shouted.
The soldiers scattered.
“Your grace,” another janissary said, and dropped to a crouch beside Val’s head. “Here, I’ll help you up. Are you hurt?”
Val ignored him. The sobs wracked his body, and no amount of physical pain, no boot strikes in yesterday’s bruises, could rival the pain that howled inside his head. He kept his eyes open until they stung, not wanting to blink, knowing that if he did, he’d see the white stallion falling with a scream, see Constantine toppling into the hands of men with swords.
“Your grace? Your grace!”
Hands under his arms, fingers digging in, lifting him up. His head lolled. He couldn’t breathe. Tears and mucus clogged his sinuses.
He was propped up on his knees amidst cursing and grumbling.
“Insane,” someone muttered.
“Sultan beat the wits out of him, finally,” another said.
Val pitched forward against their hold and vomited onto the rug. It was only watery bile he brought up, his stomach empty; his head throbbing with pain that felt like grief, even if it was only dehydration, hunger, and the healing of physical wounds.
Through the hazy wash of tears, he registered the janissaries parting, and a slender, dark-skinned figure knelt before him. His own sweet Arslan.
“Here, your grace,” he murmured, and a cool, soft, damp cloth began to bathe Val’s face, slender fingers cupping his chin to hold him still. “It was only another nightmare,” the boy slave soothed, lying for him. “I have some water for you.” A cup was pressed to his lips.
Val could swallow only a little, and then turned his head away, coughing.
Arslan, in a rare show of bravery, addressed the janissaries: “If you could give him some space, please. And guard the tent, perhaps.” And, seeing as how he was the personal slave of a prince, the janissaries listened.
Val heard their footfalls leave the tent, and the rustle of the flap opening and falling shut.
“Your grace,” Arslan said when they were gone, and his hands landed light as butterflies on Val’s shoulders, cajoling. He urged him away from the mess he’d left on the rug, over so he could slump against the side of the sea chest, and prop his forehead in one shaking hand.
“The soldiers,” Arslan said, apologetic. “They came bursting into the tent – there was all this commotion outside. I tried to stop them – I knew you were dream-walking.” It was then Val managed to blink his vision halfway clear and see that Arslan had a fresh bruise coming up on one cheek where he’d been smacked aside. “Where did you go, your grace?”
Val tried to reach for the boy’s face, but the weight of cuff and chain proved too heavy for his arm in that moment. He slumped deeper into his cupped hand, instead. “Beyond the breach,” he said, his voice wet and choked. “They finally breached the wall, did you know?”
Arslan’s dark brows were knit together with concern, and he looked at Val with such pity that he couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. “Yes. Everyone outside was shouting about it. That’s how the soldiers got in; no one was paying them any attention.”
“A
h. What better way to celebrate than to rape a pretty prince, eh?”
Arslan made a small, distressed sound. “No, your grace, they were only – bragging. Saying how they’d taken the Roman city. They came to mock you.”
“You’d be surprised how quickly mocking a chained-up man turns to raping one.” He tipped his head to the side, and caught the boy’s stricken look. “What am I talking about: no, you wouldn’t. You know, don’t you, my sweet one?”
“Why did you do it?” Arslan said. “After what happened last time, why did you risk it?” He sounded on the verge of tears.
Val sighed, and all the bruises along his ribs pulled. “Because I needed to warn my friend. To do something besides…” He shifted, and his chains rattled. “But all I did was watch him fall. Ineffectual to the last. I don’t know if he…”
He did know, but he couldn’t think of that now.
When he said no more, Arslan eventually rose and went to fetch a bowl of water, and a cloth. Val didn’t resist as the boy cleaned his face more thoroughly, and managed to sip the wine he brought him. He couldn’t nibble the flatbread, despite Arslan’s begging. His stomach was too tender.
The silhouettes of running men flashed past the tent on all sides, and the camp beyond the canvas walls was alive with shouts, and celebrations, and the occasional scuffle as all manner of discipline broke apart amid the joy of victory.
Heartsick, overcome by exhaustion, Val eventually put his head down on the sea chest and dozed.
When he woke, night had fallen, and Arslan had lit the lanterns, and the big coal brazier in the center of the tent; Val lifted his head and felt a lap rug slip down off his shoulders where the boy had draped it over him.
Nestor-Iskander had joined them as well. He sat at the sultan’s wide table, bent over a piece of parchment, writing furiously, slinging ink as he dipped his quill again and again.
A commotion still raged beyond the tent walls, but its pitch had changed; Val could hear a steady cheering.
Val cleared his throat and smacked his lips, trying to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “What’s happening?” he croaked.
Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3) Page 52