Wicked Harvest

by Anitra Lynn McLeod

  Realizing she had spent longer in the library than she intended, Enovese replaced the texts, then hurried to the storage room to replenish her supplies. Mainly she needed to replace the robe Chur had damaged. She’d barely been able to get the clasps closed this morning. Located underneath the temple, the massive room held extra robes, bottles of estal oil, and all the other accoutrements she needed to perform the Harvest rituals.

  When she entered, the lighting crystals flickered to life and cast pools of muddy green illumination. She grabbed a new robe, more soothing oil since she and Chur had practically used the entire bottle in two days, and another shift to wear under her robe. She knew she should hurry back to Chur’s rooms in case he returned from training early, but her studies compelled her to search through the room. At the back of the crowded and dusty shelves, she found a Onic box that held a chalice. She blew the thick layer of dust off and studied the carving. At first, it appeared as nothing but smooth lines with no meaning. As she removed more dust, she discovered the carving was of two figures entwined in such a way it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Merging and melting, the two figures seemed so inextricably intertwined she couldn’t determine the sex of either one. Slipping the deeply carved box under her robe, pressing it against her chest, she then used her satchel of supplies to further hide the bulk of the box. She wasn’t sure if taking the box was against the rules, but she didn’t want to find out.

  9

  The dream involving Enovese and Loban was still fresh in his mind when Chur entered the training room. A mix of sweat, wet leather, and a slight hint of blood gave the space a unique odor that Chur found oddly comforting. He spent most of his time here. Divided into sections, each part facilitated training with a specific weapon. More than two dozen men in various forms of combat grunted and groaned.

  Chur acknowledged several greetings; then his gaze fell on Loban. Wet with sweat, his reddish blond hair stuck to his skull as he grappled with Helton Ook on the tilt-table. Neither man noticed him as they continued to work with the avenyet, a short wooden staff with a slender center that flared out to curved ends, like a double club. Both men wore light leather armor to pad them from blows.

  At first sight, one might make the erroneous assumption that Helton, a squat man of advanced seasons, was hopelessly outmatched by the massive Loban. Chur knew differently. Helton was a handler because he knew more about weapons and effective combat moves than any man in the room. Helton was burly with muscles; those that crossed his shoulders were so thick they seemed to swallow his neck. Scars of white and dark maroon crisscrossed his skin as if the gods had put him together from leftovers. Helton’s arms seemed too short, his legs too long, his torso too thick, yet Helton moved as if formed of water, fluid and graceful. Only the lines about his eyes and white hair gave hints to Helton’s advanced seasons. His wizened eyes of sooty gray missed nothing.

  Dodging a blow, Helton acknowledged Chur’s presence with a lift of his chin, then snapped his avenyet to Loban’s midsection. Loban exhaled a gasp of surprise. Helton laughed and said something that Chur could not hear, but he surmised it was a caution for Loban to focus.

  Tearing his gaze from Chur, Loban whipped his wet hair aside, causing droplets of sweat to splatter the table; then he steadied his stance. Where the gods formed Helton from scraps, they’d chosen to form Loban of only the highest quality parts. Loban stood almost as tall as Chur, yet his limbs were perfectly proportioned; the span of his arms matched the full of his height. Broad shoulders were square, and a thick neck held up his rounded face. His chest was smooth and tight, his belly layered with muscles. The only fault Chur could find was that Loban’s hands seemed a bit too big for his arms, yet this defect gave him excellent control with weapons. Very few scars marred Loban’s spectacular form, and they did not stand out for his skin was remarkably pale. He did not bronze like Chur, he only developed tiny bronze blotches. What little body hair Loban had was copper, and when the lighting crystals hit him, Loban glowed, as if the gods had chosen him.

  At first glance, Loban’s chubby face would cause one to believe him kind, but a long look into his Onic black eyes revealed a fathomless cruelty. When Loban smiled, the cast of his oddly red lips against white teeth gave him the appearance of a predator smeared with the blood of his most recent kill.

  Chur had hated the man on sight.

  After a season of training with him, Chur found his initial assessment entirely accurate: Loban was evil. Below the dressing of fine physical form lurked a monster.

  Chur would rather have anyone but Loban become the next Harvester. Cruel and vicious, Loban often continued to beat his opponents long after they’d surrendered, but never in Helton’s presence. Chur had even heard rumors that Loban sought out his conquered opponents after training and raped them as the final degradation.

  What Chur considered alarming rumors, probably spread by Loban himself, had become fact when Sterlave, a novice from the Gant region, quietly confessed to Chur that Loban had come to his room, late at night, on the pretext of apologizing for a beating earlier that day. However, once Sterlave granted him entrance, Loban had forced Sterlave to perform an endless series of sexual acts. With his bloodshot gaze cast low, Sterlave whispered, “Loban bragged the entire time about his staying power and honestly, when he finally climaxed, I was too relieved to do anything but curl up and sleep.” Chur had urged Sterlave to tell Helton, but Sterlave refused. He’d only told Chur because Chur had noticed fresh blood on the seat of Sterlave’s trousers.

  Unwilling to traumatize Sterlave further, Chur had sent him on a series of errands that kept him from the training rooms until he healed. Eventually, Sterlave continued in instructions, but he never met Loban’s gaze nor would he spar with him. Chur took heart in that the rape, as horrific as it had been, had not kept Sterlave from excelling in his preparations. Over the next season, Sterlave’s slender muscles filled out and his prowess grew so rapidly that Helton took him under his wing. Of all the potential challengers, Sterlave would be the one Chur would choose as the next Harvester.

  All of this filtered through his mind as Chur performed the fluid moves of kintana. Residual tension from his odd dream melted away as his focus sharpened on training. Even the itch of his regrowing hair faded from his attention as rhythmic breathing helped him center himself, feeling the power inherent in his form.

  Helton Ook left off his session with Loban and approached Chur. “I am pleased to see you back at training so soon after the Harvest.”

  Chur bowed formally.

  Leaning near, Helton murmured, “I thought you would not be back. Why did you not choose from this Harvest? I am told the offerings went beyond spectacular.”

  In a flash, all the virgins exploded in a shimmer of jewels, perfumes, and exotic forms in Chur’s mind, but only one stood out: Enovese. Swaddled in her simple robe, her lovely eyes commanding his attention, her voice dreamlike yet powerful, her shaved sex so unique, and then her mouth wanton around his cock…

  Trying to inject more conviction into his voice than he felt, Chur said, “Amazing as they were, I did not find my bondmate among them.”

  Helton’s fuzzy gray brows drew a sharp line over his sparkling eyes. “Bondmate, pah. Did I not tell you such is the twaddle of poets? One woman is as good as another is. Just pick a pretty one, I said. Not you. And now, by not choosing, you will have to face Loban. He will not wait another season.”

  Lifting his chest with a deep breath, Chur stood to his full height and asked, “You worry at my ability?”

  “Of course not.” Helton frowned at him as if to caution him from asking any more stupid questions or he would smack him. “I simply did not want this battle to come to pass. I feel it is a waste, for one of you must die.”

  Knowing that Helton was the handler for both of them, Chur asked, “Who would you wish to triumph?”

  With a sneer of dismissal, Helton deftly avoided answering and said, “I wanted you to pick so that I
would not be in the position of setting my two best upon each other.”

  Before Chur could question him further, Helton clapped his hands and deemed the time had come for work. Smartly, Helton did not allow Chur and Loban to spar together. He set them at opposite ends of the room with other opponents who showed a particular prowess with that style of combat.

  Channeling his rage into physical activity helped Chur focus fully on defeating his opponents. He moved through the training with hardly a break between, garnering him several compliments for his stamina. Generally, it took a week to recover from the Harvest, but Chur pushed through the fatigue, almost in an effort to punish himself for indulging in the lewd arts. Several times Helton cautioned him to slow down, but Chur refused. Even Loban grudgingly commented to someone that Chur was a rival to respect, but Chur didn’t believe it for a moment. What Loban said and what he felt were often entirely at odds. Loban had no more respect for Chur than Chur had for him. Still, Chur would be a fool to dismiss the threat Loban embodied.

  The exhausting day drew to a close and Helton Ook left the training room after issuing the last of his instructions.

  Chur returned to the padded mats to cooldown with kintana.

  Loban joined him and mirrored his every move.

  When Chur ignored him, Loban worked his way closer, until the movements of his arms brought him into contact with Chur. With a bored sigh, Chur moved back and continued. Frankly, he thought Loban was acting like an annoying younger brother desperately seeking attention.

  Rather than staying put, Loban again moved closer. Realizing that Loban would continue in this vein, Chur bowed formally to him, then left the mats. Feeling pleased with his performance and pleasantly exhausted, Chur was in no mood for any of Loban’s games. He wished to return to his rooms, shower, eat, and sleep. Finally, he’d found a way to banish his lusty thoughts.

  Loban followed right behind him and asked, “Had enough, mighty Harvester?”

  Chur turned so suddenly that Loban stumbled. His heel caught on an edge of the mat and he landed hard on his butt. A few men chuckled, but Chur said nothing. Chur simply considered Loban for a moment, then gave Loban his back—possibly the most insulting action he could take.

  “When I am the Harvester, the virgins will know that a man took their virginity, for I will make them bleed.”

  A hushed silence followed Loban’s ugly comment. Chur stopped in his tracks. His gaze fell on Sterlave. A hank of deep brown hair curtained Sterlave’s eyes, but shame flicked along the edge of his clenched jaw.

  Loban’s brutality sickened Chur. During the Harvest, the virgins gave him the gift of their virginity. Chur did not take their innocence and certainly not with a mind of hurting them. He may not have found one that fully captured his attention, but he found all of them beautiful, special, and unique in their own way. Always, he’d harvested them with respect and appreciation. For Loban to spew such a revolting comment, whether he believed it or not, pushed Chur over the edge. He turned and faced Loban.

  Sneering, Loban lunged to his feet. “What’s wrong, Harvester? Don’t you enjoy ripping the virgin cunts?” Loban tossed back his head and laughed. “I know I will!”

  Pinning Loban with a piercing gaze, Chur lifted his voice so that all could hear. “The only virgins you will ever know are the men you have raped.”

  Several gasps followed his bold proclamation. Chur noticed Sterlave wasn’t the only man to recoil. Just as he feared, Loban had brutalized more than one of the recruits.

  Loban flushed red, and his predatory mouth flapped open and closed.

  “What’s wrong, challenger?” Chur asked, taking a step toward Loban. “Are you not proud of your forced sodomy?”

  Loban flicked an uneasy gaze around the circle of men, several of whom looked quickly away; then his eyes turned icy with contempt. Lifting his hands, Loban said, “Let even one man step forward to confirm your vile accusation, or you have issued a challenge. I will have no choice but to defend my honor.”

  Chur realized too late that he’d allowed his anger to trap him. If no man stepped forward to confirm Chur’s claim, Chur must rescind his comment or face Loban in hand-to-hand combat. The last thing Chur wanted was to publicly humiliate one of Loban’s victims. Following the example Helton had set, Chur sidestepped the issue and asked, “How can you defend what you do not have?”

  Seething with anger, Loban sputtered, “Apologize, Harvester, or fight.”

  All day he’d pushed himself to the point of exhaustion whereas Loban had coasted, saving up his energy, probably in the hopes of somehow pushing Chur into a challenge. Loban had succeeded, but Chur vowed he would regret confronting him.

  “I will not apologize for speaking the truth.” Calmly, Chur removed all of his gear. A formal challenge decreed both combatants fought nude with no weapons but bare hands. Loban’s reddish blond brow lifted when he stared openly at Chur’s genitals. Black stubble shadowed his balls so his lighter-colored cock appeared enormous even in a flaccid state. Chur let him look, then mockingly asked, “Did you wish to kneel and confess?”

  Several men chuckled. Loban flicked his gaze up. His fathomless black eyes narrowed as he bared his teeth. Piece by piece, he stripped off his gear. Placing his too-large hands on his hips, Loban stood absurdly proud of the fact his short but thick cock, nestled in a tuft of dark brown curls, was semihard. Chur wasn’t sure exactly what aroused Loban: the idea of fighting or Chur’s nudity. It didn’t matter. Chur moved to the center of the mats.

  When Chur bowed formally, Loban screamed and launched himself, knocking Chur flat. Shouts denigrating Loban as a cheater and fraud filled the air, but Chur had no time to agree as he grappled for advantage. Sweat and oil built up over the day from his brutal workout caused Loban difficulty in grasping Chur. Relatively clean flesh gave Chur an advantage in wrestling Loban to the mat. Only when he worked with Helton had Loban actually pushed himself, and this now gave him an advantage in one way by having more energy but a disadvantage in another way for his skin was easy to grip.

  Grasping his shoulders, Chur pinned Loban. Looming over him, Chur whispered, “You will never be the Harvester.”

  Snarling, Loban said, “You’ll never perform again.” Loban shot his hand between their bodies, grasped Chur’s genitals, and squeezed.

  Chur screamed. White-hot pain exploded, blotting out awareness of anything but his traumatized balls. He wanted to cry foul, but he couldn’t breathe. He heard a scuffle among the men, those who tried to stop the fight and those who tried to keep it going. When he turned to check on Loban, a fist plowed into his eye. Stunned by the blow, Chur fell back. Loban leapt onto his chest. He punched at his face, splitting his upper lip, causing a gush of blood to fill his mouth. Chur punched Loban in the nose and bucked him off his chest. Still trying to catch his breath, Chur heard someone shout, “He has an avenyet!”

  A double club smacked into Chur’s temple causing stars to dance before his eyes. Chur rolled over to protect his face and head. Loban rained a series of blows to Chur’s back. Slipping in and out of consciousness, Chur felt Loban mount his back, and now his cock was hard and pushing against Chur’s ass.

  Chur wasn’t sure who pulled Loban away or where they took him. He didn’t care. It took two men to help Chur to his feet. They helped him dress, then left him leaning against the tilt-table. One look at the edge of the table reminded him of the dream and he staggered away. It didn’t matter that Loban had cheated. Chur had needed help to subdue him, and thus he had lost. Loban had shamed himself by cheating and by trying to rape Chur in full view of every recruit, but Chur felt just as much disgrace burden his already weighted shoulders.

  10

  Keeping her head down, Enovese strode through the hallways. Her sandals slapped on the polished floors with a cadence that startled her. Slowing her pace to lessen the noise caused her to feel more self-conscious. As she passed the Harvest room, two servants exited, burdened down with decorations. A mixture of estal oil,
perfumes, and decorative herbs followed in their wake. She ignored them, but her heart thudded painfully when a palace guard crashed into her. She felt the box slipping and crushed the satchel closer to keep it in position.

  “Mind your place you lowly—” He stopped abruptly when he noticed the cut of her robe. The severe angles and color proclaimed her as not just a paratanist but also the Harvester’s paratanist. The guard flinched back as if burned, an expression of terror on his pockmarked face. He darted his gaze around and lowered his voice. “My apologies, paratanist.” He offered her a formal bow, which she returned, using the movement to stabilize the box. As she moved away, she considered his dread justified, for her station forbid any to touch her. Even an accidental brush would result in death if witnessed by the right person. Thankfully, they were the only two in the hallway.

  Enovese blew out a sharp breath of relief when she entered Chur’s rooms.

  “Where have you been?”

  His demanding bellow startled her, for he’d kept the lights low. When she turned the brightness up, she discovered Chur in the middle of the main room with his face bloody and his battle gear filthy.

  As he strode toward her, the stench of sweat overpowered her. Shocked by his battered appearance, she froze. During training, Chur had suffered blows, but never had he returned in such a tattered state. A split in his upper lip oozed, and his eye was swollen and turning black. Several lumps and bumps caused his normally smooth head to appear horribly misshapen.

  “I asked where have you been?”

  Before she could formulate an answer, he yanked the satchel from her, causing the box to fall on the floor.

  Frowning darkly, Chur examined the contents of the bag, then tossed it aside. He pointed to the box. “What is that?”

  Enovese snatched it up. “It’s a ceremonial chalice box. I wished to examine it to better answer your questions.”

  For a moment, his brows lifted with curiosity but then lowered. “Why were you hiding it?”