by J. C. Owens
Platten shook his head, as though Andon were an unruly child with foolish views. “I am no different than my forefathers. The populace is too vicious to ever rule over with anything less than an iron fist.”
Andon gritted his teeth, but did not reply. There was no point in arguing with a man who had no intention of listening.
“You are a smart boy.” Platten grinned. “I like you, Andon Grazon. And because of that, I will not kill you, as I first planned. Your grif would not even know you were gone, she would be so drugged up. You amuse me, and in honor of that, I will keep you.”
Andon’s lip curled. His hands clenched, aching to hold the hilt of his sword and dagger, to make this man regret his arrogance.
“You are as wild as your grif,” the king continued, tapping a finger against his fleshy lips. “Fascinating. I will make the choice tonight, given which man will promise me the most interesting payment in return for the title of keeper. It should make the evening very entertaining.”
He eyed the room. “I will send down nesting materials and food for both of you. Be a good obedient little rider, and you will receive further comforts.” His gaze hardened into something dark and predatory. “Try anything against me and I will see your stay here is nothing but suffering. Your insolence amuses me for now. Don’t think that lenience will continue.”
Andon gave no indication he had even understood the warning.
Platten shook his head, then turned away. He strode past his guards, who followed him closely.
Andon hurried back to Ceris’s side and gently worked to arrange her wings into a comfortable position from where she half lay on them in her daze.
“We’ll get out of here, Ceris. I swear I will see you free of this.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Habnin stepped out from the shadows, his voice smooth but still with a knife edge. “I made sure the king knew exactly what both you and your cursed grif are capable of, so that your imprisonment will be total, the chance of escape nil. I told you you would pay for Vren’s death.”
Andon simply looked at him wearily. “You are a fool, Habnin. A young, grieving fool who is going to dig yourself so deep that you will never get out. Hatred has always been a part of you, long before I came along. How you and Vren could possibly be related is hard to imagine.”
“Don’t speak of him!” Habnin screamed, grasping the bars with whitened fingers.
Andon just shook his head and turned back to Ceris. “Go away, Habnin. Take your hatreds and your petty little life and go. Vren would have been devastated by your actions, and you know it. If anyone has sullied his memory, it has been you.”
The young man jerked back, his rage growing. He spat on the stone floor and whirled away.
Andon rubbed his forehead. So much hatred and political maneuvering. And for what? He didn’t understand at all. Perhaps that at least denoted he was saner than all of them combined in this place of horrors.
The food came sometime later, and Andon had to coax Ceris to eat even a small amount. His concern grew as she tucked her head under her wing and drifted away. He could barely feel her in their link, and he feared such a thing would only grow worse the longer the drugs were administered. He had to get them out of here.
He did not have an appetite himself, but forced himself to eat. If the opportunity came for escape, however slim, he had to be strong enough to act swiftly.
After his meal, he curled up against Ceris, under her chin, stroking her jaw and speaking softly to her, hoping his voice would soothe her. It was only as he began drifting off that he realized that he should have been far more suspicious on his own behalf.
He fought to stay awake, trying to rise to his knees, but succeeded only in wavering and falling back against Ceris’s chest.
The last thing he saw, through rapidly glazing eyes, was Byrant’s triumphant expression as he unlocked the cell and bent over him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Daren tightened the buckle that held the saddle packs on the saddle with vicious force, his jaw clamped so tightly that it ached. They were all prepared to leave, a small contingent consisting of Commander Lasrem, two of his riders, Daren, and his wing. Even those few would leave the base alarmingly understaffed.
Scarcely an hour before, a messenger had arrived with a letter from the king, addressed to Daren. He had broken the seal as the others gathered round, apprehension on every face.
He had read it, paused, re-read it to be sure, and then tore it to shreds with sharp, angry movements before flinging the pieces into the wind.
Lasrem had laid a hand upon his shoulder, silently questioning.
“It is an order to stay clear of the capital,” Daren told him. “If either my grif or I am sighted within the boundaries of the city, we will be considered an attacker and will face the palace guards.”
Lasrem had sworn, low and virulent, his eyes hardening. “That bastard. I have given him the benefit of the doubt for years, done his bidding, tried to angle his orders into something that benefited all of the country. I had hoped, foolishly, that he had more potential than his father and grandfather had.”
“It has been made very clear that our so called monarch does not have the well being of the corps in mind,” Daren snarled. “From what I have seen back in Anisstor, and now here, there is no care for those who keep the country whole and safe. This is not a man I can follow any longer, no matter what title he holds.”
Daren could hardly speak with the fury he felt, a fury honed and fed by Gretnel’s almost feral anger. That his grif had managed to contain himself enough to wait for the preparations was a miracle on its own.
He met the commander’s eyes unflinchingly. “I am going to get Ceris and Andon out of there, however I have to. At this point, I am not counting out violence against my own countrymen. Will you stand against me?” He realized the injustice of placing Lasrem in such a position, but his patience had run out. His mate, his Andon, Gretnel’s Ceris, had been in custody for almost a full day. He could not imagine the horrors already done to them.
“I am coming with you,” Lasrem said. “If we angle to the west, we can take shelter in the town of Blue Hills. There are rebels there, though I have never told the king. My own brother is one of them. He may have information that could get us inside the capital. Stealth, rather than force, is what will see your mates free.”
The commander’s words staggered him. His brother was part of the rebellion? “You trust these rebels.”
Lasrem met his stare unflinchingly. “I do. My brother is a good man. He could not watch what was being done to the common people. He chose to go among the rebels. I chose to work within the law, to try to change things…” He shook his head. “I was wrong not to see the extent of the rot that has overtaken our kingdom. I thought I could make a difference, and really, I think I was only manipulated, placated.”
“You kept Andon away from court all these years. I know that now. Palresen has been kind enough to give me the entire backstory of this whole mess. Without you, Andon would have been trapped in the capital for years. Now, I am going to bring them back home.”
They left in the early hours of the morning, long before most of the cadets and other riders were up. Palresen had remained behind, reluctantly, to oversee the base during Lasrem’s absence and to give the appearance of normality, or at least as much as was possible. Gossip was running thick and wild through the occupants of Farfall after seeing the drama unfold earlier regarding Andon and Ceris. Palresen had to keep the base under some sort of control and ready to meet any problem that might occur during their absence, with him as the only officer present.
Daren did not envy him the task.
He blinked as the sun crested the horizon and cast the world below into golden splendor. He leaned down further, rubbed Gretnel’s shoulder. He could feel the impatience coursing through his grif, the effort it took for him to stay calm, remain with the others, when all his heart wanted to take his strength and size and surge ahead. Gre
tnel’s instincts were powerful, and it was difficult for him to retain any control when the primal griffon-salant wanted nothing more than to tear into the enemies who had taken his mate.
Daren was having a difficult time recognizing which thoughts and emotions were his own and which were Gretnel’s. Together, they seemed to feed the anger and need for action in never ceasing circles.
In moments of clarity, Daren hoped for a resolution that would not see the death of any of those involved. At other times, he craved violence, a primal call to terrorize those who had dared to lay a hand upon either black grif or her rider. He was thankful for Lasrem’s steadying influence, or he might have gone charging in, heedless of danger, and do nothing more than getting themselves killed.
Lasrem’s grif, Leandan, was a solid, calm grif, much like his rider, and he seemed to be working with Gretnel, helping him keep control. A feral male grif was a terrifying thing, one of the reasons that rogues and their riders were summarily killed.
Daren wondered now, what had driven those other riders to flee the military. Had they also felt the sting of the king’s heedless orders? Had they realized that the rebels had been right all along and sought to join them?
He would not fall, would not fail as they had. He had good riders and strong grifs at his side. They were not alone.
The sun was high and bright as they came in for a landing at the tiny town well hidden within the rocky outcrops of the outlands that edged the western border. Here, far from civilization, there was no law, no patrols, or protection.
These people were everything Daren had been told to despise by his peers, but his upbringing had always made him question such things. Now, with the king’s betrayal fresh in his thoughts, he wondered how many of these people were refugees, fleeing injustices he could only imagine. If King Platten was willing to alienate and harm his own riders, the protectors of the realm, then it was completely possible that he had committed endless atrocities upon the common folk.
The landing site was poorly maintained but level enough despite its rough appearance. Men appeared from a narrow fissure that led into the rocks and watched them, not venturing forth, their weapons clearly displayed.
Commander Lasrem dismounted, then pulled his flight helmet off, shaking out his sweat-damp hair.
One of the watchers took several swift steps forward, staring, before breaking into a wide grin. With sure strides that reminded Daren of Andon, the man weaved his way through the rocks to reach them.
“Lasrem!”
The commander broke into the most beautiful smile, lighting his face into something warm and so much younger. He gathered the other man close, hugging him tightly.
Daren and the others dismounted, keeping a cautious eye on the other men, who had remained alert and guarded at the mouth of the fissure.
“Brother. Nalon. It’s so long since we spoke. Five years now?” There was a break in Lasrem’s voice, as though the time had been torturous for him.
“Coming up six. Never could keep track, could you?” The man laughed, but there were tears in his eyes. He tugged Lasrem back for another hug before releasing him and clapping his shoulder. “What in the hells are you doing out here?” His smile faded and he looked up at the skies, expression becoming grim. “The king’s forces are coming? You always said you would warn me.”
Lasrem shook his head, caught his brother’s arm, and turned him to meet the others. “At this moment, we are as much rebels as your people. We need your skill and information of the capital to save one of our own.”
Nalon eyed them, then waved to the others, who relaxed their tense postures a degree or two. “We will bring water for you and the grifs. If you have come, then this must be important.”
With no more than that, Nalon accepted their presence. Daren hoped his trust was not mislaid and that coming here would not bring yet more trouble to these people.
They were guided into the fissure, and Daren could feel eyes watching them from the shadows. The rest of the rebels might not feel the same trust that Nalon did. A short distance in, they entered a cave, moderately large, formed out of black rock that shone by the light of the torch one of Nalon’s men carried.
Lasrem commented on it.
“Volcanic rock,” Nalon clarified. “It formed tunnels and chambers over this entire area. Convenient for us, and almost impossible for the royal forces to flush us out without losing a lot of their men.” He glanced at Lasrem with clear concern. “If they knew you were here, brother…”
“Believe me, we are already in a lot of trouble for even leaving the base, much less coming here.” He motioned Daren forward. “This is Captain Phalnir, and he will explain exactly what has happened…”
* * *
Andon felt like he was floating. There was no sound, no sensation, just blessed silence and solitude. He drifted, and slowly, gradually, images of green eyes came to the fore. Pleasure came with the image and he almost smiled…
He was ripped away, forced back into a body that heaved and spasmed, trying to breathe, trying to escape.
Hands released his throat, and he gasped for breath, senses swimming wildly, so that he did not know up from down, only that he hurt everywhere.
Awareness came back to him and he snarled weakly, struggling against the bonds that held him so firmly, unable to move away from Byrant’s hated touch. He felt his body move in rhythm to the harsh thrusts, pain bursting over his spine and hips with each motion.
“The king has given you to me, to discipline as I please. He said he would be satisfied if I gave you a taste of pain, to remind you what happens to those who disrespect the crown.”
The sibilant whisper by his ear scraped over Andon’s nerves, and he flung his head back, hearing a satisfying crack as he struck the bastard’s nose.
Byrant gave a sharp cry of pain, followed by a blow to the back of Andon’s head that almost sent him back into darkness. Dazed, he felt the pain of his tormentor’s cock being harshly ripped from his body, leaving a burning agony in its wake.
“Mannerless guso!” The cloying weight left his body on the bed, and he managed to turn his head, watching from the single eye that was not swollen shut. Watching with grim satisfaction as Byrant crossed to the mirror, gingerly touching his nose before reaching for a cloth to stem the blood flowing down his face.
The griffon master dabbed at his face and then held the cloth firmly over his nose, glaring silently at Andon.
Despite a split lip, Andon managed a smirk, glorying in the rage he saw in the other man’s expression. The bastard could beat him into oblivion, but damned if Andon would give in, give up.
Byrant snarled something under his breath. He pulled on a robe and yanked the door open, slamming it in his wake.
In the abrupt silence, Andon tried to rally his strength. He had gone through this before. He had survived. He could do so again. Byrant had not destroyed him in the past, and he would not now.
He shivered, closing his eyes, remembering the panic and fear that had overwhelmed him as Byrant choked off his air, the moment his senses had spun away into another plane. He had been so sure he had died, that he had finally left this cursed life behind.
Instead, he was left here, with a silent promise of more to come.
He struggled to breathe evenly, to bring order back to his thoughts. The fear that Byrant had engendered with his abuses and attacks had caught Andon off guard. He had thought himself prepared for death, had thought he would welcome it, yet when the moment had come, all he could think of was Daren, of his gentleness and care…
He yanked his thoughts away with brutal force. There was no hope in that direction. Platten had shown no respect toward Daren at all. If Byrant had been made his keeper, then it was quite clear that Daren would not be allowed access to him. Gretnel would not be allowed access to Ceris.
He gave a shuddering sigh, striving to return to his usual state of being where emotions were stifled and survival was key.
He jerked as th
e door reopened with a fair amount of violence before being slammed shut again. Blearily, he watched Byrant stride toward him, and could not prevent a grin from curling his lips as he saw the swelling that distorted the man’s nose.
Byrant snarled in answer to that look, cuffing Andon sharply.
The griffon master pulled something from the pocket of his robes. Andon blinked, uncomprehending for long moments before he tried to move away, arching his body. He had seen these on prisoners, knew what they could do…
Byrant put a knee in his back, so that his bound body was even more helpless. He looped the collar around Andon’s bruised throat and buckled it shut. He adjusted straps, then released Andon.
Sharp points drove at his throat as he swallowed, and the moment he moved, tiny spikes pierced the back of his neck. He froze, hardly breathing. He remembered, as a boy on the streets, seeing a thief bound to a post, a collar such as this ringing his neck. Blood had dripped down his neck the first day. The second day there was more, along with other fluids as the man’s neck swelled and the spikes pressed ever deeper.
The screams—Andon would never forget the screams.
He lay still, forcing himself not to react as Byrant shed his robes and got onto the bed.
“Now, you will learn your place beneath me, guso. You will learn obedience. You will be tamed, or you will suffer in agony. I find I don’t much care which.”
The dark chuckle in his ear made him grind his teeth, then swiftly release as the points reacted to the movement.
“Good boy.” Fingers carded through his hair. A cock pierced him once more, and he could do nothing but lay there, wincing in pain as the spikes bore into him as he panted.
Dear gods…how was he to survive this?
The answer was simple, he would not. One way or the other he would be broken.
Daren. Sweet goddess let Daren find a way to him. If the man was truly his mate… There was no other hope but that.