“What are you?” he asked his new friend. Or at least Jodi hoped they could be pals. If life had taught him only a handful of things, having a good buddy was one of them.
“I am a Xearzan from Xearzan.”
“Ah.” Now Jodi realized that his point was many species took the same name as their planet without adding anything to the end. “Do you have a name?”
“I am Quiddle.”
“I am Jodi.”
“You are very unusual.”
“You are to me.” Quiddle was bright pink like the color of bubble gum, and his skin was kind of elastic looking, too. Jodi wanted to touch him but figured that would be rude, so he didn’t. He also didn’t strain forward to get a look at Quiddle’s junk despite his curiosity.
“However do you do anything with only two hands?”
“I manage.” Jodi guessed that every creature thought their build was the best. “What are Girakors like?”
“You mean will we be beaten, raped, or eaten?”
“Are those our only options?” Jodi hoped not. Out of the three, he couldn’t really pick one as the winner. Then again, at least with a beating he’d recover. He wasn’t certain he’d survive a brutal rape either mentally or physically. And being eaten didn’t sound like fun at all, unless it was the kinky kind. That would be awesome. So far, the only one who’d even touched his dick was he himself. Having another guy wrap his lips around the head and suck… Jodi yanked his mind off that as he didn’t need to be getting a stiffy while walking down the street naked.
Quiddle looked around as if to see if their captors were listening to him. Even though it was obvious the guys leading the pack of slaves were talking loudly amongst themselves, Quiddle still lowered his voice and walked a little closer to Jodi.
“I know only what I’ve heard from others, but they are said to be a most brutal people. They do not make war the way the Krase do.”
“That’s the big red guy, right?”
“Yes. This is their planet. Krase.”
“Right.” Jodi was working overtime to remember everything.
“The Krase are fearsome warriors, but they give a planet a chance to surrender.”
“How nice of them,” Jodi said sarcastically.
“For my world it was a blessing.”
“You don’t fight?”
“Xearzans are pacifists.”
“Oh.” Jodi wasn’t sure what to say about that when his gut was telling him if it came down to being enslaved or fighting he’d pick up whatever was closest and use it as a weapon. Still, he didn’t want to insult his new friend.
“So you see the Krase, while terrifying, have a certain honor.”
Jodi nodded agreement but didn’t see a whole lot of honor in a fight between a Krase warrior and a Xearzan. Even if the Xearzans weren’t pacifists, what the hell could they do against muscular dudes eight feet tall? Hell, most humans wouldn’t be able to do much against them. Hopefully, he never saw another one again.
“But the Girakors have no honor.”
“No?” Jodi looked at the men leading them again. They seemed so nice. Or maybe that was only because they hadn’t done anything to him yet. Too, it could simply be that he didn’t think of them as a threat because they looked so human. When he thought about that, Jodi realized he should actually be more frightened. No one was more brutal to his own kind than a human. At least none that he’d ever met before. He almost laughed at himself. Of course that was true when he’d never met anyone but other humans.
“The Girakors fight without giving the others a chance to surrender.”
“You mean they just declare war and go for it?”
“That is what they do.” Quiddle shook his head reprovingly. “They see something they want and they take it by force.”
“Haven’t they ever tried asking?”
“They do not believe in that.”
Both Jodi and Quiddle jerked their heads toward Jodi’s right. A tall, thin powder-blue guy was leaning in, clearly determined to join the conversation. His face was rather haughty looking, but Jodi decided that might not be his fault. It seemed to be the shape of his face.
“Girakors think it is cowardly to ask when they have the strength to take.” The blue guy nodded sagely.
“Who are you?” Jodi asked, careful to keep his voice down. If the Girakors were such vicious people, he certainly didn’t want their attention.
“I am De’tambo. I am a Delutian.”
The way he said his name was almost musical. Jodi offered up his name and nationality as did Quiddle. They walked in silence for a moment, ensuring that they were not noticed, and then they moved closer together, careful not to cross or tug on their leashes.
“You do not seem to think they are much of a threat,” De’tambo said to Jodi as he cast a pointed glance to their captors and then back.
“Well, they haven’t even glared at us.” Jodi shrugged. “They don’t seem excessively warlike. Not like that Krase warrior. He looked ready to get into a battle over someone looking at him the wrong way.”
“You are letting your eyes deceive you.” De’tambo nodded even more sagely than he had before. “That is the greatest trick the Girakors possess. They do not appear frightening. If one were to line up all the greatest warriors in the known universe, it is doubtful one would think the Girakors were the most deadly.”
When Quiddle nodded, Jodi felt his hopes sinking. He’d thought that maybe his captivity wouldn’t be such a horrible thing. He’d even thought that eventually he could talk his way out of the situation and get someone to take him home. But now with two guys, who certainly knew a hell of a lot more about things than he did, telling him they were all in for some serious trouble, Jodi began to worry in earnest.
“You will probably be used for sex.”
“Me?” Jodi asked Quiddle. “What makes you say that?”
“You look the most like them.”
“Another ignorant supposition,” De’tambo pointed out. “They may be like so many other creatures who want exotic lovers. Perhaps one with six hands.”
Quiddle looked down at his hands and his eyes—a strange white shade that was almost eerie—widened to the point he looked on the verge of crying.
“Hey, maybe not.” Jodi patted Quiddle on what he hoped was one of his shoulders. His skin was oddly rubbery and kind of sticky, reminding Jodi of well-chewed bubble gum. “Who’s to say what they like?” Turning his attention onto De’tambo, Jodi pointedly said, “Maybe they like tall, thin blue guys with big mouths.”
The Delutian seemed to consider this for a moment but eventually rejected the notion with an arrogant lifting of his face. “Delutians are known far and wide as tailors. Undoubtedly, that is what I was bought for. And Quiddle is a Xearzan, highly prized for their cleaning ability.” He turned his haughty gaze on Jodi. “What are Earthlings famous for?”
Jodi had no idea. Worse, he had a terrible feeling he didn’t want to know.
Chapter 2
Sevaleth Oluwen woke up with his hand in something wet. Growling, he lifted his arm and peered dubiously at the end. Whatever was coating him was sticky, cold, and smelled vaguely familiar. And then everything came rushing back to him. Returning from his final battle victorious had led to a celebration that had now spanned four days. He’d been offered up all manner of presents from food, jewelry, and slaves, but what had commanded his attention was the liquor.
Sevaleth had not known that Delutians made a wine that glimmered. It was so beautiful he was loathe to open the bottle and drink its contents, so instead, he’d kept the bottle tightly capped and turned it end over end, watching the glimmering flakes move about the liquid. While he did that, he drank grog from his own world. Grog was good because it was strong and gave him a familiar euphoric feeling, but grog was bad because he almost always drank too much and ended up with a headache.
When he’d crawled into bed—or what he was claiming for his bed last night—he’d had a slave bring him a po
rridge that was said to prevent the ill effects of too much grog. Sevaleth didn’t know if the rumor was true, because he’d fallen asleep before he could eat it and had apparently plopped his hand into the bowl full of it.
Annoyed, he turned and wiped his hand off on the nearest piece of fabric, which happened to a rug that had somehow ended up on his bed. Rising to his feet, Sevaleth swayed, belched, and realized in the festivities he’d lost his clothing. Waking up nude was not a new occurrence to him, so he simply noticed it as he wandered away from the hero’s hall.
For such a lofty title, it was really more of a debauchery den. The only reason he or any of his fellow Girakors came here was to get so inebriated they forgot all about war. Sevaleth had forgotten. But not for long. As soon as he’d woken up, the memories returned. There wasn’t enough grog in the world to erase the truth of what he had done to further the glory of his king.
Staggering out of the hall, he made his way down to the set of rooms that were his. Now that he was done with war, he would be able to spend the rest of his days in his rooms and spend his nights in the hero’s hall. There was always someone to celebrate. The idea of that made Sevaleth a little ill. He did not want to spend the rest of his life so drunk he couldn’t see. He wanted to find someone to fill his bed and make the ugliness in his mind go away.
Whenever Sevaleth tried to imagine this person, he couldn’t ever seem to do so. He was oddly not interested in the women of his tribe or the men. He didn’t find any of the slaves he’d been presented all that interesting, either.
“Perhaps I am as the wise one said—a rare solo.”
Sevaleth frowned. There had been a hero such as he before. He was solo, too. He might have been able to recall his name, but the grog was playing havoc with his brain, so he quickly gave up trying to think and instead went to the big pool of water. Half was inside and half was outside, which was good, because he didn’t think he could handle the bright light of outside right now. His head and eyes felt gritty.
Gently, Sevaleth climbed into the water and rinsed off his sticky hand. He already felt much better. After a mild scrubbing, he floated on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Someone at some point had painted a massive image of war up there. He grimaced. The man swinging the sword looked to be happy at his work. Body parts from his foes were flung all over the battlefield, while his mighty sword still gleamed.
Had he the strength to do so, Sevaleth would have laughed. First of all, no man was that happy killing others unless he was insane. Second, the blade would be coated with gore, not gleaming. Third, the—“Oh, who cares.”
No one was around to hear his diatribe against the artist. Even if they were, they would only agree with Sevaleth. Everyone always agreed with him, not because he was always right but because they were afraid of him. Maybe that was why he’d never taken a lover. He didn’t want to look into another’s eyes only to see fear was what made them receptive to him.
Rising out of the water, he took a towel from the edge where some were always stacked, then left a trail of wet prints across the tiles as he went to his bed. What he saw in his covers shocked him. There was a tataan curled into the center of the bed. The creature was native to his planet but from a land far away from the palace. The creature had been given to him by someone at some point. What astonished him was that his slaves had allowed the beast to not only come into his private quarters but to lounge on his bed. His bed. Where no one but him was allowed to be.
What further surprised Sevaleth was that he was rather impressed with the tiny thing. Rather than startle when he sat on the edge of the bed the tataan blinked sleepily then stretched, exposing its furry belly. Puzzled, because it seemed to him everything was in awe of him and this little thing wasn’t, Sevaleth reached out and petted the curiously striped thing. Layers of black and white fur rippled over the four-legged creature. Its eyes were fathomless black but somehow had the look of laughter.
“I am the proudest fighter to ever stride Girakor. None dare to laugh in my presence unless I laugh first.”
The tataan swatted at his hand.
“Prepare for battle. You have roused my ire.” Sevaleth was ready to tickle the belly of the fluffy creature with merciless joy, but when it yawned, he decided he would refrain. “You have earned the right to sleep. Had you been less…furry…I might have kicked you out.”
Leaving the creature behind, Sevaleth dressed in a loincloth and called for his groomer.
The fussy man entered and practically dragged his nose on the floor he bowed so deeply. When he saw the creature upon Sevaleth’s bed, he swore to rouse the houseboy, but Sevaleth told him the tataan was his new gift and he valued the animal more highly than any slave. This made it clear that should any woe befall his beloved pet, someone would pay most dearly. Sevaleth had no doubt his groomer would spread the word to the rest of the slaves. While the man fiddled with his hair, Sevaleth decreed that his pet would have his own bed and that it would be just as big as Sevaleth’s and would be situated over closer to the sun that shone in the windows.
Bowing and murmuring while finishing up with his hair, the groomer proudly offered Sevaleth a mirror.
Sevaleth looked at himself for a long time. He thought he looked silly. His black hair was combed back and forth over his head in wide swaths almost as if his hair couldn’t collectively decide on a direction, so half went one way while the other half went the other. Looking at his hair drew his attention away from the scar that ravaged his right side. Perhaps that was the real reason he had no lover. Who could look at that and not feel fear? Worse, as he angled the mirror down, he saw the other marks of war on his body. He was considered a young man, but he didn’t look like the others who had never fought. They were soft and unmarred.
“Tell me what land this fashion springs from.” Since he was a hero, Sevaleth was, by custom, not allowed to ask questions. He found it bothersome to be so restricted. He’d much rather simply talk with those around him, but there were certain rules for men like him. Disliking a tradition did not mean he had the right to change it.
His groomer now gushed about some place right here on Girakor that Sevaleth had never even heard of. He found it odd that he had been all over the galaxy yet never explored his own planet. But that was left to explorers and not heroes. Men like Sevaleth fought to conquer lands to bring back slaves and goods that his people could use. That was his purpose. Now that he was done fulfilling his purpose, he was expected to build a family and live near the hero’s hall to celebrate the younger men’s successes.
“You do not like it?”
“I wish to be fashionable.” Sevaleth left it at that. He guessed it didn’t matter what he looked like when he rarely had occasion to see himself and others only looked upon him with awe and nothing more. The only mirror in his entire suite was in the possession of his groomer. Heroes were not vain. That was what he told the designer about why he wanted the huge mirrors removed, but the truth was there wasn’t anything in Sevaleth’s reflection that he wished to see more than once a day.
“I will eat now.”
The groomer left as Sevaleth moved to his table. In short order he had a massive meal laid out for him. He ate heartily. After a night of drinking he was always hungry. But he was more thoughtful this morning than most. He would like to try new things now that he was no longer expected to wage war. What astonished him was that he’d tried very hard not to ever get to this point. There were not many old heroes on his world. Most died long before they could retire.
Sevaleth had not been so lucky.
“There are more gifts for you, great master.”
Rising from his chair, he sighed loud and long. It seemed all on the planet wished to curry his favor now that he was back to stay for good. An old hero was a valuable friend. Sevaleth would be expected to cheer on the younger men, but he would also be called upon to decide which of the men were ready to go on the next campaign. This made his favor valuable. There were men who had long since tried to
grease Sevaleth’s armor, so to speak, in the hopes that if he survived he would feel gratitude toward them. Sevaleth didn’t allow such things to sway him. He voted by who he thought would be the best. Or he would when the time came. So far he’d been too busy having fun to actually do any work.
Moving swiftly, he retraced his earlier steps and returned to the hero’s hall. Someone had been very diligent in cleaning up. This was good. Sevaleth did not want to see the mess he had made and struggle to piece the evening back together.
Sevaleth took his elevated chair in the hall. His was one of hundreds that ran down both sides of the enormous hall. Each room was spacious enough for guests, slaves, and the hero himself. Usually, only half the seats were occupied at any given time, so entertainments tended to sprawl out of the room, into the hall, and into the other cells. No one minded. There was enough debauchery for all.
As soon as he was settled, several men who trained the men in their villages came with slaves on leashes. They offered them over to Sevaleth’s houseboy, who would ensure they were given work suitable to their natures. He would also make sure they had food and were given accommodations below the area where Sevaleth’s rooms were. It was all very humdrum until he saw the young man.
He was shorter than Sevaleth, and his hair was longer, mixing blond and brown in a most becoming way. His eyes were green like the sea outside Sevaleth’s balcony, but it was his mouth that riveted his interest. His lips were very red, almost too red, but when he saw that he was chewing at them, he realized why they were so dark. Somehow, his rich-colored lips made Sevaleth think of having him in his bed. Even though it made no sense, he didn’t care. He still wanted him.
But he was a slave.
That wouldn’t do. Sevaleth could have him if he were enslaved to him, but then the young man would have no free will. He didn’t want him in his bed by force. As he sat there pondering the situation, Sevaleth suddenly realized he could work his way around that small glitch.
Enslaved By a Hero [Sold! 7] (Siren Publishing Everlasting Classic ManLove) Page 2