Convergence (The Dragon Within Saga Book 1)

by Roberto Vecchi

  Turning and interrupting her with an icy coldness to drink all warmth, he did not wait for her to finish her stated apology, "Then it is not I who waits upon them, but they who wait upon me," pausing momentarily, he continued, "as it is with you." Her gale force need for he and his power had driven his dark fountain into frenzy. His new depth of hate, his newly deepened void driven by an unrelenting understanding of his self-loathing, was aching to be expressed.

  "Yes, My Lord. Of course, My Lord," she said weakly as she took a small step back.

  Before she could turn to leave, he was upon her. Grasping her around the neck with one hand, while the other sought the moistened area between her legs, he bent her head back and firmly spoke within her ear. "Do you think, do you possibly see, an end to our mission that betrays the promises I have shown you?" In that moment, when the wanting of him, of his hate, of his power, of all he could give to her and take from her descended upon her face in an unmistakable mask of submission, she hated herself more thoroughly that she had ever before. She was helpless before him and deserved all the darkness his risen need would bring upon her. She had been taken. She was his.

  "No, My Lord," she said between gasping breaths, each of her hands gripping each of his.

  Feeling the hate and power rise again within himself, he tightened his grip and pushed her until her back contacted the cold marble wall. "And can you possibly fathom another who sees within the depth of you as I have?"

  "No, My Lord," she said faintly as she struggled for breath through his grasping hand. Though now, she was beginning to grind his fingers deeper within her.

  "Then you are none others. You are mine." With the dissolving echo of his last word upon her desire to be taken by the hate and power he possessed within, he forced her down to her knees, pinned her hands over her head against the wall, and began roughly plunging himself within her mouth. There was no thought of her, no quality she possessed of attraction he dwelt upon, and no image of their connection filling either of them. There was only need and use. He needed to express, and she was there to be used. He would give her no reprieve, issue no regret, and feel no remorse. The physical display of control saw him bind her arms and legs as fully as he had bound her soul. And she would not resist. Why resist anything that momentarily filled the numbing apathy of being empty? For passion, in even its most abhorrent form, allows feeling; and any feeling, even the most horrible, is better than not feeling at all. She struggled for a time, but the struggling was nothing more than a silhouette of her true desire to be owned and valued.

  And she truly desired to be owned, or rather, to belong to something greater than she. In this moment, the greatness that would cleave her to the rising power he possessed was him. There was no questioning who he was, nor did he question within himself how he wanted to take her. She knew she was anonymous in this moment, but in her anonymity she felt a form of freedom. She was free to express herself in the only manner she could from the only place she could; hate. She too hated herself, and as such, demanded reparations be paid against her woeful estimation of her existence. Since his uncanny rise to the chief of their tribe, and even further into his abolition of the council of elders, and firmly planted in his unification of all gypsies, she was drawn to him. And although his intent upon her will to submit to him was undeniably heartless, it was still she whom he had chosen. And because of that, she felt worth. He could have chosen anyone else to prey upon, to forcefully take, yet he chose her. He chose her and she needed him to continue to choose her. If he did not, then she would be not; for he had constructed her identity upon the foundation of his being. So it did not matter what he did, or how harshly and maliciously he chose to do it. All that mattered was that he did it to her. And like every other time, her arousal rose in unison with his.

  In the fulfillment of all the selfish dreams seeking entrance into his conscious and physical expression, he took her. Her struggles were transitory and fleeting, as was any possible emotion he felt for her. It was consumed totally by his hate and the power of his fountain, now allowed complete reign to direct his every action and thought. With an unrelenting and unforgiving hate, he forced himself upon her physical body as thoroughly as he had beaten her in the training battle they had finished a short time ago. When he had finished, in a gut wrenching display of physical dominance driven by hate, and hate alone, he expelled his seed within her. But in that moment, she was formless, she was faceless, and she was nothing. As he recovered from the overwhelming imbibing of power, he bid her to leave. And she did. She had no clothes to gather because there were none that were removed. He cared naught for the warmth of her skin next to his, only the release of himself. So her tear ridden face was all she collected as she exited his room. And though she felt every mortally capable emotion of desolation, she at least felt. And she was thankful for it.

  Lying in his bed, enjoying the remnants of his orgasmic power driven feast, he remembered the first time he had taken her. It was clumsy. It lacked the fluid control of this last time, but it was no less delicious because it fell on the night he had assumed his position as leader of the gypsies by killing Oolos in an act of self-defense, though defense was only the visible motive. What drifted beneath the obvious were the years of following his master's plans that saw him elevated in the eyes and hearts of his new family.

  At first, his trust in these plans began to waiver because all Satan required of him was to sit with Mordin and repeatedly challenge him at the game of Krinock Gool. And while Jesolin's sight into the depth of Mordin would have allowed him to easily best the older and more experience player, his master required him to loose repeatedly. At first, it frustrated him as he had to endure some minor insults from Mordin, but as the weeks turned into months, Jesolin became aware that he was not playing the game of Gool, but was playing the game of trust, and he was winning. With each game, with each time Jesolin feigned inferiority, with each time he accepted the wisdom of Mordin above his and submitted himself to the elder's teaching of both Gool and life in general, the seed of trust was further watered within Mordin. And the more that seed was allowed to grow, the more Jesolin learned.

  The contests had to progress, however, and Jesolin had to show himself a formidable opponent, but not too early in his development. For as Mordin stated before, this game was more a pathway to self-understanding than it was moving pieces on the board, and as such, required the constant and dedicated study over years to truly master. Slowly, and under the direction of Satan, Jesolin began to assert his progress and provide more of a challenge for Mordin. He would, of course, give all credit to the elder gypsy for his superior and patient teaching. There is no quicker way into a man's trust than to credit him beyond what his actions deserve was the advice Satan whispered in his ear. And it is this trust he had earned that allowed him to learn that the council of elders was growing disillusioned with their current chief. Under his leadership, their struggles had been becoming more steadily severe. They had faced more attacks by barbarian raiders as well as from rival gypsies. While they still had enough food supplies provided them by the land, their chief's inability to find a suitable, long term area to settle upon had prevented their ability to fill their food stores and develop a much needed stockpile.

  "So, have I confused you? I should not have because we have been playing this game for a long time now and you should be able to all but predict my moves," stated Mordin as he sat across from the young man, Jesolin.

  "No, I am not confused," he said in response.

  "Then why have you left the pieces suspended in their anticipation of my forthcoming victory? It is unlike you to show pause and indecisiveness," lightly taunted Mordin with a small show of affection.

  A small, almost imperceptible grin crossed the lips of the young man who now rested his chin on his hands as he further considered the board and its current allocation of pieces. The game had progressed, up until this point, as Jesolin had directed. There was always a predictable ebb and flow to Mo
rdin's pattern of play, much the same as his pattern of living. The man was outwardly silent and appeared to most to have reached the extent of his potential in all areas; however, if one possessed the ability to see within, as given him by his master, one would be able to see a devious and deceptive storm held guarded behind the gates of impotence. In many ways, Mordin reminded him of himself while he was yet within the confines of the orphanage. And he would do for Mordin what Satan had done for him. He would give him the wherewithal to act upon the desires of his storm. He would allow Mordin the opportunity to kill the chief and usurp his position. But first, he needed to win his trust. And to do that, he needed to win this game.

  "Victory, it seems, will evade your clutches today, Mordin," Jesolin let his words seep through his increasing grin.

  "Do not be so quick to smile, young one. This game has already been played out before we even sat down," confidently stated Mordin.

  Jesolin slowly reached his hand toward the board, pretending to hesitate and maintain a veil of indecision. But Mordin was right, more right than he actually knew. This game, all of their games, from the first one they played to the future games they will play, had all been decided, but not for the same reason Mordin's response had suggested. More prominent than the truth shown by the pieces and their movements directed at the behest of their players was the truth presented by a greater conductor, a truth Jesolin was quickly learning: all such actions were being directed by forces more deeply than any mortal may understand. He need only listen, wait, and obey. And so he listened, waited, obeyed; and then, he moved.

  Placing his hand upon the obvious choice and preparing to move it, he looked up at Mordin who looked back as if he knew this move would be the next. And then the game changed. Jesolin removed his had before making his play and confidently placed it upon the piece three spaces behind his lead piece. Whereas normally Mordin took the proactive lead in the game, often times forcing Jesolin into a defensive strategy that seemed to compliment his meek demeanor, this next play was decidedly insidious and aggressive. By moving this piece, Jesolin effectively cut off Mordin's lead piece from the support of his others. Mordin had only two options now to consider. Either he could allow his lead piece to stand alone thereby sacrificing his other pieces in an attempt to reach the center of the board first, or he could sacrifice his lead position in an attempt to save the rest of his pieces. Either decision, however, was not a method for continuing the game he would be pleased with.

  "That was unexpected. You do not play this way," said Mordin through aggravated teeth. He hated to lose if it did not serve a greater purpose

  "Perhaps it is the result of your teaching, Drahin," offered Jesolin as a consolation to the impending loss.

  Taking a moment to consider the quickly turning tides of their game play, and possibly even the nature of their relationship, Mordin could not help but entertain the thought that there was much more to this young man than he first lead people to believe. He had come to them very frail, almost sickly and had remained so for the better part of his inclusion into their tribe, but recently, he had observed a growing confidence along with a growing physical presence. He was no longer the frail young adolescent Vismorda found years ago. He was becoming a man, and if this game was any indication of the type of man he would become, it was one of formidability.

  The quickly unfolding sequence of events confirmed to Jesolin that Mordin would serve very nicely as an integral part in the events to come. Mordin's play revealed two aspects to his nature, both of which were advantageous for Jesolin's exploitation. Firstly, it revealed that the elder gypsy was equipped to risk the summation of the game and life for the hope in a singular, advantageous prospect. Secondly, he felt this advantageous prospect to be himself. From the moment of Jesolin's game changing play, the rest of the game was simply a formality, yet Mordin refused to yield and insisted upon seeing the game through to its end. Where the appearance this would be interpreted as noble to those who did not know Mordin, Jesolin was able to see the truth behind it, and the truth of the man. Mordin was, and would always remain, a man whose behavior was dominated by a narcissistic egocentrism. The young hand of Satan need only exploit this and Mordin would always be his.

  But now was not the time for his continued indulgence into all aspects of his progression from frail, meek adolescent gypsy to ruler of the largest gypsy clan ever assembled. No, it was the time to celebrate and prepare for the moment. His legion was assembled, and they were very thirsty and restless. Rising from his bed, he walked slowly over to his armor, admiring again that which he was soon to don. It was midnight black infused with the dark liquid from The Great Fountain of Satan himself. Wearing it would allow him to have access to this great fountain to adjunct his and bestow upon him a well of power beyond mortal comprehension. While wearing it, he would be all but immortal to the harms of mortal means of war and slaughter. Yes, now was the time for him to finally embrace, with utter devotion, the victory he was charged to lead.

  "Summon the Hound Master. I have need to speak with him. After you have done that, summon Mordin to my chambers. I would speak to him as well," said Jesolin to the young woman standing just outside of his door. She was constant and silent. Ever present, she was always ready to complete his bidding, whatever it may be. However, she was not always the same. All of the young woman whom he captured for his service and pleasure were able to endure the severity of his treatment for only months. As such, he could see this one was beginning to break, and once broken, their minds and use quickly diminished. He would be sure to select another from the plethora of servants he had acquired over the years. Perhaps one of the younger children had finally matured enough to serve him. Although this one was still useful and served him well, her collapse under the continued pressure of his will would come soon. Perhaps she would finally shatter while on their march to victory. Perhaps not. In all truth, he did not concern himself with her beyond his use.

  "My Lord, you have need to speak with me?" said a low and raspy voice.

  "Indeed. Have you been able to ascertain the abilities of your death hounds? They will prove to be invaluable during our campaign," Jesolin asked.

  "Indeed, My Lord. The dark magic has increased their size and strength. They are also more ravenous for the taste of blood, but show no aggression toward those who wield the dark power. Mordin was correct to suggest we infuse it into their food," said the Hound Master.

  "That is excellent news, Hound Master Rioch. Tell me, how did your field test fare? Did your hounds succeed in the manner you had hoped?" asked Jesolin as he turned. Rioch was a tall and slender man, defined by the hours he spent training his beasts. He carried with him a feral and primal desire for action absent from the need to analyze. In this manner, he greatly reflected the nature of his beasts. The Hound Master smiled slowly and purposefully.

  "Yes, My Lord. We released a pair of them to hunt a young boy and his father. They did well considering they were just pups. No need to risk two of the fully mature specimens. They were able to successfully track them over a great distance, nearly four times that of a normal wolf. They killed the father," Rioch said as he slowly trailed off at the end.

  "And what of the boy? Why did you not mention his demise?" Jesolin pressed as his gaze turned hard.

  "The boy was able to escape," Rioch returned.

  "The boy escaped? How could it be a young boy was able to escape your hounds, even the youngest of the pack? Could it be that you have elevated your own esteem and value by bolstering your success beyond its current truthfulness?" asked Jesolin.

  "My Lord, we did not anticipate the insurgence of yet a third factor into the trial," said the tall man hesitantly.

  "A third insurgence?"

  "Yes, My Lord. Just as the hounds had killed the father and were getting ready to pursue the boy, a young monk intervened."

  "A simple monk? Two of your hell beasts could not overcome a simple monk?” said Jesolin with a tone of contempt.r />
  "No My Lord. Well, yes My Lord. By this was not a simple monk. We believe him to have been one of the Monks of the Righteous Path."

  Jesolin stood; still facing Rioch as if he was appraising the truth contained within his eyes expressed though his speech. Rioch was able to maintain his gaze for a moment, but relented by looking downward. "I see," said Jesolin quietly.

  From the door to his chamber, Jesolin heard another voice request his audience, but this one was much more familiar and much more trusting, "My Lord, if you have a moment, I am here."

  Hesitating for a brief second, Jesolin then turned to see an elder man dressed in midnight blue robes the length of the floor standing ready for his response, "Ah, Mordin, I see you have recovered from our latest training. Come in." To Rioch he said, "It is fortunate that the hounds you set loose for the test were only pups. It would be most unpleasant if their elders demonstrated as little ability as they," contained within was an inherent understanding of dismissal.

  As the Hound Master bowed and left, Mordin strode into Jesolin's chamber. "It sounds like Rioch's little test did not meet with the results he had promised?"

  "Indeed. His hell beasts were outmatched, in the end, by a simple Monk of the Righteous Path. Though he does insist his test involved only his most youthful beasts. Tell me, Mordin, are we to fear these Monks?"

  "Of course not, My Lord Jesolin. There is naught prepared to stand against the full power of your assembled Legion. While singularly formidable, there are only a few of the Monks alive, and they take a more passive and detached approach to the workings of man. They observe and study. Are they lethal in combat? Indeed they are. They contain a physical prowess set to the limits of mortal ability. They reach this physicality through a very strict practice of martial arts. But lend them no portion of your concern. They are too few and too detached. They will offer no resistance; at least none that will amount to more than another trodden blade of grass in the wake of your great Legion, My Lord."