by J. C. Owens
The knight tsked, a long claw tracing the scars that decorated Brenaith’s back, evidence of years of abuse.
“To scar something so beautiful, how foolish. There are so much better ways to ensure compliance, to bring about obedience.”
Brenaith remembered the terror of that sword, how even the most powerful of the demons had quailed at its presence. Such a thing alone would bring the strongest to their knees in supplication. And that was only one thing that Shaynith-una had at his command.
The knight slapped Brenaith’s bare buttocks, then rolled from the bed with a low, soft chuckle. “We will eat first, before the ceremony. You will not be hungry afterwards for some time, and I do not want you fainting for lack of food. Rise now, and wash yourself after you have eaten.”
Brenaith obeyed, numb with cold and apprehension. Despite the knight’s comments, he doubted he would be able to choke anything down.
Food was brought by servants, and Brenaith struggled to consume enough to please his new master, feeling the contents of his stomach roil, nausea rising to half choke him. He fought it back grimly.
The knight attended to his own ablutions, then signaled Brenaith into the room to wash. To his relief, he was left alone at long last, free of watching eyes, though he had no doubt his new master was aware of every movement he made, every breath he took.
Still, he was grateful for this small respite.
He poured some of the room temperature water from one of the urns, finding a soft cloth to rub across his body. The pristine, white fabric quickly discolored with old blood, and he found a bitter wish rise up that the stains would never come out, some small mark of his suffering made physical, ruining their possession.
So pathetic a rebellion.
He gritted his teeth, letting his mind drift away, cleansing himself with slow, thoughtless rhythm, avoiding the painful areas of his new adornments. When he grew cold and began to shiver, he realized that he had taken too long, the water now chill and filthy.
He finished swiftly, fear rising, wondering if he would be punished for his lack of haste.
There was no sound from the room, and for a brief moment, he hoped that the knight had gone elsewhere, that he would have more time…
Then he heard the outer door open, the dreaded voice of his former master making him shiver and cringe against the wall, dragging one of the towels over his body in a vain attempt to shield himself.
He strained to hear, unable to move.
The voices were too low to hear properly, no matter how he tried, and at last he realized he was cold and wet, towel dangling limply from his fingers.
Biting his lip, he rubbed himself briskly, trying to chase away his own fear and warm his chilled flesh at the same time.
Moderately dry, he paused once more, before pulling the large, thick towel around his body.
His new master had not demanded nudity, yet.
“Brenaith, come.” The knight’s tone was calm and even, held no anger, but Brenaith jumped regardless, heart beginning to pound.
He clutched the towel more closely, immediately opening the door and entering the vast room, keeping his eyes fixed resolutely upon the knight.
He found a faint but vicious satisfaction that he need not look at Stratlin. It seemed a rebellion of sorts, after so long under the bastard’s thumb. The thought kept him grounded, away from panicked anticipation of whatever horror awaited him.
The knight nodded, red eyes slowly appraising his clean form. “Come, little human. Let us get this formality over with. I need to leave this morning in good time.”
Brenaith came to stand before him, trying to breathe deeply and evenly. He could not escape this, it was evident. But he could at least attempt some form of composure, however fragile it might be.
Shaynith-una smiled, a fearsome baring of pointed teeth, drawing Brenaith closer to stand between his long, parted legs where he sat upon the bed, nude and at ease with it. Slim fingers, claws retracted, gently grasped the towel and drew it away, dropping it to the side, then returning to Brenaith’s chest with a light, almost tickling touch.
Red eyes rose, pinned Brenaith’s thoughts instantly. He was drawn down upon the bed, arranged gently upon the mussed sheets.
His whole world narrowed to those eyes, even the knowledge of Stratlin watching was a faint thing, far back in his scattered mind.
The knight leaned over him, fingers rising to stroke over his throat, pressing lightly, testing.
Brenaith blinked hazily as he saw two teeth, longer than the others, slide into prominence, thin and frighteningly sharp, like the fangs of an asp. Something far back in his thoughts quivered with terror, sought to command his body to flinch away, but he lay still, in complete thrall.
His new master stroked back his long hair and leaned closer, hot breath fanning over his neck, wet heat as that amazing tongue swept over the site, and then a moment of pressure.
Pain. Deep and sharp. Then it faded into something else, something warm and pleasant that made his body relax, his thoughts sink into stupor.
He began to feel lightheaded, and wondered vaguely exactly how much his master would take from him.
The knight withdrew the fangs as though the thought itself had prompted the action, his long tongue laving the spot, cleaning it thoroughly.
Brenaith blinked, confused, as Shaynith-una’s fangs sank into his own wrist, tearing deeply, rich blood welling to the surface.
“Drink, my pet.” He pressed the wound to Brenaith’s lips. He tried to turn his head aside, disgust rising, but the knight grasped his chin, eyes narrowing in warning.
Shuddering, he opened his mouth. It was only blood after all. He had been forced to drink far worse than this.
The thick, hot liquid filled his mouth, and he swallowed with difficulty, feeling his stomach heave. Grimly he fought down the nausea and swallowed again. To his utter relief, his master drew back his wrist and licked at the wound with evident enjoyment, eyes fixed upon Brenaith.
The intensity of that gaze, the small smirk that Stratlin was displaying…
His belly cramped and he grimaced, laying a protective hand over the area. The next spasm was more violent, and he gasped, half rising. Shaynith-una pushed him back down with casual force, holding him there with negligent ease.
Brenaith began to shiver. Sweat slid down his temples, and heat seemed to engulf his whole body until he was panting.
“What percentage survive this?” Stratlin’s voice seemed loud and discordant in the silence, and it took some time to process the words.
“Approximately four out of ten or so. It varies.” Shaynith-una’s tone held no concern.
Brenaith felt panic rise as he slowly made sense of what they were saying. Then fever and pain overrode his mind, and he descended into darkness.
CHAPTER FOUR
His senses swam to the surface, slow and muzzy. It took time for him to realize that he was moving, his body rolling gently back and forth in the softness beneath him. He blinked, trying to gather his vague thoughts into some semblance of order. Above him, cream canvas fluttered, strange and dream-like in its motions.
It took time for him to make sense of what he was seeing, and then terror broke upon him and he gasped, tried to sit up. He was in a cart of some sort, evident now by the motion, and the sound of wheels over the stones of a road. He was blessedly alone for the moment, and he let his body relax, his weakness preventing anything but the smallest of twitches. Laughter echoed outside the canvas wall, the demon language rising and falling in conversation.
Brenaith froze, blinking, true thought beginning to find a foothold.
He had survived the bite.
Crushing disappointment overwhelmed him then, and weak tears rose to trickle down his cheeks. So close to blessed death, but somehow, yet again, he had been forced to return to a cursed continuance.
The tears stopped after only a moment or so. He was far too weak to waste his energy on such a triviality.
He drew a deep breath, calming himself. Understanding began to make itself known. Light metal encased his wrists, his ankles—his neck. The promised collar was accompanied by cuffs it seemed. Perhaps later he could resent their presence, but for now they were simply part of the confusion of consciousness.
Stratlin’s fortress, so long his prison, lay behind him. It was a mixed blessing, a release from the past, from the memories that lay in every inch of stonework. Yet, it had held the essence of his prince, the last fragile reminders of his love.
He rolled his head in denial, grimacing at the pull upon his neck, a sharp reminder of what lay ahead. A change it might be. Better or worse remained to be seen.
Brenaith closed his eyes, willing in his weakness to exist only in the present. He lay on sweet softness, cushioning his body against the jolts of the cart, his head cradled on a pillow finer than any he had owned even in Artepia.
His lips curled into a bitter smile. It seemed as the shadow knight’s bloodservant, he was of some worth, certainly greater than he had possessed before. As though such a thing as a pillow could cushion him from the reality of what he faced.
Still, he had learned to live in the moment. No past, no future, holding on to the rare times when he felt less pain, less hunger or cold. Perhaps that was the ability that had kept him sane, kept him whole enough to survive. If so, it was a curse more than a blessing, and he wished instead that sweet madness would overcome him.
He drowsed after only a few moments, unable to keep fear at the surface for long. His body took over, and he drifted, the movement of the cart lulling him into blankness.
For this moment, he was alone and safe.
* * *
When he next opened his eyes, Shaynith-una was crouched above him, light flickering over his face, casting half his visage into darkness and making his right eye gleam eerily.
Brenaith jerked, choking back a scream, freezing as a hand cupped his cheek.
White teeth shone for a moment as the knight smiled, doing nothing to calm Brenaith’s fear.
“Shh, little one. We are camped for the night, and you need water, and food if you can keep it down.”
Brenaith’s muscles slowly unclenched as he got himself under control.
The long fingers caressed his face, the faintest prick of claws at the end.
“Mine,” the whisper held pleased triumph. “Till the end of your days, I possess you, mind and body, Brenaith. Never forget that. Work with me, and you will find your fetters light, your servitude bearable.”
His voice was hypnotic, and Brenaith found himself nodding, a faint “yes, master,” leaving his lips.
He despised himself immediately for his surrender, but in the end, had he not learned this lesson all too well under Stratlin? Was he going to try resistance again, with someone much worse? It would be foolishness he could not afford.
The knight smiled again, pleasure evident in his expression. “You are doing well, little one.”
Brenaith felt like a praised pet, and the slight smirk on Shaynith-una’s face reminded him that his new master could sense his feelings all too well.
He dropped his gaze down to the fine covers, watching his thin fingers curl in the soft cloth.
The sound of water made him swallow with difficulty, suddenly aware of his desperate thirst, and when the cup was held to his lips, he fought to bring his hands up, a whimper of need escaping him.
“Shh,” Shaynith-una soothed, bringing his head up with one hand and holding the cup steady with the other.
Liquid trickled down Brenaith’s throat, and he gulped eagerly, almost choking in his haste.
His master did not chastise him, only lessened the amount that entered his lips.
Only when the cup was empty did Brenaith cease, almost gasping for air, body trembling. He was lowered back with amazing gentleness, a cloth wiping at his lips and neck where water had escaped.
He lay dazedly, blinking up at the knight’s face, marveling at its beauty despite the red eyes. How could a demon possibly possess such otherworldly perfection? It hardly seemed possible. Strong, powerful as they were, there had been no other demon he would have described as stunning. Yet, here was a being that proved him wrong. What was his bloodline to produce such looks? Brenaith had a hard time believing that a demon god would value beauty in its creations, and if it did, its idea of beauty would be much more hideous than this.
“My lord god is infinite in his abilities, among them, appreciating beauty in all its forms. He sees great beauty in his people.” The knight’s tone was placid, but Brenaith immediately withdrew his musings. This was the last person he should let down his guard with.
A fragrant piece of fresh bread was offered to him, and he accepted it with hesitation.
“I am your master. It is my responsibility to keep you healthy, since you will be at my side for a great many years, now that you are bonded to me.”
Brenaith ripped the bread apart and savored a piece. Then he paused, gathering his courage.
“What does it mean, sir, to be bonded to you?” He flinched at the movement of Shaynith-una’s hand, fully expecting a blow for his impertinence.
Instead his hair was brushed back, the strands filtering through long fingers while red eyes fastened on the golden locks, so very different from the knight’s long, black braid.
“You will live as long as I want you to. You are bound to me, unable to leave, unable to exist without me. You are limited to several hundred yards distance of separation before you will become ill, unless I put you under deliberate thrall. You will feed me blood, give me sexual gratification when I wish it. For my part, I will care for you, see that you thrive and are content.” He shrugged, letting Brenaith’s hair drop as he sank back into a cross-legged position near the entrance to the cart.
Brenaith stared at him, bread forgotten, eyes wide. “How long…” His voice cracked.
The knight grinned, white teeth gleaming in the flickering light. “I am three thousand years old, my boy. If I so wish it, I could live ten thousand years more. And you will be at my side.”
The bread in Brenaith’s stomach seemed to turn to lead. “We will be together—forever?”
Shaynith-una tilted his head, surveying Brenaith’s horror with interest. “Eternal life. Is that not every human’s dream?”
“Not mine,” he whispered.
The knight leaned back on one hand, grace in every line of his relaxed form.
“That was because you were mistreated. Now, you have found favor with me. Life will be much better. As I have said before, I prefer to taste blood that’s sweet rather than sour, and you must be content for that.”
Brenaith looked down, slowly tearing the remaining bread into miniscule pieces, biting his lip until it hurt, reining in all he wanted to say.
His master sighed, pushing himself to the edge of the cart and off the back, stretching his long, lean body for a moment. “You fear what you do not understand. Give this time. You need to learn your place and realize the freedom within it.”
Brenaith felt anger rise, now when he thought he had learned to contain it. “It is another form of captivity, of slavery, my lord. How can I be content with that?”
He put trembling fingers over his mouth, unable to believe he had spoken in such a fashion.
Shaynith-una put out a hand toward him, only that, and suddenly Brenaith felt his breath constricted, as though that hand lay around his throat and not several feet away.
“You are young and frightened, but I will have your respect. Do not presume that my bond to you cannot be severed. I have told you before, do not test me. I can be kind or cruel in a heartbeat. I do not think you wish to encounter the latter, hmm?”
Brenaith nodded with difficulty, beginning to gasp, then the phantom stranglehold released, and he drew in sweet air.
His master turned and walked away with that eerie grace and silence, returning to the company of his demon kin.
* * *
It too
k two weeks before Brenaith was well enough to ride, and that he was allowed to ride was a gift of great proportion.
He loved horses, had always had a way with them, and that had been one of the things he missed most during his captivity, the loss of their companionship.
He had expected to be required to stay within the cart, a pampered, protected slave, but Shaynith-una, once again, seemed very different than Stratlin.
He rode behind his master, a safe distance back, his horse giving a wide berth to the demon horse.
Shaynith-una rode alone and seemed fine with it, his expression distracted, as though his thoughts ranged far within his mind. For all Brenaith knew, perhaps he was communicating with his demon god.
He shivered at the thought. That god had been the downfall of Artepia. He had picked up pieces of information over the five years, enough to know that the demon god had created something powerful enough to defeat the Artepian gods, to nullify their protection.
Indeed earlier information had pointed to several countries being invaded, but Artepia had ignored the facts, their king believing that their mountain stronghold was too isolated, too small to warrant interest, much less invasion and conquest.
How terribly wrong their ruler had been. The demon god had seen far more in Artepia than they could have dreamed, though it still made no sense what that could have been.
That was far, far beyond Brenaith’s understanding. He had no desire to meddle in divine affairs. He had enough to deal with here. It was enough to know that his gods could not aid him, could not rid his country of the invaders.
If the gods themselves could not defeat the demons, then Brenaith himself had no hope whatsoever. He could only struggle to cope with the results.
So far, with cautious optimism, he had to say that things were better than they had been with Stratlin. How long that would continue was impossible to say, but for now, he would take every moment he could get.