Owned by the Vampire King

by T. S. Ryder

  When he woke, Cheryl was still deeply asleep and Maskin was still standing watch. The glow coming in from the window in the door was a pale shade of green. Planetlight. The sunrods had been switched to low light, though they still emitted warmth.

  The prince stood and did a few stretches to loosen his stiff muscles before he joined Maskin at the window. "Anything?"

  "I've seen a few warriors. Nothing else. They know where we are. They're waiting for something. Or someone."

  Bjorn nodded, looking through the window himself. "Perhaps they're waiting for a priest to bless their blades, so they can kill on this sacred land without their souls being destroyed. Or perhaps they are hoping to draw us out."

  "Perhaps. Or they could be coming at us from the side or the back. If they set fire to these flimsy wooden structures, we'll perish." Maskin glanced at him. "Whatever they're after, you should rest. We will need all the strength that we can muster when the attack comes again."

  "I slept most of the day. It's your turn to rest. I'll keep watch."

  A wry smile twisted Maskin's face, making the diamond tattoos under his eyes look like two spear points. "You will watch over me? I was bred for this work. You were bred to sit on soft chairs and flatter others from the noble houses. I can go without sleep for a week and still fight a warrior's battle. Can you?"

  "If these attacks are a protest against you being allowed to fight for the throne, then you are the one in more danger. In which case you need your strength more than I need mine."

  "It also means that as much as I have yearned for the crown, you're the one more likely to be able to protect Cheryl and get her out of this. Not that I care about you." Maskin's wry smile increased. "But if you really want to change our society…"

  Bjorn sighed, understanding Maskin's words. But just because he was a prince, it didn't mean he was useless in a battle. And it certainly didn't mean that he wanted the warrior-slave to die. It would break Cheryl's heart.

  That was the only reason he cared.

  "I thought you would be too war-like to be an effective king," Bjorn admitted. "I thought you were after your own glory."

  Maskin laughed. "I thought the same of you. And all the Lords of the noble houses. I didn't think any of you knew how to tie your own bootstrap."

  "And why is that?"

  "The Apdratee invasion."

  Bjorn nodded for him to continue, leaning against the wall and looking out at the other buildings. The heart of the shrine looked utterly peaceful and still. The absence of the usual acolytes was perhaps the most disturbing. Would their attackers really destroy the Shrine's workers? If so, there was nothing to protect them.

  "I served under Lord Aich during the invasion. I am called a hero because I took command after he was killed by the Apdratees. But if the truth were known, I would be executed for treason."

  "Did you kill him?"

  Maskin shook his head.

  "What then?"

  "I disobeyed his orders. He told us to retreat, to flee with him and leave our brothers' flanks unprotected. Instead, I drove into the heart of the invasion. I had every intention of dying that day. When I survived and he died, unable to tell anyone about my disobedience, I saw it as a sign from the Gods. I was meant for greater things than my birth."

  Bjorn looked away. As a warrior-slave, Maskin would still be executed if his actions came to light despite the fact that he ended the invasion. Slaves were meant to be utterly complacent to those who commanded them. Those who had minds of their own were dangerous.

  Where did that put Cheryl? She was a slave, yes, but also a queen. She was greater than many of those from noble houses, and yet lesser.

  His shoulders sagged as he stared out the window. Even though he had only known Maskin for a short time, he had come to respect him greatly. He treated Cheryl like she was the finest-cut sapphire. Even when he was rough with her during their lovemaking, he always put her pleasure before his own. He would have made a fine king if that option had ever been truly open for him.

  "You're an honorable man. You've risked your life for the chance to become king."

  "As did you," Maskin said. "You fought in the tournaments and defeated your enemies. You have more skill than I would have given you credit for if I had not fought you myself."

  "The moons were never in alignment for you." Bjorn turned from the window and bowed his head in shame. "When the priest declared we would come here and work to impregnate Cheryl, he was declaring me king."

  "I think not."

  Bjorn took a deep breath and made himself look his once-rival in the eye. "He was. Few people know, but warrior-slaves are made sterile when they are taken from their families. Warriors cannot increase their own numbers and rise against the houses. You could never impregnate Cheryl, Maskin. The priest made this test so that you would fail, and it would be seen as the Gods punishing you for daring to rise above your station."

  Maskin stared back at him. His eyes were cast in shadow, but the rest of his face was utterly neutral.

  "I knew." Bjorn swallowed. "And I said nothing."

  The warrior-slave turned back to the window. He remained hard-faced. Bjorn waited. He wouldn't blame Maskin for whatever he did next. It seemed like forever before the warrior nodded.

  "Thank you for telling me. It makes the choices from here on easy. Just promise me one thing, Lord of Leshire."

  Bjorn nodded.

  "Take care of our Lapis Lazuli. Give her everything she wants and the life she deserves."

  Bjorn was surprised to find a lump in his throat. He nodded. "I will."

  "Good."

  The prince hesitated, but put a hand on Maskin's shoulder. "Go lie with her. Rest. I'll keep watch."

  For a long moment, he thought Maskin would refuse, but the warrior-slave nodded. Bjorn turned his back to let the man have peace with their queen. He watched the bright, planet-lit night, and tried not to feel how much his heart was sinking.

  Chapter Nine: Cheryl

  How she managed to sleep, Cheryl never knew. All she knew was that sleep she did, and when she woke, Maskin's arms were around her. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep. He was still wired as though ready to strike, but he was sleeping. Bjorn was at the door, watching out of the little window. His face was lit by a ghostly glow.

  The plan was fully formed in her head. If their attackers were really after her as Maskin suspected, then there was only one way to ensure her two men walked out of here safely. She had to turn herself over to them. Maskin was already sleeping, so he wouldn't be a problem. Which left Bjorn.

  Cheryl slipped out of Maskin's arms and tiptoed to the spice cupboard. She had had a hard time sleeping at the shrine for the first few nights, and the acolytes had made a special tea to help her sleep. If she could make some for Bjorn, then he would fall asleep and she would slip out.

  There! Hogroot. It was perfect for putting a man to sleep. She reached for it—

  "We need to keep our wits about us, Lapis Lazuli." Maskin's hand closed gently around hers. "I know you must be frightened, but you can't sleep except naturally."

  Cheryl turned to face him, guilt written all over her face. He tucked a finger under her chin and brushed his lips against hers.

  "You weren't meaning to make yourself sleep, were you?"

  She glanced at Bjorn. The prince was still looking out the window, but from the rigidity of his stance, she knew he knew. Her eyes burned. "I just thought… if I gave myself up then they would let you live."

  "It won't work like that. I–perhaps we–are still threats to whoever is commanding these warriors. If he wants to be king, we must be killed. And if he wants Bjorn to be king, then I must die."

  "No." Cheryl wiped her tears away angrily. In a fit of frustration she stomped a foot. "No, I won't accept it. I won't. I am the one who has the final say in who my king will be. I won't have some random Lord who doesn't have the bravery to face the tournaments. I won't let them dictate my fate. I am the queen!"


  She stomped her foot to each word. Maskin just smiled at her, as though she was the first star he had ever seen. Clearly, he didn't take her seriously, and that just made her angrier. She put her hands on her hips and shook her head.

  "I won't be queen unless I have you both as my kings. I don't care about tradition or whatever might stand in our way. You were both chosen by the Gods in the tournament, and I choose you both now. You are my kings."

  "It's beyond choice now, Cheryl," Bjorn reminded her softly.

  She shook her head again, moving away from Maskin as he reached for her. The sunrods brightened as a result of all the movement in the room.

  "No. I refuse. It's not beyond my choice. I will not be queen. I always did as I was told, I was never given a choice. I didn't know what choosing was. I didn't know what love was."

  Both men were looking at her at this point, their expressions mirroring each other's. They looked so sad… Why did they look like that?

  "I never knew love was real. Not until I met the both of you. And if I can't have both of you… well, then nobody will have me."

  Maskin wrapped his arms around her. His head fell to her shoulder, and his massive body shook. Cheryl was so surprised that she didn't know what to do. Out of every response there could have been, this vulnerability wasn't something she had even considered. Her heart rate spiked.

  What had happened while she slept? Had Maskin already decided to sacrifice himself for the sake of the other two?

  She opened her mouth, but before she could ask, Bjorn spoke.

  "You won't have to. Hang tradition! It's practically unheard of for a woman to have only one husband, why can't the queen choose to have two kings? Did the Gods declare one of us had to die? No. A priest did. Do we want to usher in a new era? I say we start now."

  Cheryl turned away from Maskin. Bjorn's face was hard with determination. He marched from the window and pulled her into his arms with one hand while gripping Maskin's shoulder with the other. He looked between the two of them, eyes glittering, his dark blue skin even darker in the dim light.

  "I will find a way for the three of us to be together. I promise. I will do everything in my power to ensure it."

  Cheryl buried her face in his shoulder. Relief flooded her body, so powerful she began shaking.

  A tremendous noise screeched through the walls. The door and all that barricaded it burst inward, making Cheryl scream. Shards of wood flew towards them. Maskin grabbed her and Bjorn, twisting his body to shield them both from the explosion.

  His hand squeezed hers one moment and then it was gone. Before Cheryl even realized what was happening, the clash of swords rang through the kitchen. Maskin stood against a dozen warriors, muscles straining as he parried their blows and drove his own blade through their bodies.

  The enemies made no sound as they attacked, their eyes glowing, expressions blank. One darted in at Maskin's side, but Bjorn was there in an instant, stabbing him in the gut. The prince flanked the warrior-slave, helping him to drive back their attackers step by step.

  Cheryl found herself useless once more. Her hands clenched, but there was nothing she could do but watch. Her men were fierce, fighting with every ounce of strength they had. Bit by bit they drove the attackers back, out of the kitchen. Cheryl was drawn forward to the jagged hole, unable to take her eyes from the battle.

  Once outside the building, the attackers regrouped. They pressed harder against the two men, those terrible blank expressions still on their faces. Bjorn was barely able to deflect a blade. It sunk deep into his arm. Maskin blocked a killing blow meant for his neck and pushed his way forward, his movements frenzied as he cleared the way for Bjorn to retreat.

  "Find their ship and return to Thoutle. Get her out of here!" the warrior-slave roared. He drove into the midst of the attackers, both arms swinging, driving them back. A look of terrible concentration was on his face, his teeth bared. "Protect her!"

  Cheryl cried out as Bjorn slung her over his uninjured shoulder. She held her arms out to Maskin and screamed his name as the prince carried her away.

  The last thing she saw was the ranks closing in on him.

  Chapter Ten: Maskin

  All he had to do was give Bjorn enough time to get Cheryl to safety.

  Maskin poured all his strength into the fight, driving back the attackers inch by inch, giving him the space to dodge from one end of the group to the other. His strength was failing him. Already, blood poured from various wounds, deep slices in his abdomen and shoulders. He knew he wasn't going to be able to hold them back much longer.

  But if Bjorn and Cheryl got away safely, his death would be worth it.

  He was slow to parry a blow on his right. His enemy's blade bit deep into his shoulder at the joint. His arm fell useless by his side. He grabbed his sword with his other hand, but it was too late. A second enemy had taken advantage of his distraction and drove his own sword through Maskin's gut.

  Pain blinded him. Sweat was beading his brow. His mouth opened and closed like a man gasping for breath in the vacuum of space. A blade was brought to his throat.

  "Leave him!" a voice commanded. It sounded vaguely familiar. "He's as good as dead now, but if you end his life, you'll be cursed for killing on hallowed ground."

  Maskin struggled to get to his feet. A fist to his face had him sprawling. His vision danced in splotches of white and red. When it finally cleared, he could hear that same voice ordering the warriors to find Cheryl. Struggling with his own approaching death, Maskin managed to look up and see the man who was giving the orders.

  It was the priest who sent them here. Quincy. Maskin's brow furrowed. What was he doing here, leading an attack against the queen and the two potential kings? A priest couldn't be king. They were sworn to be celibate on pain of death.

  "I don't want to see any of you back until you have brought the queen to me," the priest ordered. He grabbed one of the warriors. "You. Stay here to watch him. I won't have him coming to stab me in the back."

  Maskin tried to push himself up, but the warrior stepped on his shoulder, forcing him back down. The priest looked down at him with a blank expression for a moment before he turned and walked away. Maskin glared after him. Either he was determined to be king despite his priestly vows, or he had somebody else lined up for the throne.

  Would he or his champion treat Cheryl as the beauty deserved?

  No. She had told him and Bjorn both how often the priest discouraged her. If he forced Cheryl to be his queen, she would not have another choice for as long as she lived.

  Maskin was not going to let that happen.

  He roared, trying to gather the strength to fight off the remaining warrior, but the man's heel dug harder into his wound, grinding him into the dirt. Pain danced in bright lights before his eyes.

  "I would end your suffering, Hero, but I was given orders." His enemy's tone was emotionless. "I take no pleasure in this."

  Maskin didn't waste his strength trying to reply. He lay still for a long time, trying to regroup. But blood was still pouring from his body, and each passing second, his strength waned a little more. His thoughts became fuzzy. Time seemed to stop. He drifted in and out of thoughts and images. Knowing he had to get up and stop Quincy. Remembering Cheryl's sparkling eyes as she took him by the hand and led him to bed. Watching Born's grin as he watched the two of them. Tasting happiness for the first time in his life.

  There was a grunt from somewhere above him. He didn't care about it, losing himself in the blissful memories he had created here with his queen. The grunting continued. There were sounds of crashing blades.

  "Don't you dare die now, Warrior!"

  Wait… was that Bjorn's voice?

  Maskin lifted his head in time to see Bjorn drive his sword through the enemy's neck. The prince let the body fall, running to the warrior's side. He turned him over, grimacing at the amount of blood. Maskin stared at him, slack-jawed. What was he doing here?

  "Why did you leave Cheryl?"
/>   "She's safe." Bjorn peeled his shirt over his head and pressed it to Maskin's abdomen.

  Maskin's back arched as he screamed in pain. The sharp jolt brought him back to his senses. He blindly grabbed for Bjorn's arm. "It's that priest, Quincy. He wants Cheryl. You have to stop him. Leave me, protect her!"

  "I'm not letting you win her love by taking all the glory, man," Bjorn grunted. He belted his shirt into Maskin's wound. "Come on, up you get."

  Maskin tried to stand, but he couldn't make his body work. Bjorn lifted him bodily, grunting with the effort.

  "You have to leave me here."

  "Shut up. I'm not one of your warriors you can order around." Bjorn slung the huge warrior-slave over his shoulders.

  Maskin felt the prince stagger and had to repress a grin. If their roles were reversed, he would have no problem lifting the prince. In the back of his mind he knew that this strange euphoria was dangerous, deadly even, but at the moment he didn't care. The white and red dancing lights were back, as well as a feeling of his body getting lighter and lighter. He heard singing somewhere.

  And then Cheryl's voice, calling him back to his body. "Maskin!"

  It came from all around him. She sounded worried, but he couldn't see her. He tried to reach for her, to tell her that he was fine, that it didn't hurt anymore.

  "Maskin, don't leave me."

  Something warm on his lips.

  Bjorn's voice. "He's lost a lot of blood. I picked up a regenerator, but I'm not sure it'll be enough."

  Cheryl's hands cupped his face. "Maskin, don't leave me. Don't leave me."

  He felt himself slipping away. He wanted to tell Cheryl that it was okay, that he wasn't going to be gone long… but she sounded so scared. A fire built in his chest. This wasn't how it was going to end. Cheryl needed him. He wasn't going to leave her. He had to stay and protect her. With a roar, he fought against the darkness clawing at him.