The Red King

by Rosemary O'Malley

A servant came for them, then; long of limb and extremely thin, with long brown hair past his shoulders and a strangely soft and expressionless face. He beckoned them to him. “I will take you to Maarten now. Leave your weapons, Ortega, and you, boy.”

  Ortega removed his sword and dagger, laying them on the table beside them. Andrew opened the cape. “I have none.”

  Which was a lie; hidden in the wrapping of his hand was the vial of hemlock, now ground into a fine powder.

  They were led down a dark hall, lit only intermittently with torches. The medieval supports were old, showing signs of rot and decay, and Andrew had to wonder how this remaining portion of the keep still held. Only the central structure remained, no tower, walls, or outbuildings were left. The great room, probably the bastion of the old fort, had bits of crumbling stone at the edges, as if they’d fallen and been merely swept aside. He’d seen two doorways on the edge of collapse, one leading to what smelled like the kitchen and another that emitted a strange, medicinal smell. Across from those doors was the large fireplace, the only source of heat and light in the room, leaving shadows in the corners that seemed to breathe with freezing, swirling sentience. It was an oppressive place, to be sure, but so close to its own demise that Andrew felt one swift kick would bring the whole place down around them.

  If necessary, Andrew thought.

  There were guards stationed throughout; at each door, each room. It seemed an exorbitant amount of protection for such squalor, but Maarten’s inclinations towards paranoia kept the men paid well and they stayed. Wondering if they would be so steadfast if the walls were falling on them, Andrew had to bite back a smile. He caught their sneers as he passed, a few appraising him as if they would be privy to his internment. The thought that perhaps they would gave Andrew a new chill and he wrapped his arms around himself, holding the cloak close.

  Seek to finish it, quickly. Don’t let him give you to them, he told himself, clenching his teeth against his trembling.

  Hold fast.

  The servant stopped them before a set of double doors. They were in better shape than the rest of the keep, made of fresh, sturdy oak with polished iron at its hinges, bands, and rivets. Andrew expected them to be heavy, hard to open, but the man pulled and they moved easily, without a sound. The room beyond was well lit and warmth poured out into the hall. Ortega and Andrew both paused, looking to each other in silent understanding, then stepped past the guards and over the threshold.

  Andrew stared, unabashedly. This room was draped with fine tapestries and filled with beautiful furniture. Two massive tables with chairs of all designs ran the length of the room, looking as if they were waiting for a grand banquet. Candelabras lined the walls, casting a golden glow to the polished gold and brass items that littered the tables and corners. A shelf lined with delicate glass vials filled with perfumes and oils gleamed merrily next to a pile of furs. There were chests of all sizes, bolts of fine fabric, even a large golden statue perched beside the fireplace. It was a trove, this room, for Maarten’s riches.

  Ortega strode forward, following the path made by the tables through the center of the room. At the end of this stretch was a huge gilded throne on a dais and on it was a man, slumped low in the chair. Andrew followed slowly, not trusting his shaking limbs to carry himself with purpose. Shocked, he watched Ortega lower himself to one knee, as if addressing a king.

  “If it pleases you, I have brought treasures for you, my lord,” the man said, with reverence. Andrew could only stare, wide eyed and appalled.

  Maarten Jan de Worrt was tall, very pale, and wearing a robe of black fur. He did not move, only spoke, softly. “Present them.”

  Ortega held out first his right hand. “The Star of Persia, stolen as it crossed the sea.” It was the large sapphire, held up on Ortega’s fingertips for display.

  “And its thief, where is he?”

  Andrew took a step closer. He watched Ortega remove a bundle from within his doublet and carefully unwrap it. When the man held out his hand, it was the ripped flesh and shorn locks of Rory’s hair within its grasp. “My lord, Ruaidhri is dead. This is all that could be retrieved.”

  There was a tense moment of stillness. Andrew held his breath.

  “Bring them both to me.”

  Ortega stood and slowly stepped forward, both hands held before him with their offerings.

  Once within reach, Maarten sat up quickly, startling Ortega into retreating. Before he’d moved more than one step back, Maarten had his wrist caught and he pulled, hard. Bringing the hand up to his face, Maarten rubbed the clutch of hair across his cheek, his lips. “Dead? You bring me a piece of his hair and tell me Rorik is dead?”

  Upon the last word, Maarten’s other hand caught Ortega across the face. Andrew saw his head whip back from the force of the strike. “My lord!” he cried, taking two long strides towards the dais.

  Maarten froze. His eyes focused on Andrew for the first time. “Who are you?”

  Andrew took a deep breath. For Rory. “Ruaidhri fell, my lord. He was crushed by a heavy stone. That…”he nodded towards the fistful of hair. “That is all that was…salvageable.”

  Plucking the locks from Ortega’s grasp, Maarten shoved the man aside and stood. “And you know this, how?” he asked, moving slowly towards Andrew.

  “I saw it,” Andrew said, holding his ground as the man advanced. He was put in mind of a great, stalking beast, hungry and dangerous.

  Maarten was a full head taller than he and Andrew was forced to crane his neck to see his face. Maarten’s empty hand opened the cloak and pushed it off of Andrew’s shoulders. His eyes glittered, falling on Andrew’s mouth and throat. Fingers caught Andrew’s chin and tilted his head back farther. “Who are you?” Maarten repeated, bending closer, staring into Andrew s eyes.

  “His name is Andrew,” Ortega offered. He stood behind Maarten now.

  With startling speed, Maarten had turned and struck Ortega once more, this time so hard that the man stumbled and fell. “I did not ask you,” Maarten spat.

  “I am Andrew. I was stolen from you, as well, and by the same thief,” Andrew offered, drawing Maarten’s attention back to himself.

  “The priest?” Maarten actually smiled.

  Andrew nodded, feeling his blood chill at the gleam in Maarten’s eyes.

  “Well, here you are, mine at last,” the man said, strangely soft, and reached out to cup Andrew’s jaw.

  Ortega was standing again. Blood dripped from his nose and spread across his cheek but he maintained his composure. “My lord, I would take my bounty now, and leave you to your pleasure.”

  “What bounty would that be? You failed me. I wanted Rorik alive. Alive! Not this!” he shouted, shaking the hand with Rory’s hair in Ortega’s face.

  Ortega stood quickly. “My lord, the papers said alive or…”

  “And what did I say?” Maarten asked, his voice lower, colder.

  Ortega swallowed. “Alive. You wanted him alive.”

  “Alive,” Maarten whispered. He loomed over Ortega, who took a cautious step backwards. “Now, my happy reunion shall never be.” That he found funny. He began to laugh; a deep, rumbling chuckle as sudden and disconcerting as his anger had been.

  “My lord,” Andrew interjected, reaching out to place his hand on Maarten’s arm. His heart was beating too fast, his breath came too short, but he knew if Ortega was not allowed to leave it would be the man’s demise. “It was no fault of his. The wall was weak. It collapsed on Ruaidhri without warning.”

  The lie was trivial, but it served its purpose. Maarten looked down at Andrew’s hand, took it in one of his. Andrew could feel the power in the fingers as they closed on his wrist. Maarten brushed his lips across the pulse. “Well, then, I shall make a new friend in his stead.”

  Andrew gave him a small smile.

  Returning his attention to Ortega, Maarten said, “Since you have brought me my new friend, I shall relinquish your reward. Go to your ship. I will send the chest shortly.” He n
eatened Ortega’s collar while he spoke, brushing a stray slip of hair from the man’s eyes.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Ortega said, bowing as Maarten brushed past him, dismissing him with a wave.

  Ortega met Andrew’s gaze with anger and fear in his eyes. Andrew slowly shook his head, and then tilted it in the direction of the door. When Ortega passed, he paused, and Andrew heard the softest whisper, “Godspeed.”

  Then he was alone.

  Maarten was reclining on his throne, sprawled across the thing like an insolent child. “Come closer to me, Andrew. Let me look at you.”

  As he moved closer, Andrew noticed that the robe was untied, falling open to reveal the man was mostly naked. Only a thin pair of trousers, an undergarment held with a single tie, covered his lower half. In the light cast by the candles they were nearly transparent. He stopped several feet from the dais. “Do you find me agreeable?”

  “Take off the doublet.”

  Andrew took to the clasps slowly, controlling his movements. He kept his face blank, his eyes on his fingers as they worked. He could hear Maarten’s breathing quicken as the garment came open and he carefully shrugged first one arm, then the other free of the velvet.

  “Drop it. It is of no use to you, anymore.”

  Opening his hand Andrew let it fall. He stared at Maarten, remembering Rory’s descriptions.

  Maarten was handsome; there was truth in that. He was extremely tall, limbs long and powerfully built. His hair was the lightest blond, almost white in the fire’s glow, and fell to his shoulders in soft waves. Andrew wondered if his skin had always been so pale, or if the time spent in his isolation had turned him so. As it were, he looked nearly bloodless; even his lips lacked all but the faintest touch of pink. Only his eyes had color; they were rimmed red, from smoke or drink or perhaps just madness, and they sparkled as would sun upon deep ice.

  Andrew kept his own face impassive as he was observed. He would not look away, but neither would he show emotion to this...It was first in his mind to call him a monster, a fiend, but Andrew saw only a man. A dangerous man, to be sure, but a man, still. A man he could best. A man he could kill.

  “You did not kill him.” It was not a question.

  “No. I would guess he had been…distracted,” Andrew answered, dispassionately.

  “By you? Yes, you would be Delilah, wouldn’t you? You sheared his locks and took his strength.” Maarten was laughing at him, but Andrew did not rise to the taunt.

  Taking a deep breath, thought to himself, For Rory, Andrew answered softly, respectfully, “I merely took the proof and brought it to your man. I had no hand in the deed.”

  “Did ‘my man’ offer you part of the reward?” Maarten asked, his fingers toying with the bundle of auburn hair in his lap. He petted it, drew it out to loosen the tangles with hands so large and square they looked unnatural.

  Andrew’s heart clenched, but he maintained his impassive voice. “Yes, he did.”

  “Why did you refuse?”

  “He offered me but a cup. I want the well from which it springs.” As he said it, he cast an appreciative glance over his shoulder at the display of wealth.

  Maarten smiled and his rumbling laughter grated across Andrew’s skin. “My, you are an odd little bird. A dove with a taste for blood, it seems. Move closer; let me see you more clearly.”

  Andrew took two slow steps forward.

  “Closer.”

  Andrew stopped just shy of stepping between Maarten’s toes. He watched the man’s face, even as Maarten reached out to run a hand across his stomach.

  “Do you know why Rorik stole you?” Maarten asked, fingers trailing up to brush Andrew’s nipples. The thin silk offered no protection, no buffer. He felt them harden against the man’s touch.

  “To anger you, my lord,” Andrew answered, coolly.

  “Yes, he hated me, it’s true. Did he tell you why?” Maarten’s hand moved down, measured his waist, his hip. When it slid between his thighs, Andrew stiffened, hands clenched once more at this back.

  “No,” Andrew said, using what he knew would interest Maarten, what would arouse him. “He showed me.”

  Maarten’s other hand clutched at his own thinly covered cock. Rory’s hair made the action look ghastly, like vermin writhing in the man’s lap. “Oh,” Maarten moaned, softly. “Did he now?”

  “Aye,” Andrew whispered. “And I hated him for it, as he hated you.”

  “And what did you learn, my dove?” Maarten asked, his fingers closing on one nipple.

  Andrew let the shiver come, took a sharp breath through his nose. He raised his hand and placed it on Maarten’s cheek. The man’s skin felt too warm, fevered and dry. “Would you like me to show you?” he countered, a slow smile spreading across his face.

  When Maarten pulled him down, Andrew let his lips part to receive a violent, biting kiss. The force of it threw him off balance and he stumbled into Maarten’s body. The chest and thighs against him were hard, as was the man’s cock. For an instant he panicked, feeling the close of Maarten’s legs on his, the other hand still clutching Rory’s hair gripping his hip to hold him still as he thrust.

  “My lord!” he cried, turning his face away. He pressed on Maarten’s shoulders, levering his upper body away. “If I am to prove my talents, I must ask for a moment to remove my clothes.”

  Maarten smiled. “Do it then, for me. Make it…pretty.”

  Andrew bit the inside of his cheek and smiled in return. “As you wish, my lord.”

  Andrew was released and he stepped back, navigating the raised platform with grace he’d never been more thankful for. To fall, to be beneath this man now, would ruin everything. How would he do this? He must keep the man entranced, must use his form and face to seduce him into carelessness, but he had no experience in disrobing for another’s pleasure. A memory came to him, one that nearly blinded him with its course, but in it he saw Nadir. The boy had purposefully distracted Etienne with his movements, his expressions, teasing until Etienne had excused himself and left Andrew alone in the garden.

  I can do this, Andrew thought. I will do this.

  Slowly, Andrew turned away and walked to the end of the table to his left. He placed his hands flat on the surface and lifted himself to sit upon it, eyes on Maarten as he did so. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth and leaning back on his elbows, toed off one leather boot, then the other. His teeth caught the fullness of his lip before he let it go, leaving it red and tender. When Andrew lifted his shirt to unlace his breeches, he heard a deep, low growl and looked up.

  Maarten was stroking himself, watching avidly. Andrew held his gaze and opened the waist of his trousers completely. He slowly pushed himself up and off the table, letting the breeches fall to his feet. He stood in only his shirt and stockings, both white and pure, and took the edge of the shirt in his hands to pull it over his head.

  “No, leave it. Leave them both,” Maarten ordered, opening his own loose garment. “Come here, now.”

  Andrew took a breath, and then a step. He repeated this until he stood before Maarten once more.

  “On your knees,” Maarten ordered, roughly.

  “No,” Andrew answered. Before Maarten could react, he surged forward and caught the man’s long legs between his own. Then, slowly, Andrew climbed into his lap, sliding his thighs up to grip at Maarten’s hip. Placing both hands on those broad shoulders he rose to his knees and settled his weight on both the hand at Maarten’s lap and the swollen cock it held. It took little to maintain a breathy, impatient appearance when he was so enervated by hate and fear.

  “Show me, then, what he taught you,” Maarten said with a smile, throwing the ghastly memento of Rory’s hair away from them. “Let me see him in you, not in this.”

  Andrew bit his lip and lifted himself, fighting back angry tears at the casual dismissal of Rory’s remains. He reached down, lined up Maarten’s cock, and dropped his weight. And he screamed, letting the fury loose to steer him through the pain. Hi
s hands caught in Maarten’s hair and he pulled, riding fast and hard while Maarten laughed delightedly beneath him. There was naught but hatred in Andrew, hatred that burned and gave him strength enough to give the man what he wanted.

  I will kill you. I will destroy you. I will wipe the laughter from your face and your foulness from this earth, Andrew thought, teeth grinding as Maarten pulled him down to bite his neck. It sent an unwelcome thrill through him and he arched into it, unable to stop himself. When Maarten gripped his waist to hold him still and thrust, Andrew groaned, loud and long. It was pleasure, now, to roll his hips and take the man deeper. He felt the sweat run down his face, felt bruises as they formed beneath Maarten’s fingers and teeth, and shuddered in shame at his own response. He was thrust into so hard it caused his clenched teeth to snap together, catch his tongue and flood his mouth with the taste of blood. He saw stars for a moment, the pain of it was so intense, but it did not cool the fire burning in his groin.

  It thrummed through him, carrying him higher and higher until he shattered, writhing and rocking on Maarten’s lap. He felt his seed on his stomach, turning the silk wet and heavy, and then Maarten had his shoulders from behind. He was forced to sit motionless as Maarten filled him with come. It took a long time. The man relaxed, loosening his hold only to take his head and pull it in for a kiss. He found the wound still bleeding and sucked on Andrew’s tongue to drink the fount.

  When Andrew pushed at his shoulders, Maarten allowed him to pull away. Looking down, he saw Maarten smiling, blood staining his lips, his teeth, and almost wept. Maarten shoved in once more and Andrew shuddered.

  “Such a magnificent little whore. We will be happy here, you and I.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Andrew could not completely stifle his yawn.

  Smoke from the candles burned his eyes and his throat and he pined for a breath of fresh air. The table, laden with the most opulent of meals he had ever beheld, swam in his vision until it was a gilded blur. The sleeves of his banyan fell over his hands and swallowed him in folds of crimson velvet and golden thread. It was stifling, too heavy, but it was the only garment he had been given.