by A. C. Ellas
* * * *
Tyll grimaced as he emerged on deck and saw the dirty, dusty sprawl of Chloi spreading from the riverbank like a festering sore upon the landscape. Warehouses, markets, exchanges—this was a trader’s city. Taverns, open-pit cook shops, stadia upon stadia of pens—this was the trading city of the Lythadi nomads. It was a crossroads town, where the decadence of the Riverlands met the savagery of the barbaricum. It was a hodgepodge of mud-brick buildings, timber and stone buildings, hide tents, canvas pavilions and thatched earth cots. And that’s just was he could see from the barge as they made for the deep-water dock, which was, really, hard to tell from the rest. It was no longer, no wider, it just had the advantage of being at one end of the mess.
“That is Chloi?” Pajel asked, in the mercenary style of Zafirin.
“It is,” said Tyll. “And with any luck, we won’t have to go further than the deep-water pier.” His own Zafirin was refined, accented in the manner of the nobility.
Pajel slid him a glance. “You don’t think we should stop in at a tavern, get a decent meal, hear the local gossip?”
“We should, I just don’t want to,” muttered Tyll. “Chloi is volatile, dangerous, and I’m happier by far when I can avoid it.”
“There’s two of us, though. Surely this town can’t be so bad that a bard and his hired guard can’t get a decent meal?”
Tyll felt the smile twitching his lips. Pajel was right; they could both use a good meal. Ship’s fare of dried fruit, jerky, hard tack and tea just didn’t satisfy the way a hot, cooked meal did. “All right, we’ll find a tavern.”
They collected their gear while the boat maneuvered into its spot on the dock. They were back on deck before the gangplank dropped and were the first two off the boat. Tyll took the lead. There was a halfway-decent tavern near the exchanges. Halfway decent was the best one could hope for in Chloi. The tavern was pretty much where Tyll recalled it being, looking pretty much the same, perhaps a little more faded, a little seedier, a litter dirtier...Tyll grimaced.
“There?” Even Pajel sounded dubious now.
“There.” Tyll took a deep breath and instantly regretted it. Chloi stank. He pushed his way through the door and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim interior lighting. He scanned the taproom until he found a small, unoccupied table against the back wall. He pointed it out to Pajel, and they worked their way through the half-filled room until they reached their goal.
Tyll plopped himself down with an exaggerated sigh.
Pajel rolled his eyes and managed to look utterly bored as he casually leaned back against the wall.
The serving wench came over immediately. She wore the briefest of deep vee-necked tunics and a leather collar. Her long legs were bare and the tunic exposed her hip brand—the stylized image of a dancer and a tankard—that marked her as a sex slave. “What’ll you be having, masters?”
“Ale, roast boar and the dark bread,” said Tyll.
“Ale, stew and the light bread,” said Pajel.
“That’ll be eight pennies fer each of you, masters. Three fer the ale, five fer the food.”
Tyll set two silver coins on the table.
The slave took them and carefully counted out four copper pennies in change. Then, she put a pair of wooden chits on the table to show they’d already paid. “Ales’ll be right up, masters.”
Pajel snagged her tunic by the lower hem and pulled her closer. “What’s the price to have you?”
“Two fer oral, four fer cunt, master.” The wench was perfectly calm; she was obviously used to her station.
Tyll cocked his head and regarded her. She was pretty enough, with soft brown hair and clear skin. “Which temple certifies you disease free?”
“The temple of light, master.”
Tyll turned his gaze on Pajel and lofted an eyebrow.
Pajel shrugged and released her. “I’ll think about it.”
The slave scurried across the taproom, heading for the kitchen.
“How much to rent a room, I wonder,” mused Tyll. “I have an itch I’d like to scratch.”
Pajel chuckled throatily. “I think we can do something about that. A real bed would be a plus.”
“Don’t count on it,” Tyll warned. “A straw-stuffed pallet is first rate here.”
The ales came, and shortly after that, their food, and the two men fell silent while they ate. The food was surprisingly good, the ale palatable, though Tyll thought the Koilathan brew superior.
When the food was naught but a memory, Tyll signaled the slave girl. “We’d like to rent a room for an hour.”
“That’d be a full silver penny, master.”
“A full silver? One could get a room for the night for that much,” drawled Pajel.
“Sleepin’ room, sure, master. Playroom’s not fer sleeping. Playroom’s got equipment.”
“Ahh,” breathed Tyll in understanding. “Wonderful.” He set a silver coin down.
“Might need two hours,” Pajel said, a smile lurking in his eyes.
After glancing at Pajel, Tyll set out a second coin. The slave took both coins and trotted across the taproom to the bar where the tavern keeper presided over the room. She came back quickly and handed Tyll a key. “Room two. Will ye be wantin’ me or another girl?”
“We’re paying for the room, that’s all we need,” Tyll told her and made a shooing gesture.
“Rooms’re down that hall.”
Tyll stood up and headed for the room with Pajel almost clipping his heels.
The room was as promised—a playroom. There was a padded leather couch, a pleasure rack, a padded sawhorse and a whipping post in addition to the various bars, manacles, chains, tools and whips dangling from the walls. Pajel slid up behind him and proceeded to undress him. Tyll cooperated, turning and moving to help get the garments off faster. Between the two of them, it wasn’t long before Tyll was naked and Pajel’s hand was between his legs, playing with his cock and balls.
“Are you willing?” Pajel asked.
“I am willing to be bound by you.” Tyll closed his eyes in delight at the sensations coming from his nether regions. Pajel was a dear friend, one of the few that knew his secret—at some point, he didn’t know when or how or who, he’d been dosed with the slave fire potion. Not the male-obligate potion, thank the night, but he had a physical need for sex that couldn’t be denied for long.
Unlike his dear Loftoni, Tyll could satisfy his fires in any number of ways, and usually he preferred to be on top. But with Pajel, he got to experience the pleasures of the submissive side. Not only would Pajel top him, Pajel would dominate him in ways Jisten was fundamentally incapable of contemplating.
Pajel pushed him back against the pleasure rack and fastened his body into the device. The rack was a clever contraption. It held the body securely with straps across the waist, the chest, the upper arms and wrists, the thighs just above the knees and the ankles. The chest strap could go either above or below the breasts depending on user preference. None of the erogenous zones were covered, and the device could be adjusted in numerous ways to allow the user to position their partner as they pleased.
Once Tyll was secured into the device, Pajel brought out a worn leather collar. He stroked it along the length of Tyll’s bare, bound body before fastening it around Tyll’s neck. “Just in case someone comes in,” Pajel murmured.
Tyll smiled at him. This wasn’t the first time he’d worn Pajel’s collar. The butter-soft, supple leather was almost comforting in its snug embrace about his neck.
* * * *
Pajel adjusted the pleasure rack, levering the body back and spreading Tyll’s legs wide open. He didn’t push Tyll’s trunk down too much; he made sure that Tyll could still see what he was doing. He plucked a many-tailed belt whip from the wall. The soft strands were designed to sting, not flay, and thus perfect for teasing the sensitive flesh of the groin.
He let fly, expertly striking Tyll’s
inner thigh.
The flesh flinched under the blow and Tyll cried out with a soft, “Oh!”
Pajel smirked and struck again, on the other thigh. He moved into a steady rhythm of lashes, never striking in precisely the same place twice, alternating thighs until they both glowed a warm pink. Then, he brought the whip down on Tyll’s erect cock and balls. The bard made such amusing noises when he did that. He grabbed the head of Tyll’s pole to stabilize it as he lashed the firm meat, letting the soft whip-strands wrap around the target then tugging to release them. He paid attention to the balls, too, pulling the scrotum taut so he could whip it more easily. Before he was finished, Tyll was humping the air in a submissive display of lust.
On one of the shelves, Pajel spied a very interesting toy. He picked it up and inspected it briefly before he put it on Tyll. It was a cock and ball harness. With the aid of some oil for lubrication, he pushed the ring down Tyll’s engorged shaft, watching avidly as the ring’s passage compressed the flesh. The further down it went, the more the cock was squeezed and the louder Tyll moaned.
Finally, Pajel seated it on the base of Tyll’s cock and spent a fascinated moment watching Tyll squirm. He fingered Tyll’s tight hole and chuckled when it gaped open in a silent plea for use. Dangling from the ring was a curved piece of stiff leather perhaps two finger widths’ wide with a pair of hook closures on the ends. Pajel pulled Tyll’s scrotum down and brought the leather up around it, hooking it closed. The diameter of the leather tube was small; it contained the flesh of the scrotum, but the balls were too big to fit into it, so that they were held away from Tyll’s body and the flesh surrounding them was taut, outlining the two jewels in exquisite detail. Pajel brushed his hand over Tyll’s balls and the man shuddered and moaned in reaction.
Tyll was writhing in need now, so while he continued to pay attention to Tyll’s package with one hand, he adjusted his pants with the other. Once he was exposed, Pajel oiled himself. Tyll was a friend; he had no interest in hurting him. Pajel slipped into Tyll with a groan of happiness that Tyll answered with an equally heartfelt moan.
Pajel set a decent rhythm, not too fast, not too slow, a steady, deep rhythm that he could maintain for a long time. He wanted Tyll to feel good, and a quick fuck didn’t do much for slave fires. He wanted his friend sated. It would probably take more than once to achieve that, but Pajel was willing to do what it took to satisfy. Tyll cooperated with him, pushing back into his thrusts, and Pajel could feel the empathic talent reaching out to share with him. He allowed it, opening his mind to Tyll’s contact.
The pleasure shared was pleasure more than doubled, and Pajel knew that Tyll was getting what he needed. Even the cock harness was good; it added to the intensity of their physical contact without causing much pain. What discomfort there was appeared to be of the kind that added to the pleasure, and so Pajel enjoyed Tyll with a light heart. His first climax was a sweet gift to them both, and Tyll’s answering climax left them both shuddering together. They rested for a time, then Pajel started it all over again. The second time, if anything, was even better.
Chapter Six: Bounty
Єnatεra Ligo, Aoranz Fεngari
9th day, 1st week, Auranz’s moon
Seaday, the 10th of Auranmon
The Lythadi gave the village no warning. In the dark before dawn, they approached the wooden palisade, swung grappling hooks over the top and swarmed up and over like ants attacking an abandoned piece of food. Landing lightly on the other side, they sprinted forward in small groups of three or four.
Once the first wave was in the village, the second wave approached, still mounted, and took hold of the dangling climbing ropes. They tied them off on their saddles and backed up their horses. Under the combined weight of fifty horses, the wooden wall came crashing down.
The third wave swept into the now-defenseless village at a gallop to deal with anything the first wave missed. The Lythadi destroyed the cottages, trampled the gardens and killed every male over the age of ten. The women were rounded up, collared and sorted into groups by age and general appearance.
The Lythadi put the village to the torch before they left, making it extremely unlikely that more people would settle there for quite some time. The new slaves were shuffled back through the column of the Lythadi nomads as they marched deeper into the kingdom of Lini. There was an air of shock amongst the captured women. The Lythadi were raiders, yes, but they had never taken an entire village before. Not ever. This was something new, and it chilled those with wit to notice that more than one clan’s totem was represented in the column.
* * * *
As they approached Riftinmoor from the south road, Rak chided himself for feeling apprehensive. At Jisten’s quiet insistence, he’d switched back to his familiar uniforms. The torque was also off his neck, stowed in a pack. Nothing about him marked him a slave now, and although he reminded himself that nobody here could know of his legal status, he remained nervous.
Jisten, riding beside him, appeared oblivious to Rak’s state of mind. His seat was easy, he moved with Zala automatically and appeared very much at home in her saddle. Jisten was a handsome man, long, lean and muscular. His tight butt was every bit as delectable as Pikara claimed, his legs were long and strong—he was a runner. But Rak liked his face the best. He had a high forehead, strong slanted cheekbones, an aquiline nose, sensuous lips and an appealing cleft in his otherwise sharp chin. His olive-bronze skin was clear of blemish—acne had never troubled his youth. His hair was long, thick, straight and so black Rak could almost see stars in it. His eyes were a startling but lovely stormy grey. Rak could lose himself in Jisten’s eyes.
“What?” Jisten asked, having noticed Rak’s attention. His head was cocked, an eyebrow was arched and a small smile hovered on his lips.
He is adorable, Rak thought, but he said, “I like looking at you.”
The lurking smile flashed into a full-fledged grin. “Just so long as you like what you see.”
“Mmm. I definitely like what I am seeing.” Rak glanced up the road. The roofs of the houses were just visible now, rising above the trees. “Are you sure I should not change?”
“It’s too cold for that,” Jisten said. He reached out and stroked Rak’s leg. “I don’t want you to freeze to death.”
“The torque then,” Rak insisted quietly.
“Why?” Jisten frowned now. “S’Rak, that was just for show. We’re safe here, far from prying eyes.”
Rak shook his head. “Please? I insist. I have a feeling that it would be prudent for me to be marked, in some way, as yours.” He glanced again at the roofs and wished he could quantify his unease more easily.
“Okay, fine, if that’s what you want.” Jisten sighed and turned Zala off the road, heading back to the wagon.
Rak asked the avtappi to stop, and they did so smoothly, without the bunching one might see from a similar column of horses. Jisten reached the wagon, selected a pack and dug through it. It didn’t take long before he put a cloth-wrapped item in front of him. He closed the pack and returned to Rak’s side.
The avtappi all started to walk again. Zala edged over until she was so close to Vyld that Jisten’s and Rak’s legs were in danger of being crushed.
Jisten reached over, placed the torque on Rak’s neck and locked it. “There. Better?”
“Thank you, Jisten.” Rak could feel the tension draining from his lower back. “It is better now.”
Jethain closed up with them. “What was all that about?”
“S’Rak wanted to wear the torque,” Jisten said glumly.
“I have a hunch it will be necessary,” Rak replied quietly.
“Vision?” Jethain glanced at him sharply.
“Nothing definite, just a feeling.” Rak shrugged helplessly. “If it turns out to be nothing, what harm is done? This is not obviously a collar. But should someone check…it is locked.”
Jethain nodded. “You make a good point, Araken.” He bumped J
isten’s shoulder. “It’s not that bad. It certainly matches the rest of him.”
Rak was wearing black and silver today, so Jethain was quite right—the torque did look as if it was part of his uniform.
Jisten glanced over and started to smile. “Okay, I’m convinced.”
They came around the last bend and entered the town. Rak noted the lack of defensive walls and nodded to himself. The Lythadi never raided this far north, and the Valers were peaceful. The steep pitch to the roofs bespoke the amount of snow this region would see in winter. Even now, in full summer, it wasn’t hot. Jisten’s line about not wanting Rak to freeze was more than just teasing. He wasn’t used to cold, not anymore, not after years and years of living in the furnace of the desert. It was late afternoon in full summer, and yet, Rak didn’t feel warm at all. If anything, it felt cool to him, even though he was wearing cotton under the silk.
“Moor Inn,” Jethain said, pointing. “Best place in town.”
Jisten glanced at Rak, who shrugged.
The entire party turned toward the indicated inn. They found plenty of stable space, which was a relief since most riding horses didn’t care for avtappi at all. Once the equines were stabled and unsaddled, the party members took what they’d need from the wagon. Rak set his death hounds to guard the wagon, a standard procedure whenever they stayed in an inn. Nobody had yet tried to steal anything from the wagon, at least, not the Rak had heard about. And usually, if the death hounds killed someone, Rak did hear about it, either from the friends of the victim or from the smug, sated hounds themselves.
Rak lingered in the stable as the others went into the inn. When Jisten paused, looking back at him, he made a shooing gesture. “Go, go. I will see to the avtappi. You stay with Jethain. I will not run off, I promise.”
Jisten chuckled and went into the inn.