The Rise of Nazil

by Aaron-Michael Hall

  Once the surge of adrenaline eased, the sting of his injuries caused him to weaken. Pentanimir clenched his eyes shut, reaching up to the cut on his neck while staggering toward the shelter. When he raised the drape, Brahanu reared back, kicking him in the face.

  “By the gods! Pentanimir!” she said, crawling forward. “I’m sorry, are you all right?”

  “I’ll—I’ll be fine,” he said woozily. “Did they hurt you?”

  “No, no, I’m all right. Thank the gods, I’m all right,” she said, enfolding him into her arms.

  Pentanimir winced, pushing back from her reach. “I’ll have to bind them before they wake,” he said, struggling to stand.

  “Pentanimir, you’re bleeding,” she said, reaching up to his face.

  “I’ll be fine. We need to dress and tie them up. There could be more men in the wood. Hurry.”

  When Pentanimir stood, pulling on his trews, she saw the long gash down his back. “You can’t continue like this. Let me tend your wounds, please.”

  “It’s fine for now,” he said, pulling some rope from his satchel. She watched as he fettered the men to a tree, binding their ankles and wrists.

  “That should hold them for a while, but not for long. Once we’re further in the wood, I’ll allow you to tend my wounds. There’s no time now.”

  He wrapped some cloth around his arm, continuing to dress. After hastily packing up the camp, they headed deeper into the wood. Brahanu noticed his pained expression, and glanced back at the two unconscious attackers.

  “Where did those men come from, and why did they attack you?” she asked.

  “Mayhaps from Noraa. Many fish the Raphar and hunt near the edge of the wood, but I’ve never encountered anyone this far in. As for their attack, you already know. I’m a ghost of Nazil…a taker of women. This is all that they see, and this is enough.”

  “Enough? You’re not like them, Pentanimir, and I’ll not excuse it. We talk about the Nazilians’ cruelties, but the humans are not free from it either. It’s not enough. You were protecting me, and if I hadn’t been with you, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “The fault doesn’t lie with you: it lies within the hearts of humans and Nazilians alike. But this is the way, and serves to remind us of what we truly face. Even if your heart was free to give, these lands wouldn’t allow our love to flourish.”

  Denotra

  “Where is she? My water will have grown cold,” Denotra said, flouncing on the overstuffed divan. “You may brush my hair while I wait. If she doesn’t arrive soon, I’ll have Father deal with her.”

  “Yes, milady,” Ceron said. Before she could scarcely begin, Zeta entered the room, struggling to carry the steaming pail of water. She moved as swiftly as she could, being careful not to spill the scalding liquid. Resting the pail on the edge of the tub, Zeta leaned away, as the billowing mist coiled in the air.

  “If it pleases you, your bath is ready, milady,” Zeta said.

  Denotra scowled, snatching the long, wooden brush away from Ceron.

  “No, it doesn’t please me,” she said, striking Zeta across the face with the brush. As she screamed, thudding to the ground, Denotra swung twice more, and then landed a hard kick as Zeta attempted to protect her womb.

  “Please, milady, no more,” Ceron pleaded.

  “You dare speak to me,” Denotra yelled, turning the brush on her.

  “No, milady, please, it’s—it’s the blood. I was warnin’ of the blood. It stained your beautiful robe. I—I was goin’ to take it down to Micah right away,” she lied, desperately trying to save Zeta.

  Denotra lowered her arm, staring at her silken robe. “You wretch!” She kicked Zeta again. “You’ll pay for this. Get up now. Now!”

  Zeta yelped, her limbs wobbling beneath her weight. When Ceron reached to help her, Denotra slammed the brush down on her arm.

  “Don’t aid this human filth! I don’t care if she crawls from this chamber; I want her out of my sight, now!”

  Ceron trembled, rubbing her swelling bruise. Please, gods, help her, please.

  Clawing at the floor, Zeta managed to drag herself toward the entrance. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pushed up to her knees. After reaching a shaky hand to the handle, the door swung open. When she attempted to move again, Denotra kicked her hard, sending her careening forward. Her shrieking cries muffled as the door clanged shut behind her.

  “Filthy diseased doxy,” Denotra said, kicking off her slippers and robe. “Toss these in the fire.”

  “Right away, milady.”

  “Well, at least she can do something right,” Denotra said, sliding down into the steamy water. “Fetch some essence and pour it in. I’m expecting an important visitor.”

  After sprinkling the sweet oil in the tub, Ceron began gently scrubbing Denotra’s skin. Her thoughts remained on Zeta and her babe. Too often, she’d witnessed Denotra’s cruelty. Although Ceron was Nazilian, her position wasn’t any higher then Zeta’s. Both her punishments and abuses came often and swiftly. Her body still ached from Draizeyn’s most recent sadistic proclivities. The Zaxson enjoyed abusing her as much as Denotra did Zeta.

  Ceron forced back the forming tears at the painful memories, knowing they weren’t at an end. As long as Symeon remained in Nazil, Draizeyn would call for them. Her eyes clenched shut as she silently prayed again. The prayers weren’t for herself, but for Zeta and her babe. Lowering a hand to her womb, Ceron lamented the loss of her own son, and how he’d been taken from her arms and sold not long ago.

  Zeta twitched, unable to rise. Her eyes blinked languidly: one blackened and swollen shut. With one hand cradling her womb, she prayed, watching the dizzying dots stealing away her consciousness. Her eyes slowly closed as the darkness crept in, easing the torment that encompassed her.

  “By the gods,” Danimore said, rounding the corner. He rushed to where Zeta laid upon the floor, gently turning her over. He grimaced, noticing her swollen face and the blood oozing down her cheek.

  “Lord Daracus, what’s happened? She needs help.”

  Daracus’ nose wrinkled, scoffing as he flipped his hair to his back. “You needn’t worry about her. That’s one of Denotra’s slaves. Most likely, she angered my fair sister again. I don’t know why father just doesn’t get rid of her. That one is more trouble than she’s worth. Diseased human filth.”

  Daracus sidestepped the two, reclining comfortably on a chaise outside of his sister’s chamber. His guards took a place beside him, ignoring Danimore kneeling on the floor.

  Danimore stared over at them, still cradling Zeta in his arms. He couldn’t believe Daracus’ insensate words and attitude. For a moment, he hoped that what he heard was different from what was actually said.

  “Lord Daracus, this woman is pregnant. Surely, you’re not wanting to leave her lying here like this. Even the servants need proper care.”

  “Hushar will tend to her in time. She’ll be ready to serve before we dine.”

  “Ready to serve? Look here,” Danimore said, pointing. “There’s a shoeprint near her womb. She’s pregnant and…and someone kicked her.”

  “The slave’s treatment isn’t your concern or mine. That abomination she carries will die as it’s born, if not before. She’s nothing but a whore, and thought that pleasuring my men would keep her from serving. Now, we’re forced to watch that abomination growing inside of her. It sickens me to think of a Nazilian sullying themselves with that filth.”

  Danimore’s face nearly betrayed his thoughts as he fought to keep the outrage from his visage. He couldn’t challenge the Zaxson’s son, but he wasn’t going to leave this young woman lying on the floor either.

  “As you say, Lord Daracus,” Danimore said, respectfully. “Mayhaps I could at least move her from Lady Denotra’s door. If she upset her, I doubt that our Lady would wish to see her again. With such pleasant events planned for this evening, I’d have her mood remain festive. If you’d tell me where to find Hushar, I’ll take her there.”
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br />   Daracus sighed. “Mayhaps you’re right. I don’t want to anger Denotra further, but you needn’t worry about it. I’ll have a slave remove her soon.”

  Danimore glanced up at the two guards on either side of Denotra’s door, and then to the four accompanying Daracus. Slave? What about the damn guards?

  “It’s no trouble for me, my lord. I do this for your sister, and soon mine.” Danimore smiled, though the roiling bile threatened to rise in his throat. “It’s an honor to serve the citadel in any way that I’m able.”

  “So be it,” Daracus said with a flourish. “Take her to the cells and Hushar will tend her. Just head down this corridor and then take two rights, and then the stairs at its end. After, take a left and another set of stairs. No doubt the smell will lead you from there.”

  Danimore’s jaw tightened as he stood, proffering a low bow. Leaning down, he scooped Zeta up from the floor, setting her on her feet. He was the only thing holding her upright, but he couldn’t carry her. Instead, he pulled her in closer, supporting her weight.

  “I’ll make haste, my lord.”

  “See that you do. My sister doesn’t like being kept in wait.”

  Danimore feigned a smile, helping Zeta down the corridor. When they rounded the corner, he glanced over his shoulder, and then set Zeta on a wooden bench.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I—I can walk. Yes, sir, I—I mean. Please forgive—me—I didn’t mean dis—disrespect,” Zeta said between labored breaths. Wincing, she pushed up to her feet, only to stagger back again.

  Danimore had never seen such cruelty. He’d heard of servants being disciplined, but had never borne witness to it. Now, to see the results of that brutality, caused his anger to rise. What type of monsters have rule of us? There’s no honor in this.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, gently sliding her hair from her face.

  “Zeta…my name is Zeta.”

  “How did you come to Nazil?”

  “A...a...ship. My...ship…was...boarded.” Her head lolled as she struggled through the words. Her consciousness was fading.

  “Zeta, my name is Danimore, and I’m going to take you to receive care. Don’t be afraid, all right. I’ll carry you to Hushar.”

  When she nodded weakly, Danimore scooped her up into his arms. Even with being pregnant, she weighed nothing more than a child. As he carried her down the corridors and stairs, he didn’t miss the glowers from the guards, or the whispers once he’d passed.

  Walking the line of cells, he peered into each, searching for the healer.

  “Oh, my dear, sweet child, not again…not again,” Hushar said, ushering Danimore inside. After he laid her on the mattress, Hushar stroked her face, leaning down to embrace her.

  “Again?” Danimore asked. “How often have you tended her?”

  Hushar glanced nervously at the guards and then back to Danimore. “Ze—Zeta is clumsy, milord. She doesn’t take care when she walks.”

  Danimore nodded, drawing more from the trepidation in Hushar’s eyes than her answer. A gasp escaped him when she pulled back Zeta’s thin covering, revealing the numerous bruises on her abdomen and side. The bile rose again, and he swallowed hard to keep from retching.

  “I’ll leave you to tend her then,” Danimore said, exiting the cell. His anger and disgust escalated with each stride forward. The scowl on the guards’ faces only served to fuel the rage surging within him. Once he reached the main level, he paused, his chest heaving. The images of the young girl wouldn’t leave his mind. We call them monsters, he thought, scanning the corridor.

  He paced, trying desperately to clear the images from his mind. Zeta looked nothing more than a child, and yet, she would soon birth a child of her own. Or would she? Daracus’ words returned to him then. Would they kill the child and the mother, or would their abuses cause their deaths? He couldn’t reconcile those thoughts or understand how anyone could do this. We’re the monsters, all of us. He envisioned Daracus then, repeating the callous words that he spoke, and the dismissive way he’d offered them.

  Whirling around, Danimore’s fist met the unyielding wall and he grimaced, the pain instantly sobering his mind. Flexing his fingers, he took a steadying breath, relieved his hand wasn’t broken.

  I can’t allow this. There must be a way, there must be, he thought, continuing to work his fingers as he walked back to meet Daracus.

  “Ah, you’ve returned,” Daracus said, concealing the small pouch in his pocket. “Denotra isn’t quite ready, and she’ll join us in the hall soon. Come, Father will be waiting.”

  Danimore inclined his head, still flexing his fingers. His attention wasn’t on their conversation, it was down in the cells with Zeta. Occasionally, he’d nod or offer some compliment the vain man would readily accept. Danimore wasn’t comfortable interacting with Nazil’s leaders. This was Pentanimir’s place, and his invitation was merely a courtesy due to his brother’s absence.

  As they entered the hall, Draizeyn was seated comfortably, enjoying some wine and olives. Danimore had never been in such close proximity to the Zaxson. For a moment, he could only stare, feeling much smaller in his presence.

  Draizeyn wasn’t a handsome man. He kept his thin, white hair short and neat, outlining his boney face and sharp angular features. This only drew more attention to his larger nose and undeveloped chin. Draizeyn was much taller and thinner than Danimore, and the tight-fitting garb he wore only served to accentuate his svelte frame. But Draizeyn’s appearance gave little hint to his disposition. One glimpse into his close-set eyes revealed the reality of the man. Draizeyn was dangerous.

  “Daracus, Danimore, join me.”

  Danimore hesitated for a moment, and then smiled, bowing.

  “How do you find the citadel, Danimore? This is the first that you’ve visited, isn’t it?” Draizeyn asked.

  “It’s grander than I could’ve imagined. I’ve never ventured beyond the entry or sparring grounds.”

  Draizeyn’s smile looked almost a grimace upon his boney face. “Where’s your sister?”

  “Zeta’s incompetence caused her delay,” Daracus said.

  “Mayhaps it’s time to be rid of her. She appears to vex Denotra more with each rise of the sun.” Draizeyn shrugged. “The pleasure that she provided was short-lived, anyway. Not even having Symeon use her is as gratifying as it once was. She’s grown accustomed to his size and enjoys him more than I’d hoped.”

  “That was something to witness,” Daracus said, regarding Danimore. “Symeon’s cock stands longer and thicker than my forearm, yet, Zeta took all of him. No matter the hole, he disappeared inside of her.”

  “Indeed. Zeta is smaller than even Ceron, but she took him with ease,” Draizeyn chuckled. “Well, eventually, and not without sufficient pain, of course. Her expression when first she rode him is forever etched in my mind. I believe she turned as red as her hair when the guard forced her down on his cock.”

  “Rode him?” Daracus laughed. “I thought she’d choke the first time she swallowed his cock. That’s when she turned the reddest. I’ve never seen anything like it before or since. That’s the only use for her, truly. She can swallow a cock better than the most seasoned whore.”

  “On this, we agree,” Draizeyn said, adjusting his trousers. “Even so, the larger her belly swells, the more useless she becomes. Her sniveling has become an irritant to not only your sister, but to me as well.” Draizeyn took a long drink of wine, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “That abomination she carries is an insult to Nazil. We should’ve cut it from her long ago, leaving them both to die.”

  “Indeed, Father, but she could be pregnant with Symeon’s babe. Having another slave like him could be an asset. There’s not many men of his stature and strength.”

  “If I wanted to breed slaves, I certainly wouldn’t do so with Zeta. Symeon would need a breeder more befitting him. It’s doubtful that he’s the sire. Although, that prospect is an interesting one.”

  Danimore cringed. It
took everything within him to keep the contempt from his face. Both Daracus and Draizeyn were in agreement with the slaughter of this young girl and her child. Surely, this was a bad jest. No one could be as monstrous as this. Pentanimir often spoke about the Vereuxs’ depravity, but this was far beyond his descriptions. He couldn’t allow this, but he didn’t possess the position or the influence to make it otherwise.

  “Danimore,” Draizeyn said, bringing him from his troubling contemplations. “Oxilon informed me that Pentanimir isn’t in Nazil. Do you know when he’s returning?”

  “No, Zaxson. He’s inspecting damage from the storms and resetting our traps. He didn’t expect to be gone longer than five to seven suns.”

  “The damage could be significant since we hadn’t prepared for the storms. Pentanimir’s well skilled and should return swiftly. There’s much here to attend to.”

  “Speaking of,” Daracus said. “Denotra mentioned your predicament to Father. She’s asked us to allow one of our slaves to assist in your home. Leanta would make a fine servant. Unlike some, her womb is void. No matter how often you use her, your seed won’t take hold. She’s but six and twenty: young and strong. We understand your house wench met with misfortune some time ago.”

  “That’s true, Nakshij. Mithu was our last. We still have attendants to help with wash and in the stables, but we haven’t found an adequate replacement for our home.” Danimore shifted uncomfortably. The way they spoke about Leanta soured his stomach. Now he understood why Pentanimir loathed coming to the citadel. But Daracus’ offer gave him the solution that he needed.

  “Leanta can be ready and sent to your home before our meal is at an end. Say the word and she’s yours.”

  “I’m honored, Zaxson, truly. However, if it pleases you, I’d like to select another in her place.”

  “Another? To whom do you refer?”

  “I propose to remove Zeta from your service. You’ve stated that she’s more a hindrance than a help at the citadel. Mayhaps the duties here are too complicated for her to grasp. In a smaller home like ours, her duties would be significantly reduced. We’ve left much undone since Mithu’s passing, and Zeta could serve in this capacity.”