Desire's Sirocco

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Are you not curious about the treatment Lord Khnum will perform on you?”

  Sitting across from him, straddling the chair as a man would, the woman had been taunting him since late afternoon with her questions. She had wanted to know what he had felt when he had consumed the goblet of blood. She had asked if he had heard the spirits singing in his head, had he enjoyed the taste of the Sustenance.

  Disgust, he thought as he formed the answer in his brain. Disgust, nausea and an overpowering urge to tear the bitch apart with his bare hands, had been his silent answer. Singing spirits? Aye, he thought bitterly. He had heard the demons whispering vile things into his mind, singing to him of brutality and savagery, of death and destruction and mutilation.

  Enjoyed the taste of her blood? By all that was holy and unholy, he had. It had, indeed, been nectar to him and the taste lingered on his tongue, making him want it, need it, crave it as a starving man does a feast of succulent foods placed before him. To his mortal shame, he ached for the taste of it again, the feel of it easing down his parched throat. He knew denying himself such evil would mean fighting the pull of it with every ounce of his will.

  “It will only be harder on you if you fight it, Beloved,” Neith told him.

  So, he thought, she could read his mind. His every thought could be plucked from the air like a raptor diving after its prey. Yet, when he tried to read her mind, all he felt was a thick, miasmic wave that left him sick with disgust.

  “We will be equals once the deed is done,” she said. “You will be allowed to return to your people and to that slave you fancy you love.”

  He slowly turned his head and stared at his tormentress. She was smiling at him in a way that chilled his blood and as her gaze fell to the twin wounds on his neck, he could not stop the shudder than ran through his body.

  “I am not lying to you,” she said. “You will be taken to the border and turned over to your brother’s men.”

  “Returned to them as what?” he said through clenched teeth.

  Neith crossed her arms on the back of the chair and laid her chin on her right wrist. “As one of us.”

  “I would rather die in a fiery pit than go back to my people as one of you!” he snarled.

  “Once the deed is done, you will not have such morbid thoughts, Beloved.”

  “Stop calling me that!” he shouted at her. “I am no more your beloved than you are mine!”

  Neith cocked a shoulder. “My blood pulses through your veins, Dagan Kiel. You belong to me.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to call her every insulting, vulgar name he had ever heard muttered. He wanted nothing more than to get his hands on her and to have the strength to tear her limb from limb.

  “You will find when you have the chance to lay hands to me, that you will want nothing more than to thrust your cock in me and spray me full of your life-juice,” she said, a superior look on her face.

  “You stupid bitch,” Dagan threw at her. “For all your mind reading, you don’t know that is the last thing that will ever happen!”

  “But why, Dagan-love?” she cooed, sweetly. “Because you hate me or because you believe you have no ability to fuck a woman?”

  His face turned hard but a blush of shame softened his features. He turned away from her, having no desire to answer her taunt.

  “When the deed is done, you…”

  “What godsdamned deed, bitch?” Dagan howled, his frustrations getting the best of him. Though he was so weak all he wanted to do was sleep, the constant mention of some nefarious deed lurking in his future demanded he ask.

  Neith stood, swinging her leg over the chair seat. She smiled but did not answer. As she turned to go, his growl made her laugh.

  Infuriated at her laughter as she left him pulling uselessly and weakly against his fetters, Dagan wished he could loop the chains around his neck and hang himself. He knew he would prefer death to whatever evil thing lay in wait for him at the hands of the faceless Lord Khnum.

  * * * * *

  Angry at the thing he was being forced to do, Lord Khnum picked the most deadly of specimens from the beaker. Already, this one had devoured half a dozen of its nestlings. Engorged with the blood and flesh of its sisters, the specimen was strong, wriggling furiously in the grip of the tongs pinched around its elongated body. As it was placed into a beaker of fresh-drawn blood, it began lapping greedily at the liquid.

  “You want him to be one of us,” Khnum mumbled as he turned to his instrument drawer and began removing those that would be needed to aid the Transference. “I will give him an addiction worse than any Queen ever conceived in her filthy womb!” He held up a shiny scalpel and tested the thinness of its blade with his thumb. He sucked in a breath as the blade sliced into his flesh and a bead of blood oozed up.

  The specimen sensed the bloodletting and the beaker clattered along the marble desk. Grown twice the size it had been, the specimen had all but drained the liquid from the beaker and was now squirming around and around inside the glass, its scarlet eyes latched on Lord Khnum as its forked tongue lapped at any stray drop of blood.

  “Not me,” the old man chuckled. “It will not be my body you will invade.” He felt a sharp twist along his backbone and knew his own parasite had decided to show him who was Master and who the host.

  Lord Khnum was the oldest of his kind though he had not been the first. He had not even been among the first generation of Ordonese warriors to be infected with that which made him what he was now. For centuries he had trod along the barren lands of Ordon, crossed the border into the blood-rich fields of the Conclave and taken his pleasure of thousands upon thousands of his enemy. When human blood could not easily be taken, beef blood would do though it lacked in succulence the satiation his parasite desired. So long ago had been his rebirth that he could not remember the details of the Transference.

  He turned his eyes to the Book that perched high upon the tallest shelf of the operatory. Tempted many times to climb the high ladder and take down the Book, his parasite had never allowed it. Should he put one foot upon the lowest rung, the demoness inside him would cause such pain he would be brought to his knees immediately and spend the rest of the day repenting in agony. Even looking upon the Book caused the beastess inside him to turn sharply, causing acute torment to lacerate Khnum’s spindly body.

  Khnum suspected the origin of his kind was concealed within the cracked human-leather of the Book. It was a secret the parasites wanted kept hidden.

  Turning his attention back to the specimen he had extracted from Neith before her battle with Dagan Kiel’s troop, he was pleased to see it had doubled in size again. Now as large as his hand, the parasite was trying to gnaw at the sides of the beaker with its opposable fangs, searching for any residue of blood left.

  “Soon, you can feast on an Akhkharu warrior, my little demoness. You can slither into his strong, handsome body and forever make your home,” Khnum promised.

  The parasite stopped moving and appeared to be listening to the old man’s words. Its forked tongue struck repeatedly against the glass; its scarlet eyes pulsed within the triangular planes of its warty head. A milky substance fell in a long thread from the gaping maw of its mouth and sizzled against the glass.

  “I want you to hurt him,” Khnum said, putting the scalpel to his wrist. “I want you to bring him such agony that he will wish for death with every breath.”

  Slicing a thin line along his flesh, the old man allowed his own blood to flow into a small dish.

  “I want you to curse his offspring with the same unrelenting pain and hopelessness so they will rue the day they became One of us.”

  Khnum held the dish above the beaker where the specimen had gone into a frenzy of twisting, turning, squirming motion. So violent was the movement, the old man could hear the hiss of the fledgling.

  “Promise me,” he said, turning the dish so a small drop of blood fell into the beaker.

  Pouncing on the aged blood of the Ordonese warri
or—an essence as rare and succulent to the parasite as an aged wine would be to a connoisseur—the specimen writhed and appeared to be salivating, the acid-like white substance dripping from its maw.

  “Pledge to me you will bring hell to Dagan Kiel and I will feed you the sweetest blood, the most potent Sustenance of them all.” He raised the dish, grinning manically at the prolonged hiss of denial from the specimen. “Pledge to me or I will give this nectar to your nestlings!”

  Snaking its eel-like body halfway up the beaker, the specimen had once more doubled in size. Its forked tongue could almost reach over the glass rim. Its beady eyes locked on the old man, it slid down the glass and coiled around itself, granting as much submission as it ever would.

  Satisfied the deal had been struck, Khnum tilted the dish of his ancient blood into the beaker and watched as the specimen went crazy in an effort to devour every drop. As it squirmed around inside the beaker, the old man quickly lifted the beaker and placed it inside a much larger one he knew the specimen could not escape. With the consumption of his potent blood, the demoness would double—if not triple—in size and every precaution needed to be taken until the Transference.

  Khnum turned his attention to the beaker that held the remaining specimens taken from Neith’s treacherous body. There were four of the nestlings left from the hive he had excised. By law, he should destroy them but he had no intention of doing so. With a hateful grin upon his thin face, he took up the beaker and placed it in a cubicle, hiding it behind a stack of old texts.

  “One never knows when one will need ammunition,” he chortled.

  * * * * *

  Neith kept well back from her captive as Dagan Kiel was taken from his bed.

  The heavy manacles weighing down his hands and feet made it hard for the warrior to stand and impossible for him to walk. The two Ordonese warriors who supported him were strong and easily dragged the weakened warrior along between them, his bare toes scraping over the rough tiles.

  “At least you can allow me my britches!” Dagan snarled.

  “But I like you naked, Beloved,” Neith laughed.

  She could hear his muttered curses and marveled at the repertoire of his vulgarities. For a man unaccustomed to the hand of a woman upon him and the raping of one, he surprised her with his plans for her.

  “Once you’re healed, you will be able to do that and more, Beloved,” she told him. “Although you will find you will enjoy my rape almost as much as I will enjoy you doing it.”

  The Ordonese warriors chuckled and one glanced back at Neith, taking her measure and grinning hungrily at her. When she showed no sign of welcoming his silent suggestion, he shrugged and tightened his grip on the captive’s arm.

  Understanding as he never had before how his twin must feel in not being about to walk, Dagan felt like an invalid. He was in no condition to fight what was about to happen to him and could not get the bitch’s words out of his mind, “when you are healed”. The connotation of those words put a chill down his spine and worry clouded his vision as he stared at the passing tiles beneath his useless legs.

  “Healing won’t take long so don’t let that concern you, Beloved,” Neith informed him. “A day, perhaps two, and you will be better than you have ever been.”

  The two warriors had ceased to drag him and he lifted his head to find himself before a wide iron door being opened by a brace of different warriors. The portal creaked open—setting his teeth and nerves on edge—to reveal a brightly lit room, the intensity of which made him squint.

  “Over there,” he heard a brittle voice command.

  Swinging his head to one side, Dagan beheld a rail-thin man who bore a decided resemblance to the detestable Brother Qutaybah. For that reason alone, Dagan hated the man on sight.

  “Lord Khnum,” Neith said. “May I introduce Lord Dagan Kiel of Akhkharu?”

  Khnum ignored the introduction. “You!” he called out and the warriors at the door hurried into the room. “Take his legs and hoist him onto the table.”

  “Be careful of his arms,” Neith advised.

  Dagan felt himself being lifted and was surprised when they laid him down on his belly, his arms pulled over his head. The table upon which he found himself was made of black granite and was cold to the touch, cooling the fever that made his body far too warm.

  “Lock the manacles into the stanchions then leave,” Khnum commanded.

  The weight of the chains on his wrists and ankles pulled his limbs painfully downward, flattening him to the slab. His cheek was turned away from those present so he lifted his head to view the old man and his tormentress.

  “You may go, as well,” Khnum said to Neith.

  “I will stay,” she said and met the old man’s angry glower with a steady look.

  Khnum gritted his teeth but turned away, telling her to suit herself.

  Neith came to stand at the head of the table. She put one hand on Dagan’s shoulder and when he tried to shrug it away, she dug her nails into his flesh. “Behave, Beloved,” she said. “You will need the comfort of my hand once Lord Khnum begins his surgery.”

  There it was again, Dagan thought, feeling sweat pop out on his brow. What vile thing was this old man going to do to him? He felt his skin crawling, goose bumps pebbling his flesh. Fear had invaded his soul and try as hard as he could, he could not dispel it.

  Neith watched Khnum walk to a workbench and when he turned with a large beaker in his hands, her eyes widened. “That came from me?” she gasped.

  Khnum’s grin was horrible. “Aye, Lady Neith. What think you of your little nestling?”

  Dagan tried to turn his head, to see what it was that had put such shock in the demoness’ voice but she put a hand to his head and held it down. “Was the one you gave me that large?” he heard her ask.

  “Aye,” Khnum lied. He placed the beaker on a stand beside the table.

  Neith’s face had creased into a mask of concern. She found the nestling—a thing that had only recently been a part of her own body—disgusting and horrendously terrifying. It glared back at her with menace and she could not stop the shudder that rippled through her body. It was all she could do to tear her eyes away from the dreadful sight as Khnum plucked a scalpel from a tray and placed the tip to Dagan’s flesh.

  Dagan opened his mouth to demand he be told what these two demons were about but never got the chance. A slicing pain slid from just under the right side of his ribcage all the way to the pelvic bone and he yelped.

  Licking her lips as the warrior’s crimson blood seeped down his side and over the small of his back, Neith watched in fascination as Khnum took the lid off the beaker. Her heart was thundering in her chest as the old man used a pair of tongs thick enough to lift a large rock to pluck the parasite from its glass prison. Her eyes widened in disbelief as Khnum struggled with the hideous eel-like thing then dropped it on the warrior’s bare back.

  Both Neith and Khnum jumped back, neither wanting to come into contact with the parasite. Each held their breath as the creature wriggled back and forth for a moment then—sensing the freely flowing blood nearby—opened its mouth and squirmed quickly down into the surgical opening on Dagan Kiel’s back.

  At first, the cut on his back had hurt because he had not been prepared for the attack. The initial sting had been replaced with a heavy, slimy weight that made his flesh crawl. That sensation puzzled him but when hell opened up to send a fiery shaft of pure agony into his bound body, Dagan screamed in unrelenting torment.

  Surprising herself, Neith felt tears form in her eyes as she beheld the violently struggling, screaming warrior. She remembered well the agony that had accompanied the invasion of the parasite Khnum had placed in her over forty years earlier. The gnawing, tearing misery as the creature had slithered into her back, its sharp fangs clamping down on a vulnerable organ, and the awareness of her own blood being sucked out of her returned unbidden in nightmares that brought her awake in sweaty panic ‘til this day. But watching Dagan Kiel wri
thing in such immense suffering, she knew her Transference had been nothing compared to this.

  “Do something!” she yelled at Khnum even as she covered her ears to block out the warrior’s inhuman screams.

  “There is nothing that can be done,” Khnum shouted at her. “You wanted him to be One of us? Well, now he will be!”

  Dagan’s body arched upon the marble table. He jerked uselessly at his bonds, striving with all his waning strength to pull his hands and legs free. The manacles bit into his limbs, scoring his wrists and ankles, tearing his flesh. The force of his pulling dislocated both wrists but he did not cease to struggle. His screams filled the room, echoing off the walls and his eyes were bulging from his head.

  Khnum crossed his arms, savoring the screams, tantalized by the anguished contortions of the warrior. He cocked his head to one side, watching intently as the cut he had made on Kiel’s flesh began to close. “Amazing,” he muttered to himself. In all the Transferences he had done over the years, none had mended this quickly.

  Neith swiped at the tears clouding her vision and forced herself to walk over to the anguished warrior. With her hand trembling like that of a palsied ancient, she placed her palm on Dagan Kiel’s head and forced it gently to the table. The heat radiating up to her palm from his flesh stunned her, scorched her, but she kept a steady pressure on the warrior’s head.

  “Listen to me, Beloved,” she sent to him. “Relax and the pain will lessen.”

  Hearing the woman’s silent words, Khnum snorted.

  “Make it stop!” the warrior howled. “Please make it stop!”

  Her heart breaking at the words, Neith looked up at Khnum. “Is there nothing you can do?”

  Khnum took great pleasure in shaking his head. He was smiling at her, his beady eyes as hateful as a viper’s.

  Dagan was lost in the agony that rippled through his body. It felt as though a shark had invaded his back and was stripping away the meat of his organs. The drawing sensation in his lower back was an agony unto itself, warring with the other pains racking him. He could hear himself pleading, begging for help. Ashamed of such weakness, he tried to control it, to keep the pleas from passing his lips, but the pain was too great. Interspersed among his screams were pathetic invocations to whatever god was listening and would take pity on him.