Longing's Levant

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “No, but why tempt the Fates?” she countered, pulling the hood of her scarlet robe over her hair. “Sylviana can be a mean drunk, as you saw this eve, and even though I am the co-leader on this leg of our trip, she can be a handful to control.” She shrugged. “I care not to have to hit her again if it can be helped.”

  “I wish you would stay,” he said. “If need be, I can ride out. The one I was to meet obviously won’t show this eve.”

  Tamara shook her head. “It is best we be the ones to leave, milord.” She glanced at the doorway. “My Sisters are waiting for me.”

  Disappointment settled on the Akkadian warrior’s wide shoulders and made them sag. “Will I see you again?” he asked, staring into her sparkling amethyst eyes.

  “Who knows, milord?” she questioned. “The Universe decides.”

  “I don’t care to leave anything to chance. Sometimes we must take matters into our own hands,” he mumbled.

  Before she could turn away, he snaked out a hand and cupped her head, bringing her mouth to his. The kiss he bestowed on her lips was deep and hard, his tongue invading her mouth as his shaft yearned to invade her shapely body. He ravaged her lips with his own, his body pressed fiercely to hers in an embrace that shook them both. When he released her, she was trembling and he was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling as though he had run a race.

  “You don’t play fair,” she accused, putting a shaky hand to her lips.

  “When you get to know me better, you’ll know I’ve never claimed otherwise,” he responded in a husky voice.

  Their gazes locked and in that brief span of time something vital passed between them. In the other, they recognized a kindred soul.

  “Stay with me,” he asked.

  “I can not,” she said.

  “Although we belong together?”

  “You don’t know that,” she said with a shake of her head.

  “I know it as surely as I know the sun will rise tomorrow.” He smiled. “Just as you know it.”

  Tamara moved back. “Please, milord. I have a duty to the Daughters of the Night. I am not free to…”

  “In Akkadia, I am the law. I have the power to keep you here with me,” he stated.

  “Would you have me neglect my sworn duty to my coven?” she asked. “When I am free…” She stopped, pleading in her warm eyes.

  He longed to drag her into his arms and carry her off with him. Such strong emotions as the ones flowing through him at that moment were as foreign to him as the dusky slant of her beautiful eyes. He had never known love, never thought to, but here it was creeping up on him. He was amazed at the feelings that overpowered him.

  “Please try to understand,” she said. “I have obligations, duties.”

  “Aye,” he said with a sigh, having obligations and duties of his own that always overruled personal needs. “Until we meet again then,” he whispered.

  “Aye,” she said, and began backing away as though she hated to lose sight of him.

  He took a step toward her, but she held up her hand to stay his approach. After one final tremulous smile, she turned and hurried away.

  Evann-Sin was of a mind to go after her, but there were more pressing matters at hand than the wayward ache of his lonely heart. Rabin’s mysterious whereabouts had to be settled, and the grave problem that had brought the Akkadian warrior to Nonica was still very much in the forefront of his mind.

  Even if the luscious beauty of a red-haired wench named Tamara would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  Going back to his table, he slumped in his chair. He was bone-tired, hungry, ill at ease for a variety of reasons, and now heartsick that he had—he suspected—encountered the love of his life only to have her drift like sand through his fingers.

  He ran his hands through his hair and pulled his elbows together in front of him in an attempt to work the kinks out of his shoulder muscles. He yawned, closed his eyes then smelled the rich aroma of gravy wafting under his nose. He opened his eyes to see the tavern maid standing beside his table.

  “Are you r-ready for your meal now, m-milord?” she stuttered.

  “Is it still hot?” he asked.

  “Aye, milord,” she answered, placing it before him.

  “Well, then, at least I can ease one appetite,” he said with a sigh.

  Chapter One

  In honor of his position in Akkadian society, Evann-Sin was the first to toss a handful of dirt into Rabin Jaspyre’s grave. As he did, his attention strayed to Rabin’s widow and twin teenage sons. He ground his teeth for her sons had to hold Momisha Jaspyre upright, her wails of grief filling the evening air, else it was feared she would fling herself into her husband’s final resting place. The woman was beside herself with grief, unable to do more than shriek her agony to the heavens. The ululation of her cries was piercing, a strident noise that made the hair stir on Evann-Sin’s arms. It was not the first time he had heard a Dabiyan woman’s skirl of heartbreak filling the air but this time it unnerved him more than he would have imagined possible.

  “He was her reason for living,” an elderly woman whispered to the Lord High Commander. “She will follow him soon.”

  “I hope not,” he muttered.

  The old woman smiled sadly, her toothless mouth a gray hole around her words. “Such is the way with women, milord.”

  It was the custom of the Dabiya tribe to bury their females at first light, their males at the setting of the sun. The families of Rabin and Momisha stood silently, tearfully, in a circle around the perimeter of the grave, each with a handful of soil to toss into the gaping hole. One by one, they came forward to pay their last respects to their kinsman. When the last of them had flung his offering into the grave, the gravediggers advanced upon the final resting place of Rabin Jaspyre and began shoveling dirt into the hole.

  Momisha Jaspyre unleashed a wavering scream then collapsed. The eldest of her twin sons swept the woman into his arms and carried her into the hut she had shared with her husband of twenty years. His brother followed closely behind, shutting the door on the mourners who were silently departing. Only two mourners would remain with the gravediggers—the Headsman and the Healer who would place one stone at the head of the grave and another at the foot.

  Though Evann-Sin had promised her he would find the men who had murdered her husband, and make sure they were brought to Akkadian justice, there was little he could do for Momisha now. He would respect her privacy, her grief this night and come back later. Her pitiful condition tore at his heart, sending him to his horse with frustration dogging his footsteps.

  Mounting the coal-black stallion that was as much a symbol of his office as the black robes he wore, the Akkadian warrior took one last look at his friend’s grave.

  A part of Evann-Sin mourned the passing of a man with whom he had spent many a hazardous hour. Another part rejoiced that Rabin was now beyond the worries and cares of ordinary men and no doubt sitting at the right hand of the Prophet, being fanned by luscious virgins and taking long sips of honeyed mead.

  “Goodbye, my friend,” the Lord High Commander whispered, surprised that his voice bore the unmistakable huskiness of grief. “May your rest go undisturbed.”

  Putting his heels to the steed, Evann-Sin slapped the trailing end of the reins lightly along the horse’s flanks. He wanted to put as much distance between him and Rabin’s burial site as he could. Having declined the offer of Rabin’s brother to spend the night in Samarkan, the tribe’s main compound, the warrior intended to make Nonica by morning light. There was work to do and at the top of the list was to find out who had taken Rabin’s life.

  As concentrated as his mind was on the matter at hand, Evann-Sin was too highly trained not to realize he was being followed when he left the burial site. Though whoever was trailing him was being cautious and staying well back to avoid notice, the warrior’s instinct for survival had picked up on the danger and a nagging ache began between his shoulder blades. He refrained from turning arou
nd to take a look, for he didn’t want his shadow to know he was aware of his presence. Rather than increasing his speed to outdistance the one behind him, Evann-Sin slowed the stallion to a slow trot.

  The warrior continued on for several miles until he came to the place he sought. Ahead was a low mound of dunes that marked the beginning of the Quesa desert. Joshua trees bordered the vast sandscape between the Dabiya Province and Akkadia and a small oasis with graceful, lacy date palms ringed a small pond. It was to this picturesque respite that Evann-Sin guided his mount. If there was to be a confrontation, he wanted it to be on his own terms and at a place of his choosing.

  Dismounting at the pond, the warrior led his horse to drink. Hunkering down beside the clear water, Evann-Sin cupped his hand and splashed some of the liquid on his face, rubbing his eyes to help relieve the tiredness. A slight breeze chilled the water on his flesh and helped to ease the weariness that seemed to be as much a part of him of late as his thirst for revenge. He hung his head as he squatted there, feeling the exhaustion creeping up on him. Had he not been conscious of being followed, he would have taken out his bedroll and curled up under the stars to sleep for an hour or two.

  But the keen awareness of the situation made him watchful and as he stood, he looked around him—a natural thing under any circumstances, he thought—but saw no rider hanging back along the road from Samarkan nor did he hear furtive sounds of approach.

  Mentally shaking off the nagging feeling that persisted with tightness between his shoulders, Evann-Sin unhooked his water bag from the stallion’s saddle horn and uncorked it. As he brought the bag to his lips, something hard and unyielding slammed against the back of his head, and the gathering stars overhead fell with him to the ground.

  * * * * *

  There were six of them kneeling beside him—one at each limb, one at his head and another between his legs. A seventh stood gazing down at him with amusement. He struggled against the strong hands that held captive his wrists and ankles but it was useless. Naked, helpless and at their mercy, he viciously cursed them from beneath the rough cotton gag covering his mouth.

  “Lie still, warrior,” their leader—the one grinning down at him—commanded and he recognized her as the one Tamara had called Sylviana. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

  “This one is a fighter,” the one at his head observed.

  “Aye,” said another,” but he will be conquered whether he likes it or not.”

  Laughter made the circuit of those gathered around the warrior.

  Grunting with disgust, his face stained dark red with humiliation, Evann-Sin angrily shook his head from side-to-side, his sweat-dampened black curls glinting in the glow of a campfire.

  “There is no denying your fate, warrior,” the leader told him. “Protest all you will but the outcome will be the same.”

  “Here is the brew, Sylviana,” an eighth intruder spoke, and Evann-Sin swung his head toward the voice. Fury turned his amber eyes to glacial chips and he howled beneath the constriction of the gag when he saw what was being offered.

  “Ah, I believe he knows what that is,” the leader quipped.

  The one kneeling between his legs took the bottle from the newcomer and uncorked it. The sweet scent of gardenia filled the night air. In the shifting glow of the firelight, he watched as the contents of the cobalt-blue bottle were poured into waiting palms. There was a sucking sound as those palms were rubbed together to heat the oil. He flinched as they put their hands on him, smearing the slick oil on his flesh.

  Every inch of his chest and abdomen was being coated with the warm lubricant. He wriggled beneath the feel of it, his nostrils flaring, his skin pebbling with goose bumps. As a hand smoothed over his side, along his rib cage, he tried to shift away from the contact but it was useless. Fingers were spreading over his belly and along his thighs, nails were grazing his shrinking testicles and he drew in an alarmed breath.

  “Oil his shaft well,” the leader instructed. “The less friction in the steel the better the weapon penetrates.”

  More laughter accompanied Evann-Sin’s constricted shriek of outrage at that remark. He bucked under the restraint, dug his heels into the sand, his fingers clawing at the ground beneath them.

  Intense rage filled his brain as a hot hand wrapped around his penis. Strong fingers slid up and down his flesh, manipulating his sleeping member until it roused from its slumber and lifted its head to see who had awakened it.

  “His is a well-made sword,” the one between his legs commented.

  “Aye,” the leader agreed. “And we will sheathe it well, don’t you think?”

  Grunting furiously behind the gag, Evann-Sin mentally ordered his rebellious soldier to stand down, but the chafing being generated by the strong fingers sliding down his length held more sway.

  “Relax, warrior,” the leader said, hunkering down beside him. “Allow yourself to enjoy your fate. You’re not the first we’ve captured and you’ll not be the last.”

  The strain of trying to make his shaft disregard the squeezing, gentle twisting motion sliding up and down it was beginning to take its toll on Evann-Sin. Sweat glistened on his forehead and upper lip, and ran in rivulets down his heaving chest.

  “He is as hard as stone,” the one holding his penis remarked.

  “Give me the elixir, Sagira,” the leader demanded.

  “What is it we rub into him?” a young woman inquired.

  “A very potent Akkadian elixir called guššurum, their word for ‘to be very strong’. It is distilled from the brew of opium and thorn apples. It will keep his shaft as tempered as steel until we are through with him,” one of the women chuckled.

  “His kind have been raping women since the dawn of time,” another put in. “It’s time they find out what it feels like to be taken against your will!”

  “Aye,” Sylviana agreed. “Time and time again until his shaft is a bruised and bloodied stump before we slice it from his arrogant ass.”

  The loud screech that erupted from the warrior’s throat was ignored as a second bottle was produced and handed to the one kneeling at his head.

  “Tip his head back. Be careful he doesn’t bite you when you remove the gag,” the leader warned.

  Anchoring the warrior’s cheeks between firm palms, the one above the warrior lifted his head and tilted it back. The one on his left side reached under his neck to untie the gag then moved back quickly so there was no chance for Evann-Sin to snag his bared teeth in his captor’s arm.

  “You bitches will…” he began then snapped his jaw fiercely shut as the bottle was brought to his lips. His eyes glowed hell-hot as the woman on his left tried to pry his lips apart.

  “Pinch closed his nose,” the leader said. “He’ll have to open those pretty lips sooner or later.”

  The women kneeling around Evann-Sin bided their time as the one on his left squeezed his nostrils together. They watched as his handsome face turned red then took on a slight bluish cast.

  “He has a strong will,” someone commented.

  “Nay,” the leader replied. “He’s simply stubborn as are all men.”

  As the minutes ticked by and the loss of oxygen to his brain began to etch darkness around his vision, Evann-Sin knew he would be unable to keep his lips closed much longer. The moment his lips parted, the women warriors who had captured him would pour the contents of the bottle down his throat, and he would be lost because he knew damned well what was in the elixir he was being forced to drink. The thought of being unable to control either his weapon or his lust filled him with absolute fear.

  “He’s lost the steel in his sword,” the one between his legs said with a sigh.

  “It will return tenfold as soon as the elixir is administered, Hael,” the leader assured her.

  Feeling his consciousness slowly fading, his head throbbing with the pressure, it was only a matter of a few seconds more before Evann-Sin gave up and he gasped in the precious air. Not giving him the chance to clamp his jaws s
hut again, the bottle was thrust into his mouth and the contents poured in. He gagged as the sickly sweet liquid flowed in. An oily hand was slapped over his mouth to keep him from spitting it out. Sucking air through his nose, he felt as though he were drowning in the liquid he was holding in his mouth.

  “We can wait longer than you, warrior,” the leader chuckled, folding her arms over her shapely bosom.

  No drop of liquid from the bottle had escaped Evann-Sin’s mouth. Though he could taste the fluid, it had numbed his tongue so completely he could no longer feel that muscle. With every breath he drew in through his distended nostrils, the flavor of the liquid invaded his taste buds.

  “Distract him,” the leader suggested. “Give him something to occupy his mind.”

  Laughter punctuated her words, and Evann-Sin groaned as oily hands returned to his flaccid flesh. As two women plucked alternately at his nipples, pinching the sensitive nubs between wickedly sharp fingernails, another circled his belly button with an insistent thumb, dipping into the deep concavity to tickle him. The one whose firm fingers circled his penis began her ritual once more, twisting down firmly, tugging up tightly then circling the swollen head with the center of her greasy palm.

  “Such remarkable restraint,” a woman said.

  “Not for much longer,” the one holding his shaft replied. With one hand wrapped around him, her thumb and forefinger squeezing until the opening of his penis flared open, she used her other hand to slip a fingernail into the slit and scratch delicately.

  Evann-Sin drew in a sharp breath through his nose and nearly choked on the liquid in his mouth. He groaned, his body shivering with a desire he was having trouble controlling. When her fingers slid under his scrotum, cupped, then squeezed lightly, her middle fingernail dragging along the sensitive ridges, he could no longer hold the liquid in his mouth and reluctantly swallowed it, closing his eyes in surrender.

  “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it, warrior?” the leader inquired.