by Owens J. C.
Arran sought sound more than anything. This last small defiance was really nothing at all, just a physical aberration that made him grit his teeth until his jaw felt like it might crack under the pressure.
Perhaps soon, he would be able to gift his brother with screams and he would be appeased. This silence was pure foolishness.
It went on for what felt like hours before he heard the whip fall to the floor signaling the end of this torture and the beginning of something worse.
The cuff was opened, his arm pulled over his brother’s shoulder as Arran guided Rian’s shambling steps over to the bed. He was flung face down, bent over the edge of the bed and he closed his eyes feeling nausea rise from the pain and disorientation.
Hard hands pulled his buttocks open, and then Rian arched, a sound at last escaping his lips, a long drawn out keening as his body was breached without mercy.
Arran grunted with pleasure at the sound, immediately setting a hard, furious pace as he leaned over Rian’s convulsing body, smearing the blood across his chest with a low sound of enjoyment as he thrust more deeply.
“You are mine,” he whispered hoarsely against Rian’s ear. “And now, finally, you know that. You are broken, brother, and there is no going back…”
Blood trickled onto the sheets, crimson against pristine white.
* * *
Hamon raised an eyebrow in silent appraisal of the obvious wealth as he and his men rode through the thickly ornate iron gates of the palace. He had heard much of this desert king, the one who pledged to unite all the tribes under one rule. Wealthy, intelligent, and cruel were the adjectives that first came to mind from the plethora of information Hamon had received.
Wealthy seemed top of the list as the sheer beauty of this fortress became apparent.
No expense spared here. The courtyard was paved in rough, colored stone, and the edges were trimmed with smooth, brightly painted tile. The walls were blindingly white marble with occasional stone mosaics inset at intervals. Four fountains, one in each corner, trickled precious water, that above all a sign of wealth in this desert land.
Hamon drew to a halt before the grand staircase, an ornate affair of metal, stone, and tile that curved up toward the entryway. He dismounted with the innate grace of his people, the horse lords, the Zala. His men swung down in his wake, their eyes wary, their hands restlessly fingering their weapons.
Once, the Zala had been the mortal enemies of the Rashma, the people of the desert, but those days were long past, a truce and lasting peace brought about by the current’s king’s grandfather.
That peace had been needed for that king to work toward his true goal, the unification of all Rashmaian tribes.
The Zala had admired his cruelty, his show of force, and agreed to the truce, though they kept a cautious eye upon their neighbors, sure that at some time, the Rashma would turn against them.
That the current Rashmaian king had called upon Hamon and his men to arrive in Rashma itself was a surprise. Their elite group of mercenaries, the Hawks, had made a name for themselves all over the continent, true, but Hamon could not understand why such a king would call upon them instead of raising his own men.
Still, the money promised was more than generous, and Hamon wanted to at least hear the king out. To bring in outside mercenaries smacked of something underhanded, illicit. Hamon’s ever-present curiosity drove him to explore what this meant, even if he was not sure he would accept the job.
Several servants scurried forward to take the horses, their heads bowed submissively. He gave the directions for the care of their mounts, for those of the Zala considered a horse as great as any man. It was hard to let his stallion, Baresh, out of his sight, but he bit down the concern. He and his men would sleep by them in the stable this night. No Zala worth his salt would be far from his mount in a place of strangers.
A tall, thin man in white robes met them at the top of the stairs, his wrinkled face showing the calm wisdom of ages, his blue eyes, rare in this part of the world, examining them with cautious respect.
“I am Quar, his majesty’s seneschal. I welcome you to the Fortress of Fanamir.”
Hamon tilted his head slightly. “The home of the sun god.”
Quar’s eyes widened slightly, a faint smile tilted his grim lips. “You know our language then?”
Hamon gave a self-depreciating shake of the head. “A little. But I had heard of Fanamir. It is known for its beauty even beyond your borders.”
Quar beamed, his face looking younger for a moment, his pleasure obvious. “My family contains many artisans and several of them worked on the creation of the palace complex. I will tell my father, he will be proud.” He gestured them forward. “Come, we are pleased to host the Hawks. You also are talked about on this side of the border. His Majesty wanted you brought to him as soon as you arrived. I will send food and drink for you there.”
Hamon inclined his head, having to admit that he was both hungry and thirsty in equal measure. Hopefully this king would not be longwinded.
Quar led them through the shadowed hallways, beams of light from intricate windows streaming across their path in segmented beauty. The building was as lovely inside as out, and yet Hamon felt tension rise within him as they went ever deeper within the complex. There was something here, some energy that belied the sunlit corridors, made a chill ghost over his spine.
He took note of the people they met and there was no open curiosity, no chatter or the faint sounds of laughter as he had heard outside. Here within the confines of the palace, it seemed that a degree of fear ruled.
A mark of a ruler was the behavior of his people. It seemed the son was as cruel as his father and grandfather had been. Hamon’s mouth curved into a small smile.
The Zala themselves were not known for mercy. Their people, however, did not scurry about like frightened mice. There was the strength and force of a true leader, and then there was brutality for the sake of brutality, a wasteful exercise bound to drive people to rebellion.
It remained to be seen which side of the coin this Rashmaian king walked on.
Their soft-soled boots were silent upon the mosaic floors as he and his men watched their surroundings with a keen eye. Hamon did not need to look back to ensure that his men were doing their job in guarding him. He knew they would be. They were sword brothers, bound as one, and they valued his life as much, if not more, than their own. He would be able to focus on this king and know that his back was covered.
Truce there might be between the countries, but Hamon had never been a trusting sort, and the pervasive sense of darkness that hovered over this beautiful fortress had all his senses on alert.
Quar led them through the twisting corridors, finally gesturing them through a set of great double doors that led into a large, bright courtyard.
There were guards stationed at regular intervals about the space, hands on their swords, faces blank. They did not move at the Hawks’ arrival, did not even glance in their direction, so it was obvious the king was expecting them.
The thwack of an arrow drew Hamon’s gaze.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stood at one end of the courtyard, his fine, long-fingered hands already nocking another arrow to his bow and drawing with swift precision. Hamon and his men watched as this arrow split the first with ease, and could not prevent themselves from nodding at the skill displayed. No doubt that was the intention in the first place, to impress them. Those of the Zala admired military might, martial skills.
The man lowered his bow and turned to face them, handing the weapon to a servant who waited quietly beside him, holding a quiver of arrows.
Hamon had an impression of calm confidence, an aura of power. This man could be none other than the king.
“Greetings to you.” The man’s gray eyes flicked over them and fixed upon Hamon, and he could literally feel the quick assessment, the pleased reaction. “You came quickly.”
“I was curious.” Hamon bowed his head just slightly in defer
ence to the man’s rank, but he would not kneel as a Rashmaian would. Be damned if that caused insult, but a Zala never knelt to anyone but his own leader.
“Come, sit. You must be weary after such a long, hard ride.” The king gestured to a table in the shade, where servants were busy bringing drinks and food.
The Rashmaian king seated himself first, then the Hawks waited until Hamon had sat and was comfortable before finding themselves a place on a bench on the far side of the rectangular table.
“I am King Arran, as you have most likely guessed. And you must be Hamon, leader of the Hawks. I have heard much of you and your men. Good things of your prowess and capabilities.”
Hamon nodded, not prone to false modesty. They were the best and that was that.
The king’s lips curled into a small smile, his icy eyes intent on Hamon’s face. “I have a job I need done. Something for which I need those without mercy, without foolish emotion to lead them off course. That is why those I choose must come from outside Rashma itself.”
Hamon merely blinked, saying nothing.
The smile widened, the gray eyes gleaming for a brief moment. “You have no doubt heard that I am continuing my father’s quest of uniting the tribes?”
At Hamon’s nod, he continued. “My younger brother, by sacred tradition, is the leader of my army when I cannot be there. He is—difficult—unable to face responsibility. My people see only the child he was, not the sullen man he has become. They sometimes aid him, enable him to act the fool, and that I cannot have. I must have stable leadership for my men, and unfortunately, only a royal may hold the position of commander. Otherwise I would keep him here, under supervision, but by the binding law of our people, I am forced to have him there.” Lips thinned as though he were reliving past transgressions that had frayed his temper. “He attempted to escape the country, sent a man to kidnap my children…” His tone held pain and a degree of disbelief.
Hamon tilted his head, frowning. “You want us to assassinate this prince?” It was almost, not quite, an insult to their reputation. They were not those that killed from the shadows. They were men of war.
“No. No, not assassination… He was foolish, driven by madness that haunts our line. He has never done anything like this before. I can only assume that someone, somehow, set him against me. He must be watched until I can take him back under my control and see to him personally. For now, I need those who are strong enough to dismiss any wiles he might work, powerful enough to stand against any who seek to use my brother against me. It is a vital task I would trust few with. I am prepared to pay generously for your time. Such easy work comes seldom to a warrior, I know. Think of it as a rest for you and your men. When I have the tribes under my rule, which I estimate at no longer than six months, you will be free to return to the fields of battle…and very rich besides.”
Hamon was silent, thinking. He glanced at his men, who shrugged for the most part, some nodding. All seemed willing enough, though it was a strange use of their abilities. They had recently finished a hard campaign far to the west, and perhaps they could use some reprieve from battle…as long as their swords and skills did not fall to disuse.
He turned back to the king. “To what length would we be allowed to go to keep your brother contained?”
A strange smile came and went over Arran’s face, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
“I would be appreciative if you could be as brutal as possible. That way, in six months time, he will be grateful to return to my side, and perhaps his behavior will have improved with the experience. I only ask that you not harm him permanently and that no one touches him in a sexual manner. Beyond that, do as you will.”
Hamon grinned a little. This brother must be a handful indeed. He was willing to straighten the boy out. It might even be amusing to be paid handsomely to teach this rebellious youth a lesson or two. Arran seemed to be in his late twenties, so this prince was younger, perhaps spoiled.
The Hawks would scare him into submission. They had no use for pampered princes. The Zala would never have let it get to this point, but perhaps the king’s fondness for his brother did not allow him to properly give correction. Those of Rashma tended to coddle their children. The Zala were harsh. A child earned his place, had to fight for what he gained. It made for strong warriors.
As if reading his mind, Arran smiled more openly. “I have heard of the ways of your people. I would appreciate that being applied to my brother. He is a fine actor, you will need to remember what he has done and will try to do. Do not be fooled by his demeanor and actions. He had drawn many into his web, and I would not see that happen to you.”
Hamon suppressed a snort, slightly irked that there was even a question of such a thing. “We accept this job.” He leaned forward and shook hands with the king, sealing the matter. “So a few bruises on him will be overlooked?” Hamon wanted to be sure.
Arran laughed, reaching for a drink.
“They would be welcomed.”
CHAPTER TWO
Rian hissed as he sank into the hot pool of water, gritting his teeth as heat scorched the whip marks. He took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to move past the pain.
Today he would return to the army; today he would meet his jailors. He had heard much of the Hawks, of their swift, bloody, and efficient work. There was no doubt as to why Arran had chosen them to be his personal guard.
Arran had taken great joy in telling him last night. While he fucked him hard and without care. It was perfectly obvious that even the smallest of freedoms were to be snatched away.
Rian had not reacted, at least not outwardly, but within, he quailed at the thought of such brutal men watching his every move. They would even sleep in his pavilion beside his bed. There would be no more privacy, no more sanity.
He laid his aching head back against the ornate tile and tried to relax, tried to soak the pain away. It was a long ride to the army encampment, and with his back as it was, it would be torturous.
Perhaps Arran had planned it so, Rian would not put it past him. Arran enjoyed every torment he could devise in his quest to break Rian, to make him the perfect submissive.
And he had succeeded.
Rian could not find it in himself to even grieve on the matter. He was too numb and worn. Everything seemed too much to consider, difficult to even think on. He stared blearily ahead, wondering how he was going to endure what was to come.
Live in the moment. There was nothing else. If he truly considered what his future held, he would crumble.
The warm water was comforting, and he lay in its embrace for as long as he dared before rising and toweling himself off, flinching at any touch upon his back. The towels stayed blood-free though, so the wounds must be healing well enough.
Thank the gods. There was no bathing at the encampment, except in the waters of a nearby river, and he could not possibly undress before others and show his shameful scars. He would be restricted to bathing from a small basin as he had before.
The door opened as he dried himself, but he did not bother to look up. He knew the presence far too well.
“Come. Let me put medicine upon your back. I do not want it infected.” Arran’s voice was gentle, making Rian shiver.
Always it had been this way. Great love, great brutality. In this one matter, Arran was not at all sane.
But the world outside did not witness this side of him. Rian knew he was alone in seeing what seethed below the fine surface of the king of Rashma. Perhaps it was something within Rian that triggered it. He had always wondered if somehow it was his fault, if as a child he had done something to attract Arran, to cause him to treat his brother in such a fashion.
Thrusting the familiar thoughts away, he sat stiffly, flinching as Arran began to carefully coat the wounds with healing salve, his touch soft and sure.
“You will not win against the Hawks, brother, so do not attempt it. Do your duty and I will join you when I can. In six months, when we rule all, then you will be at
my side at all times and we will be as one, as it is meant to be. We will rule together.”
Rian just breathed, trying to let the words slide off him, trying not to envision the horror of his future. Finally, he whispered, “Will you allow me to see Timur and Hilaz before I go?”
His brother’s hands finished with the salve, then with gentle competence wrapped gauze about his torso, protecting the wounds from rubbing upon his shirt.
Only then did Arran answer. “It is best you do not see them now. When you return for good, at the end of the campaign, then you will spend time with them. You brought this upon yourself, brother.”
Rian did not protest. He had not really expected to be able to see his children. It was always dangled before him as a carrot for his good behavior, and certainly Arran was annoyed enough with him at the present time to forbid such contact. The world saw them as Arran’s children, no part of Rian at all. He had no power to see them apart from Arran’s permission.
And now, now that he had attempted to have them escape, even as Rian himself had attempted to escape… There would be no mercy in his brother on this matter.
Arran dressed him and Rian let him, removed from everything, watching as though it were someone else, not him at all. His arm was carefully encased within an embroidered sling.
At last, Arran stood back, admiring his brother’s lean form, appropriately dressed in princely finery. Rian held still for the kiss that left his lips swollen and slightly bruised before following Arran from the room, passing silent servants who bowed as they approached and melted away into the shadows after they passed. Rian had often mused that it was like living with ghosts. Nobody wanted to come to Arran’s attention.
He could well understand that, even if he could find no way to imitate it.
They passed under a portico and into the blazing intensity of the sun. For long moments Rian could not see, blinded by difference between the glare and the relative darkness of the palace interior.