The Artifact of Foex

by James L. Wolf

  Chet tied the anchor into the crocheted sweater with the pilot cord. Gathering his courage, he lifted the body and tipped it into the sea. It sank slowly, feet first. Chet watched until he couldn’t see it anymore in the dark water.

  He had to say something. It was traditional, wasn’t it? Chet licked his lips and murmured, “May Pelin keep you. Thank you for everything, Aureate.”

  He turned the boat around and touched the throttle. It sputtered. Chet swore as the motor abruptly died. He tried it again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

  Shit.

  Chapter 21

  Struggle of Wills

  There was no help for it. He could either wait here until daylight when a boat or ship might just happen to come by and rescue him, or he could swim. Considering he’d sunk a body on this very spot, he was disinclined to wait for a random rescue. At least he’d thought to grab a life jacket, and he was already barefoot; he wouldn’t have to tie a pair of shoes around his neck. Even knowing what he had to do, Chet sat in the boat a long time. He was tired, hungry and distraught. He didn’t want to do this.

  Come on. It’s not going to get any easier. Chet took a deep breath, stood, aimed for what he hoped was the direction of the dock and jumped in. Unsurprisingly, it was just as chilly as before, but at least Plainsdaugheau was close enough to the equator so that it wasn’t cold cold. Chet swam. He’d always considered himself a strong swimmer, but had never taken on the open sea or such a distance. His mind was caught in an endless loop, recalling the last moments of Aureate’s life... no, this would never do. Chet focused on poetry.

  A verse by the Magician Zang popped into his head, unbidden.

  “Will, I hail thee

  Lend me the strength

  To see this twisted bough into a house

  To crack stone into a pathway

  Yea, lend me the strength

  To throw open gates to the lost city of El

  Rendering god barrier to splinters of light

  So Metacor bones and all Mother Earth’s works may see the light of day

  And be mystery no more.”

  Though pure doggerel, the verse seemed to help more than any other. Chet repeated it over and over again as he swam. The sea was endless and seemed to go on forever—surely an illusion. He could see the Plainsdaugheau skyline growing infinitesimally closer. Sort of. Chet closed his eyes and kept swimming.

  After a time, he frowned. He could hear a motor in the distance, growing louder by the minute. Chet paused and gazing around him. A large, dark boat was zooming across the water at full speed, headed directly for him.

  “Abyss!” Chet said out loud, accidentally swallowing salt water.

  Why, why, why with all this open sea was someone bearing down on him? Undoubtedly it was random—no way they could see him. Smugglers or drug dealers, maybe. They seemed to be pursued by a blocky craft. Chet couldn’t see much from his perspective, but he thought it was a law enforcement vessel.

  They were almost on top of him. If they hit him, he’d be dead.

  A new verse rose unbidden in his mind:

  “Will, I hail thee

  Lend me the strength

  To deflect these boats from my path

  And gain ascendency once more.”

  Chet repeated the new verse as the boats bore down on him. They were coming closer, closer. He bit his lip, tasting blood. Chet wanted to close his eyes but couldn't. At the last minute—only feet away—the boat in front swerved. He gasped as a deluge of wake hit his face; Chet went down momentarily, his lifejacket bouncing him back to the surface. The second boat was already swerving in pursuit as he reoriented himself.

  The motors grew faint as they swung off into the distance. Huh. That was lucky. Chet bobbed a minute, regaining his strength. Then he started back toward Plainsdaugheau one stroke at a time.

  Booking a flight to the city-state of Saene turned out to be impossible. There was a general labor strike at Saene International Airport, and flights to nearby airports were booked solid. The best they could do was fly across the ocean and land on the western edge of Tache, then take a transcontinental train over land.

  Chet slept on the flight, losing all sense of time. He felt itchy and uncomfortable in his skin and kept sneezing. Chet didn’t make any decisions, not even when to eat. He felt drained of initiative, grateful that both Journey and Knife were competent travelers. They took a taxi to the train station and bought tickets, including a private train compartment and bunks in the sleeper car with a plan to sleep in shifts.

  Journey frowned at Chet as they boarded the train. “You look terrible, sweetie.”

  “I don’t feel so good.”

  “Why don’t you rest on one of the bunks. We’ll save you some dinner from the dining car, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The white noise of the train lulled him to sleep immediately. When he woke, the sun was up. It seemed to be closer to noon than morning. They were traveling through a civilized rural area, everything neat and tidy, land portioned in precise orchards, fields and houses. In contrast, Chet felt seedy and awful. He stumbled to the bathroom, then found their private compartment. Fenimore was the only one there, reading.

  He glanced up when Chet entered. “You look like a strong breeze would knock you down.”

  “I feel it.” The promised dinner—and breakfast—sat in take-out boxes on the seat. Chet opened a box and frowned at the food; it didn’t look at all appealing. He closed it, swallowing nausea.

  In contrast, Fenimore seemed smug and contented. He was reading the newspaper like a modern gentleman, his locks tied in a plait down his back, a fresh drink with ice cubes in hand. They were on his home continent, and he appeared far more at ease here. Yet for all Chet knew, he might have committed atrocious crimes. How did you ask someone whether they were a murderer?

  Chet sighed. “So we only have one more Flame to go, eh?”

  “Three,” Fenimore corrected mildly from behind the newspaper.

  “Three?”

  “This Doyen Quor person, then Knife and Journey. They have not yet said their verses or shed blood on the Raptus.”

  “I didn’t realize you were tracking these procedures so closely.”

  Fenimore shrugged, frowning. “I don’t know why Journey is waiting. She said she remembers her verse.”

  “Okay, so three to go. Then Knife will destroy the Raptus. Do you think she’ll need our help? I wonder if Pelin will come down from the God Plain in person.” Except Rory had made it clear that Pelin couldn't destroy the Raptus, and Knife had been bluffing, but toward what end? What really awaited them at the end of this slow, plodding race?

  “Mmm.”

  Chet nibbled on his lip. “You are going to assist in destroying it, right, Fenimore?”

  “Why should I do otherwise?”

  Evading the issue, Chet noticed. Feeling reckless, he decided to push. “Well, you could try to take it by force.”

  Fenimore closed the paper with a crackle, folding it. With the bulk of the newspaper out of the way, Chet realized Fenimore had the Raptus on the seat beside him. The Raptus... and the bottle of lubricant from the Wetshul prostitute. Chet’s heart fell.

  Fenimore watched him steadily. “What makes you say that?”

  “Uh. You didn’t want to destroy it in the first place. You seemed to like using it on my sister, and you enjoy doing things—forcefully.” Chet shouldn’t have brought this up. He should have kept silent. Fenimore’s calmness was like a flashing red light seen too late. Chet looked out the train window, burning hot although he felt chilled; he hadn’t felt warm since climbing out of the ocean.

  Fenimore steepled his hands. “Chet, are you accusing me of something?”

  “No.”

  “Because it sounds like you are. Very serious accusations, too. I have no wish to rule the entire world.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  A slow smile spread over Fenimore’s face. He leaned back and said, “I’d like you to
unbutton your shirt. Now.”

  Chet frowned fiercely at him. “I don’t feel well, Fenimore! I’m not going to have sex with you.”

  Fenimore touched the Raptus at his side. “Take off your shirt. One button at a time.”

  The cord at his navel vibrated—hard. A fog settled over Chet’s head. In fact, it felt almost like a cartoon icon of a personal, dark cloud hovering above him. Chet‘s fingers unbuttoned his shirt without his consent. Fenimore watched, his eyes predatory slits. This can’t be happening, Chet thought mussily. Where were the Flame?

  How had Fenimore gotten such total control over the Raptus?

  As Chet pulled his shirt off, he remembered that moment on the dock when he’d left to take care of the body. Knife and Journey had been curled up together, weeping and unstrung, while Fenimore had been sitting off to one side with the duffle bag. Two emotionally distraught Flame left alone beside a predator.

  Now Chet was alone with him, too.

  “Very nice. Remove the rest of your clothing.”

  Chet obeyed helplessly. He glanced at the windows; the shades were up so anyone outside could see them. The country homes and communities they passed looked so peaceful... Chet shut his eyes.

  “Fenimore, may I close the shades?”

  “It does not please you to be seen naked by everyone?” Fenimore’s voice was a low purr. “Perhaps you should learn to enjoy it. Perhaps I will make you rub your naked body against the window.”

  “Please don’t.”

  Fenimore licked his lips like an inofe eating a meal. “You know, I believe you owe me from a few days ago when you used your teeth in exactly the wrong manner. It’s time for me to collect on my debt. Turn around, hands on the seat in front of you. Stick out your arse so I can have access to it. Oh, and when I tell you to do something, you are required to answer. Call me ‘sir’.”

  “Yes, sir.” Chet turned and took up the position, his genitals dangling, exposed and vulnerable.

  Fenimore was quiet behind him. Chet wanted to turn and look, but he was frightened of what he might see. Fenimore had proposed to flog him with a ceros whip back on Othnielia’s farm. He didn’t have a whip here. Would he use his hands to spank as Chet had done with Aureate?

  Chet yelped, startled. An entirely different, painful sensation touched his buttocks. It was ice. Fenimore had fished an ice cube out of his drink and was running it up Chet’s ass cheeks. Chet looked over his shoulder. Fenimore was grinning. He ran the ice over Chet’s ass crack, then popped it inside his anus. Chet mewled, writhing at the sensations. Fenimore fished out another ice cube and grabbed Chet’s genitals, rubbing it all over his penis and balls. Chet squeaked, unable to stop squirming. Again, the ice cube was inserted inside him.

  “Tell me you like that,” Fenimore said.

  “I... like that, sir.”

  “Very good. I notice you have a belt, Chet. Journey kitted us out beautifully, did she not? Untangle the belt and pass it to me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Chet did, his ass tightening convulsively. He could feel the ice melting inside of him, rendering his anus numb.

  “Twenty-one strikes, was it not?”

  “Sir.”

  Fenimore stood and moved to one side of him, undoubtedly to gain leverage. He stroked Chet’s ass lightly with the folded belt. “You are not to make noise while I mete out your punishment. It’s about time you started being a man instead of a milk sop. Oh, and you’re not to close your eyes, either. If someone sees you through the window, I don’t want you to miss the opportunity to view yourself being exposed.”

  “Yes, sir," Chet whispered. He could feel his throat shutting down. He couldn’t make noise with that kind of command laid upon him. His eyes felt dry already, forced open.

  The first strike was a shock, and a second followed swiftly. Each strike made Chet jump and flail. The silence was the worst part, he decided. If only he could yelp, swear and scream, he’d feel better, letting loose some of the energy being invested in him. He bit his useless tongue as he took another stroke, and another, and another. Fenimore moved to his other the left side and began again, focusing on his left buttock. After a time, he stopped. Was it over?

  Fenimore said, “Turn around, boy. Let me see your sausage and potatoes.”

  Chet did so, trembling. Fenimore took Chet’s dick, stroking before he hit it with the belt. It was painful and grotesque beyond measure. Chet wanted to protest—this had to be more than twenty one strikes! Fenimore wasn’t playing fair. Of course, Fenimore wasn’t playing at all. He’d ceased playing when he started using the Raptus.

  At last, Fenimore tired of his game and sat back down in his seat, taking a sip of his drink. “Very good. Circle on the spot and let me see my work.”

  Chet obeyed, burning with fever and humiliation. How far would Fenimore go? He couldn’t have Chet parade up and down the train corridors for everyone to see. Surely Fen didn’t have that much control over the Raptus—did he? Where on Uos were the Flame? Why weren’t they barging through the door to catch Fenimore in the act? Unless... unless they were already under Fenimore’s control.

  No! Chet thought with a frown. Fenimore had complained about Journey holding back her verse. Journey wouldn’t be holding back if Fen were in charge. She was still out of his reach, and Knife probably was, too, but Chet wasn’t. Chet was squarely in his hands.

  As to echo his thoughts, Fenimore glanced at his watch, the one he’d lifted from Chet’s father’s study back in Fengfu. “I believe we have time for a little more... enjoyment. Down on your hands and knees, Chet.”

  He obeyed, expecting Fenimore to take him. Fenimore didn’t move from the plushy bench, instead instructing Chet to angle himself so his ass faced the door and his face was almost touching the wall. Fenimore ran his hand along Chet’s naked back; Chet shivered, shrinking away.

  “Ah, ah. No.” Fenimore reached over to slap him on the ass in the exact spot where he’d been whipped. Chet whimpered. “You are to remain perfectly still, Chet. Keep your back flat and available to me. You are nothing but an object. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chet remained still—though his butt muscles clenched and his dick quivered—as Fenimore spread the newspaper on his back. It tickled. Then he gasped as Fenimore set the drink glass upon his back. It was freezing cold and wet with condensation. Chet wanted to do something, but the fog clamped down upon his mind. He could do nothing but remain perfectly still. Fenimore had exactly what he wanted: Chet was an object, a table.

  To his shame, he realized his cock was quivering hard. It was so hard he ached.

  Freezing cold wetness tricked upon his back, and Chet mewled deep in his throat.“Whoops,” Fenimore murmured. Chet could hear his grin—Fen had poured a dribble of water onto his back on purpose, hadn’t he? Asshole.

  Being an object was slow, yet elusively sexual. He was intensely available this way. Alas, his body wasn’t nearly as happy as his cock; Chet blushed, embarrassed when his belly gurgled and he let out gas, his feverish system protesting the unnatural pose. Fenimore didn’t seem to care. Chet wished he could scratch his nose. He was hot and sweating, yet he couldn’t do anything. Lacking a viable alternative, Chet relaxed into the role.

  What would Rory do if she saw him now? Chet was supremely glad she wasn’t along on this little journey. If Fenimore could control her... he shuddered as his mind generated a plethora of sexual images. His breathing grew ragged as he imagined her in the same position: being forced to strip, made to act like a table. What if Fenimore had ordered Chet to fuck her? Chet squirmed at the fantasy.

  “Mmm. I think you’re enjoying yourself a little too much. I’d best join in, or you’ll be frolicking and squirting without me.”

  Something was jammed into Chet’s ass. The pressure was fantastic, and he gasped, unable to swear aloud. It had to be Fenimore’s fingers—at least two of them. Maybe three. They were wet, and Chet remembered the bottle of lube from Wetshul had been on the seat beside th
e Raptus.

  “Like that, boy?”

  “Y-yes, sir.” It hurt, but that was beside the point. Chet was an object. The fog insisted as much.

  “I’m so glad we’ve come to an understanding.”

  Fenimore set aside his newspaper and the glass disappeared from Chet’s back. He moved behind Chet, and Chet braced, waiting. He didn’t wait long. Fenimore grabbed his thighs, rammed his dick inside. He fucked Chet with the indifferent, unemotional fervor of a hammer pounding nails. A subject fucking an object. Chet took it, his eyes watering, guts protesting, whole body aching. But he took it. Fenimore slowed down and sped up again, not once but several times. The sound of their silent fucking filled the cabin. Chet’s dick was full to bursting.

  “You’re nothing. Say it, boy.”

  “I’m nothing, sir.”

  “You’re a hole for me to fuck. Say it.”

  “I’m a hole for you to fuck. Sir.”

  Pantheon, Chet was hard. He’d never been so hard; not even while cross dressing, not even with Aureate riding him like a ceros. He wanted to come yet hated how much he yearned for it. His cock seemed to love the attention Fenimore was paying him. Fenimore knew it, too.

  “Sit up, boy. Let me look at your knob.”

  Chet pushed upright, hands loose at his side while his body shuddered with Fenimore’s every thrust. His dick was sticking upright at a forty-five degree angle, dripping with pre-come. Fenimore gazed at it from over his shoulder, and Chet could almost feel his smirk. He ceased thrusting, pushing all the way into Chet’s ass. They were conjoined like animals on the floor of the train.

  “Here,” Fenimore murmured, pulling something off his wrist.

  It was the watch Fen had stolen from Chet’s father. Fenimore flung it around Chet’s penis as if he were playing the carnival game involving throwing a ring around a milk bottle. Chet gasped. It had been warmed by Fenimore’s body heat, but it was also heavy and metallic. Fenimore rubbed the watch up and down Chet’s dick, and Chet squirmed, horribly aroused by his father’s possession.