by S E Meliers
He turned to the skeletons. ‘Your usual task,’ he said. ‘And be thorough about it.’ With the skeletons about their errand, he paused to consider. ‘What else?’ he murmured as Song returned to the room and calmly resumed her mending. She did not supply him with any answers, but he had faith that if he had not thought of it, she would have, and it would mysteriously be arranged.
‘War is always fruitful for a necromancer,’ he told her companionably, pouring himself another goblet of wine, ‘as long as the necromancer survives it.’ She smiled pleasantly, but, as always, refrained from comment. ‘You were successful, then?’ he asked her. She nodded, and bit through the thread, holding out the finished garment for approval, before setting it aside to darn a stocking.
He went to the wash stand and relieved himself into the pot there, before washing his hands and face. He ran a bone comb through his hair, grumbling as it caught in a tangle. She passed him the newly mended shirt to change into, and took the comb from him. She had just bound his hair into a club at the base of his neck when the door opened, and the skeleton’s returned. Between them, they dragged a dirty, scabbed street beggar, whose stench made Shade glad that the windows were open.
He took the man’s face between his hands gingerly, and scrutinized him carefully. ‘Wonderful,’ he approved, releasing the man, who cringed and wailed. ‘On the wall with him,’ he instructed. The skeletons dragged the beggar to a wall and tied him to a hook set in the stone, so he was forced up on tiptoes, arms suspended above his head. Shade took up the athame. ‘Apologies for the floor,’ he said to Song and gutted the beggar expertly with two strokes.
‘I bet you did not know before today,’ he said to the man as his screams wound down into agonised pants, ‘that a person could survive being gutted. Not for long, obviously, but long enough to see their own stomach contents. Whilst a quick death will supply a necromancer with a burst of energy, necessary for his craft, a long, drawn out, and tormented death provides that much more energy and for that much longer that there are times where it is simply required. I do apologise for the affront. If it is any help, you could be considered a hero for this one act of dying. Your sacrifice will save many lives.’ As the beggar succumbed to the inevitable, Shade drew in the energy greedily, having to support himself with one arm propped against the wall as the headiness overcame him in a sensation very similar to orgasm. He breathed through it, and when he felt in control again, opened his eyes.
With a wave of a hand, another necessity for him that he hated as other wizards had overcome the need, the flesh melted from the man’s bones into a puddle on the floor, leaving behind it a gleamingly clean skeleton. The new skeleton skittered slightly as it became animated, before joining its companions in the constant foot shuffle of the soul-bound. ‘I will need another, every two days until the end,’ he instructed the skeletons. ‘See to it. Younger, would be best.’
Rogue
‘I should not be here,’ she murmured into a silk covered pillow. Strong warm hands massaged the soles of her feet, whilst others dug through the dark tangle of her hair to massage her scalp. The room was luxuriously appointed, with a blazing fire, glossy oak floor, and beautiful tapestry curtains. The bed was massive, with elaborately carved posts at each corner holding aloft a heavy canopy. The sheets were finely woven cotton, the feather-filled quilt of satins and silks expensively and exquisitely dyed in bright bold purples and reds. All she could smell was the EAeryian Blessed orchid, from the candles that burnt on mantle and table top, and from the oils that Ash rubbed into her feet.
Coal’s clever fingers moved down her neck to her shoulders. ‘Where else should you be?’ he asked.
She closed her eyes as Ash rubbed her tight calves, not sure if it was pleasure or pain she felt. ‘You know that is not what I meant - I meant I should not be here as there will be a price for this indulgence.’
‘Good,’ Ash said, his hands thorough. ‘There should always be a price; else the joys of life would not be properly valued for the precious gifts they are, and we would take them all for granted.’
She could not think of an argument for that, especially as Coal began to stroke the tension from her shoulders and back and Ash moved up her legs, fingers dipping so close, but not close enough, so a string of want pulled tight in her belly, and she warred with a choice of indulgences: to stay still and prolong the massage, or to move and satisfy her lust.
‘Relax, stop thinking so hard,’ Coal chuckled. ‘If you must pay a price for this time, then at least let yourself thoroughly enjoy it.’
She smiled into the pillow: ‘It was a different form of enjoyment that I was thinking about,’ she said, and they laughed, but did not stop stroking her skin with the Blessed orchid oil.
‘Roll over,’ Ash patted her bottom. She rolled, reaching her arms up above her head in a decadent stretch. She opened her eyes to enjoy the view. Blonde hair and tanned skin stretched taut over muscle, Ash was a view well worth appreciating. She admired the flex of arm muscles, as he began again with her feet, tweaking each toe between his fingers in a way the made her want to moan.
Coal stroked his fingers over her forehead. ‘Close your eyes,’ he instructed, moving down over the bridge of her nose, across her cheekbones. Ash had moved up to her thighs again, and his fingers once more dipped tantalisingly close. She shifted slightly to open for him suggestively, and he did not deny her, his fingers stroking over outer labia before parting them to explore her inner folds, drifting over the pearl of her clitoris. She moaned, and shifted beneath his teasing fingers.
Coal moved down over her shoulders, to stroke oil over her breasts. His hands were deliciously warm and large. He stroked up, his calloused palm grazing over her nipples, and leaned down to kiss his way from jaw to mouth. As she bit Coal’s bottom lip gently between her teeth, Ash pinched her clitoris between his thumb and forefinger. She cried out, pressing her face against Coal’s neck.
Ash dragged himself up her body in a delicious oiled slide of his skin against hers, and pulled her onto her side facing him, capturing her mouth. Coal kissed her neck, and slid his hand down her back and between her buttocks, spreading oil around her sensitive rosebud. Ash hooked her upmost leg over his and positioned himself at her entrance as Coal pushed the head of his cock into her ass, penetrating slowly but steadily. She arched her back pushing her bottom back into his lap, enjoying the slow, stretching pressure of his entry. He groaned and buried his face into her hair as he sank deep within her.
Ash angled himself, rubbing up against her clitoris before entering her, sliding smoothly until he pushed up against the end of her channel in a way that was on the edge of pleasure and pain. Being penetrated this way, front and behind, enwrapped in gorgeous male bodies straining and moaning against her as they moved, her nerves dancing with the sensation, and the grind of her clitoris in Ash’s coarse pubic hair sent her over the edge into fantastic orgasm, gloriously drawn out by their continued motion. ‘Damn,’ she turned her head to muffle her scream into a pillow. She felt Coal jerk and the warmth as he came, followed shortly after by Ash, sending seed to her womb.
They were tender in the afterglow: Ash stroked her skin, calloused palms caressing circles from hip to knee and back up whilst Coal kissed the back of her neck and murmured softly in his native tongue. She closed her eyes and let herself slip into the peace of it.
Moments of warmth, comfort and caring were scarce in the life of a Hallow, so she cherished each second; added them to a secret stash of memories locked deep in her mind where the Priests and the Monad did not rule. The first such memory was the earliest memory she had: of being safe and loved, of soft skin fragrant with milk and sunshine, of the gentle and approving stroke of a warm hand on her cheek, of laughter and glossy dark hair. Mother, she thought, though she had no other context from which to draw that conclusion. It could have been an older sibling, a family member, or some other care giver who had been kind, she reasoned, but mother felt right at her core.
As
children, given, or taken as was often the case, into the service of the Monad, all that they had been before was swiftly and brutally stripped away, and a few fragments of memory was all that she had of her family - not enough to search for them, but enough to remember what it had been like to feel loved and cherished.
From these memories, she felt she had been taken, rather than given to the Monad. She remembered playing with other children in a place with flowers, and then the red robed Priests coming, and she had been loaded into a cold metal cage on a wagon, where other grubby, ragged children huddled, crying and begging. They had being driven for what seemed like weeks from one town, village or farm to another, sometimes collecting more children, following some unknown pre-set path. They were fed only bread and water, and had to fight for what they got as a bucket of water and a hunk of bread, too little for the number of children, were thrust in morning and night with no order enforced. They were left in the cage otherwise, in their own filth, forced to huddle together for warmth, competition forgotten, when the nights grew cold and no blankets or other covering was provided.
She remembered waking one morning to find that one of the children, a small boy, had died during the night. His body, curled small and foetal, stayed with them for the remainder of their journey, the adults being disinclined to remove him or oblivious to his death.
Finally, they had arrived at the great city of Worship, though she did not know it at the time, at the centre of which squatted like some dark toad the grey stone labyrinth of the Great Temple of the Monad. They were driven between the grim stone walls into the outer courtyard, and there offloaded and stripped to the skin, drenched in icy water, and scrubbed with stiff bristled brushes until their young skin glowed red, and sometimes bloodied. They were re-garbed in Hallow black and made to stand in rows for hours, already half-starved and exhausted from the journey, barefoot on the freezing courtyard stones, repeating: I am Hallow. If they moved, shuffled their feet, or fell exhausted, the red robed Priest who oversaw their training would strike them with his cane. She bore a scar on her right cheek from where he had misjudged his blow.
She tried not to remember too much of the early days of her training, but this first day was never far from the surface. She remembered standing there and very much wanting her mother, with no comprehension of why she was there and not safe with her family. She thought she had only been very small, five or six summers old, though she found it hard to place an age on children who crossed her path, so she could have been younger or older.
All Hallows had a designation; names were forbidden to them by the Monad. The Priests claimed this namelessness state freed them to commit acts in the name of the Monad that would otherwise damn the soul; although even the Priests had to admit that there was a need to identify one Hallow out of a crowd on occasion. For that reason, each child was branded with a rune on their right forearm at the end of their training as Hallows. The brand, with its flashing pain and permanent scarring, was also mark of achievement, as most children did not survive to be branded.
She did not know where the runes came from, what long forgotten language they were, but she had never seen two alike and each, with some imagination applied, resembled something familiar. Hers was a single centre line from which eight ‘legs’ rayed out: thus amongst the Hallows, she was known as Spider. Verbal designations were not used by the Priests, being too similar to the forbidden names, though she suspected most knew them and the Hallows were never reprimanded for their use. The Priests would insist on being shown the brand of any Hallow they addressed. If they preferred a specific Hallow, or had designated a task to a Hallow for completion and wished to confirm it done, they would draw the brand upon a dark rock and send it by messenger boy, who would approach each Hallow until the correct one responded.
In a secret act of defiance, and as whatever name she had been given at birth had been lost with so many of her memories, when she thought of herself, it was the name Rogue that she used. It was also the name she had given to Coal and Ash to use.
They slept now, with the soundness of those who were completely confident, secure and at peace with their world. She wondered if they had ever known fear, these two hulking giants from a land that the soldiers of the Monad spoke of with the awe of myth and legend. She had only ever been to the borders of the EAeryian Mountain ranges, and wondered if she’d ever see the civilisation cradled within its peaks and troughs.
As was her habit, she shifted out from between them, trying not to stir them into waking. They tended to ask questions she did not care to answer if they woke. She dressed quickly and quietly, indulged in watching their handsome faces, passive in sleep, before slipping out the door into the corridor beyond. She was startled within four steps by a shadow within the shadow of the columns lining the corridor, but managed to disguise her reaction. She walked on, watching the shadow keeping pace with her, until they rounded a corner from the chamber from whence she had come.
She pounced with the savagery and grace of a fierce hunter, pinning her prey to the stone column behind which it had lurked believing itself unseen, her stiletto dagger poised at his throat. ‘Claw,’ she acknowledged, recognising the face beneath the hood and half mask.
‘Spider,’ he grated out.
She released him slowly, dropping the arm with the dagger to rest easily at her side – at rest, but ready. ‘What are you doing, lurking in the shadows and the dust like a rodent?’ The moonlight divided the corridor into light and dark, shedding mysterious shadows over cold stone, and catching on dust and the cobwebs strung like tapestries where nobles did not tread so lazy housemaids left alone.
He sneered: ‘Watching, as I am commanded, the EAerymen and their doings. Do I need to ask what you were doing in the EAerymen’s room? Whoring the flesh of the Monad like the perversion you are,’ he answered his own question with disgust. ‘I can smell it on you. Do not think you have me fooled, Spider, I see you weaving your web busily. You think you are so cunning, hiding behind the guise of the model Hallow, but I am not the only one not fooled-’
She slammed the stiletto into his belly, angling up under his ribcage to his heart, pushing him back against the pillar with the force of her penetration. She wondered if this was what it felt to be a male sliding home inside his lover: this power, this rush, the adrenaline so sharp that every sensation of every nerve was exquisite and orgasmic. The blade slid through him silkily: she kept it well-honed and she was too skilled to misaim and grate against bone. His hands clamped around her upper arms without force, and he tried to speak, eyes boggling, but the blood pumped from his heart too quickly. She had been trained ruthlessly to be an efficient killer, and she excelled.
She stood in a weird mockery of intimacy whilst the life left him, eye to eye and lips a breath from touching. She enjoyed the moment, the smell of his death mingling with the smell of sex still strong on her skin, before letting his weight and limpidity drag him down into a slump in the shadows of the pillar. She scrubbed her blade and hands clean on the hem of his cloak and, with a shrug, emptied his coin purse into her own, before turning and leaving him in the shadows of the pillar, where he would remain unseen and unfound until his body began to smell.
Chapter Three
Cedar
Charity was a drunk.
Whether this was a new diversion for the displaced Lord, or something which had been acceptable in the congenial and permissive environment of the court, Cedar did not know and did not care. The Lord was a charming and benevolent drunk, but also a burden and a risk. Any village, homestead, or town they passed through, Charity found someone to drink with. He had spent the remainder of the coin given to him by Calico, and, at one place, drunk on the promise of providing the bar keeper coin not in his possession, resulting in Cedar having to part with his own coin in order to save the Lord from paying the irate bar keep in flesh or indentured service.
When Cedar took him to task for it, Charity had insisted that he would pay him back for his loss, wi
th a total lack of comprehension that a future supply of money would not fill their currently empty bellies. The man had never lacked in his life, and did not understand what it was to be poor, or hungry. Though, Cedar thought grimly, he would soon enough if he kept up the current pattern of indulgence.
If Cedar did not like and empathise with the man, it would not be half as difficult. He’d simply hog tie him and take him in the barrow, or let him experience some of the unpleasantness of owing a debt that he could not pay; but curses, he did like him, and in liking him, seemed to have adopted the role somehow of being the Lord Charity’s keeper.
In between bouts of drinking, which coincided with being on wilderness lands between villages, towns or citadels, Charity was a fantastic travel companion. It had been many years since Cedar had had another educated man with which to converse, and they shared interests, so conversation settled around historic battles, battle techniques, and the proper training methods of a common foot soldier versus a noble born or squire.
Then there would a twist of smoke on the horizon from the chimney of a cottage, or the quality of the road would improve as it led into a larger village or a town, and the Lord would become withdrawn. Inevitably, Charity would find a reason to stop the night, becoming more stubborn as Cedar argued to keep travelling west. Short of tackling the Lord and tying him into the barrow, when Charity had his mind set on staying, Cedar was helpless to force his continuation. He had tried walking on without the Lord, in the hopes of forcing Charity to leave his drinking in order to catch up, but had found himself doubling back as morning arose and there was no sign of Charity on the road.
They were not making the required ground, and more worrying than the time it was taking, was the fact that there was evidence that Shoethal armies were all over the countryside. Thrice they had had to take to the undergrowth to avoid advancing patrols of Shoethalian warriors, and they had sighted at least that many camps as they’d passed by Truen. The organisation, the pre-planning, and the stealth required to carry off such a feat of invasion - to take over Amori and be already mobilising towards Lyendar and holding Truen to siege - was quite admirable, Cedar thought wryly. If only it was the Rhyndelians and not the Shoethalians who had achieved such a remarkable conquest.