He smiled and covered her mouth with his hand. He kissed her forehead and enjoyed the thoughts of entering her. He enjoyed the thoughts of her enjoying him doing so. She struggled more, and the voice named Silencio liked this. After a few more fruitless attempts, she fell still, and this pleased them both greatly.
“After what he did to Arielle, I understand why you behave like this,” Eralorien said.
He sat up away from her but not enough to remove his weight upon her free arm. She made no further movement. She didn’t even try to speak. She only whimpered a few more times.
“We are safe from Mallum’s touch. He cannot hurt us anymore,” he reassured her, and she listened.
After a moment, he removed his hand from her mouth. The horse continued to walk on unperturbed. He could stay in the back of the cart with her all morning, and they would still make acceptable time. He didn’t exactly know where he was going, but somewhere along the way, they would touch the coast. Then they could be off in a barge back to Dellerin and away from this cursed place. He stroked her hair, and she pulled her head away for a moment before easing her defiance.
“Where is she?” Cherrie asked.
Her voice was strong, and he was proud of her. Another tear streamed down his cheek, and the phantom hand wiped it away roughly. Then it moved to her heaving chest, and he whipped her dress open and took hold of her naked breast. She gasped from fright, but a lifetime of holding her tongue in precarious situations served her well.
“It is excitement she feels,” the voice named Silencio insisted, and he desired her greatly.
Eralorien was exhausted. He enjoyed her burning hot skin. She whimpered again, and he ripped the hand away, lest it do more. The horse carrying them along slowed as it came upon a small keystone bridge. The stream underneath was deep enough though it barely flowed with any pace. It was perfect. She held her breath as though he were about to do more, and Eralorien shook his head defiantly.
“No, not in the back of a cart,” he hissed.
For the slightest of moments, he saw Cherrie as more than the defenceless woman unwittingly baring her body to him. He saw the danger in her eyes, and he thought on her as a comrade. Why was he doing this?
“She struggles with love. Do not be disheartened, for she will be your bride. And if not, she might die at the hands of that pretty blade she always liked. Yes, stabbing her a few times and healing her would be a fine way to display your power. Strength always lured her, and what greater strength than to hold command over her life?”
Eralorien shook his head. “I love you.” He placed his hand across her eyes. Before she could reply, she fell into a deep sleep once more.
28
Precious Sleep
The current of the stream kept her afloat, and Eralorien only needed one hand to keep her steady enough. Beautiful Cherrie was looking more and more enticing with every scrub. He dipped the soap in the water and made fresh bubbles before attacking more marks upon her body. He enjoyed her beauty, but he also enjoyed knowing that he removed Denan’s touch from her skin with every stroke. In fact, it was not just Denan; it was Heygar’s many-year touch and the thousand paying brutes before him.
Fresh hatred for all who had defiled her coursed through Eralorien. A few flickering sparks slipped from his fingers and singed hair from where few men should ever see. He scrubbed her as clean as the day she was born and pulled her from the edge of the stream onto the bedding he had prepared.
He had chosen a suitable place in which to take her. If rain were to fall, a low-hanging weeping oak would cover them against all but the greatest of thunderstorms. They were far enough in from the path that few passers-by would notice the cart’s tracks into the rich forest of grey or hear her screams. Beside her bedding, he had set a small fire to warm the gloom from the day, and upon a spit, he had skewered strips of dried meat. By the time they had finished the act, the food would be nice and crispy, just the way she liked it.
Eralorien wedged the bottle of Venistrian red in beside the fire’s stones and tipped its edge to ensure it was warm enough. He carefully recovered her finest gown of blue silk from her pack and slid his fingers across its surface. Yes, this would suffice. He had always liked silken things. He placed her legs into the dress and gently slid it up her body with hands that were not his own. He buttoned each clasp and tightly pulled the supports at her back. It would be romantic when she awoke fully clothed. A girl liked to keep her dignity. It would also be a little more romantic to seduce her out of the grand clothing.
He wondered if he should have bought a ring to ask for her hand before they became intimately entwined. His head spun, tears spilled down his cheeks, and weariness filled his every being.
Cherrie moved slightly in her slumber, and he loved her so. He took hold of his rope, wrapped it back around her wrists, and secured her tightly again.
“Better safe than sorry.”
Eralorien nodded before opening her mysterious box of paints. He dabbed his finger in a glass bottle of red oil, like he had seen her do a thousand times before.
“One time for each man.”
Eralorien did not rise to the crude jest. Instead, he rubbed his oily finger across Cherrie’s lips and was rather pleased with his artistry. Next, he took a jar of dry, black mud and rubbed it around her eyes. This was trickier, and he grimaced as he attacked the task with phantom limbs until, eventually, her beauty satisfied him.
“Her hair is dreadfully tangled,” he whispered to the wind and recovered her hairbrush.
She had always taken great care to present herself flawlessly, and he would honour that wish. How many times had he innocently watched her brush her hair in the early morning, out on the march? How many times had the rhythm of her movement almost brought the onset of sleep?
She loved that brush and cared for it as much as she did her mirror. They were a matching set, both with golden bodies, lined with jewels. Likely, they were glass, but they caught beautifully in the sun.
Eralorien dragged the brush through her hair, slowly at first. It caught a few knots, but he persevered and separated them without disturbing her. He watched the strands fall to a perfectly straight line, and he got wonderful, relaxing pleasure as he did.
“Enough of this. Take her to your bed,” Silencio said, but it was more distant now. More distant than he had ever known the voice to be his entire life.
He continued to brush her hair and felt the world’s weariness take hold of him something fierce. He slid in beside her, pulled the surrounding bedding, and yawned wonderfully. The perfect yawn of a man who knows sleep is inevitable.
“No!” screamed Silencio. Thoughts of entering her body flashed in his mind and stirred his manhood with desire.
“Not now,” Eralorien whispered and kissed her upon the forehead.
He stroked her hair again and felt wonderful, innocent pleasure, like silk gloves caressing his mind, pushing him towards unconsciousness. He closed his weeping eyes, and the relief was wonderful. He felt the darkness and there was no sign of the beast. He felt her sleeping breath upon his cheek, but most of all, he felt her hair in his hands, and they were his own. He smiled and fell into a deep sleep.
He awoke to the taste of a late evening, for the fire had long burned out. Thunder was in the air, and he—well, he was Eralorien, and he was under a nasty enchantment. She was still in his arms, and the brush had fallen from his hand. He felt the urge to smell her hair, but he knew such a thing was wrong.
“Wake up, Cherrie!” he cried and released the enchantment, which held as he had slept. Oh, the wonderful power of a clear mind to make thoughts his own again.
“What are you doing?” Silencio cried from far away.
Shards of fear ran up Eralorien’s back like spiders upon a web. The voice was no friend for life. No companion to guide his way. Something drew it forth through a terrible lure cast by a skilled weaver, and the dying Eralorien was more open than most. His mind was torn apart by disease. The beast whispered
from afar to most others, but it crawled right into his lured and broken mind.
“Would I have been so easily lured if I’d slept more these last months?” he cried out and left Cherrie’s side to stand in the cold air of the evening.
He had not slept properly since learning of that terrible prognosis from a far greater healer than he. No amount of weaving could cure such rampant poisons running through his body, desecrating each organ, and polluting every drop of blood. His mind had wandered and fallen to melancholy, and in that time, someone had enchanted him. All of them. There was only man vile enough to do such a thing.
“Damn you, Bereziel!” he screamed to an invisible spectator. His soul was his own to command.
“But you are better than Bereziel,” Silencio whispered.
Eralorien slapped his face hard before shaking her, so she would wake before his derangement brought him near to her again. Near enough to ravage her.
“But she could do with a good ravaging though, couldn’t she?”
“Oh, by the seven demons, she really could.” He slapped his face again and pulled her from her restraints.
Her bleary eyes awoke to the sudden commotion. Cherrie did not hesitate; she struck him fiercely and rolled from their bedding. She leapt to her feet and bolted for the cart in one smooth motion as he fought the demon that was gripping onto his cancerous mind. Gripping and climbing back in.
“What have you done?” she roared and recovered her dagger from the cart.
“Clever girl,” he said and watched her spin the blade in her grip.
An unrestrained Cherrie could take on a pack of wolves and win. Perhaps even more. Her eyes were stunning, and he knew if he took a step towards her, she was likely to tear him from head to toe. He willed himself to take a step towards her but instead settled for climbing to unsteady feet.
“Someone cast a lure upon me,” Eralorien cried. Tormented screams of a demon filled his head as it attempted to take control.
“A fine story,” she hissed.
He thought she was a fine soldier. A lesser girl would have faltered and fled. He wanted to take her to bed. Oh, how he wanted to pleasure her.
“We all were.” Thoughts of her naked body stirred him greatly.
“Where… is… Arielle?” she said coldly.
“Don’t tell her, or you will lose her company for certain.”
Eralorien tried to speak, to reveal what his demented mind had whispered.
“DON’T TELL HER.”
“Arielle’s body lives; she might still be saved,” he cried and felt the full wrath of the demonic voice. It was like a hammer smashing, crushing, and killing his mind. He heard its anguished cry.
“FOOL!”
“Iaculous can become powerful enough to return her soul, though he does not know it yet,” he slurred as though drunk. As though a claw dug itself deep into his mouth to silence him, and he fought it every syllable at a time.
“I’M GOING TO RAPE HER WITH YOUR BODY!”
“Mallum has taken her soul within the crystal and her body with it.”
“WHEN SHE IS RUINED, I WILL SLIT HER THROAT WITH YOUR HANDS!”
Eralorien fell to the ground, and Cherrie leapt to his side. She kept the blade ready to strike, should there be a need.
“As long as her body takes breath, her soul is stronger than anything else,” he whispered as his tongue revolted. He grabbed his head with hands that weren’t his own anymore.
“Much better,” Silencio whispered and took control again. Eralorien wept as he longed to tear the clothing from her body. What beast could lure a man to rape?
“Maybe it is because these desires have always been inside you?” the beast suggested.
“Kill me before I come for you,” Eralorien gasped. So little time, and so many words and warnings to offer.
Cherrie shook her head because she was a goddess who desired his love more than her welfare, and he knew killing her would be divine. She would scream, and as she died, he would tell her how much he loved her.
“NO!” he screamed and pulled his own dagger from its scabbard.
He thought her hair was beautiful in this light, and he desired to kill her, for all beauty must die at the hands of divinity.
“NO!” He slit the veins on each of his wrists before his demon could stop him. He ripped up along his arm and felt the blood spray into the clear evening air.
Cherrie cried out and reached for him, but he stumbled away, lest he take her with him.
“I’m so sorry,” he pleaded.
He hated Bereziel for bringing doom upon them all. He fell back against the tree trunk and felt the blood ruin his cloak, and he thought it was a fine enough place to die. It was better than rotting away in a bed among the sickly and forlorn. His head spun again from lack of blood, and he looked out to see if he would last another sunset, but a bright blue hue had fallen upon their little campsite. To his dismay, he looked down at his hands, and they glowed brightly as they healed the wounds along his wrists.
“Not like this.”
“This cannot be,” he cried miserably.
Cherrie neared him warily. He willed her to understand and could almost feel her frightened mind as he did. He willed her to know his remorse for all he had done. He willed her to know him for what he truly was, but such a thing was impossible. He wanted forgiveness but could not ask for it, so he drew away from her.
“Run from this place in case I return.”
With what determination he had left, Eralorien stumbled away from the girl, into the forest. He ignored the howls of misery as he charged towards the road. Each branch whipped his face violently, but he did not flinch nor slow. However far he could go, he would go. He plunged the blade deep into his stomach and slid its sharp edge as far across as he could. He moaned aloud and felt his innards spill out before immediately healing themselves.
“No,” whispered Silencio.
“I will beat you, demon,” Eralorien countered and charged forward despite the agony.
Whatever hold this demon had upon him lessened as it struggled to heal, and somehow, he turned stumbling into a fierce run through the forest. The blade was his rope; he was lost at sea, and he used that thurken rope repeatedly and attempted to drag his soul away from the clutches of the beast towards the salvation of death. Each mutilating plunge into his body was an extra stroke. He could taste death in the blood in his mouth, and he never wanted to embrace it as much before.
“This is what I desired,” he hissed whenever the voice reasoned for control and attempted to stop his demented death charge.
Far away, he sensed the energies of his apprentice, and he knew there was redemption. He charged forward and fought the urge to return to hunt her down and have his way. At his weakest moment, his cloak caught in a branch and held him. Like a dog mad in heat, he saw in his mind her naked body, glistening in the water.
“You make me see what I desire most? I will look no more.” Eralorien drove the knife into his eye. Before he could stop himself, he struck the other and the enchanting vision disappeared along with his sight.
Blindly, he charged towards the energies of his comrades, and a few miles along the beaten path, he met them, charging down upon horses. He leapt out at them, and they reared in surprise and alarm at his sudden appearance.
“What have you done?” Denan roared and fell upon him. He pinned him down, and Eralorien spit in his face and attempted to stab him with half-healing eyes. It was a fine attempt born out of hatred for the younger man.
“HE WILL BE THURKING THE SOUL OUT OF CHERRIE IN A FEW HOURS!”
Eralorien stabbed until he felt the blade penetrate through leather into skin. Denan fell away in shock and coughed up blood where his lungs were speared. He spluttered and died beside him, and Eralorien laughed and faced the young apprentice with glowing hands.
All desire to kill dissipated upon seeing Iaculous. His eyes fell to the countless holes upon his body from where his body had healed the wounds.
The skin was pink and new, and it disgusted him. He felt tears stream down his face at his loss of will, and deep within, he summoned one last piece of his own will. He lifted his cloak to show the many attempts at suicide.
“Kill me, before I kill you all.” Eralorien charged the boy.
He took hold of him and drained precious energy from his soul. As he did, he stabbed weakly at Iaculous, who, shaken with the assault, had just enough about him to meet the strike, take hold of his wrist, and twist the knife away.
“NO.”
He tasted the delicious source, and the voice devoured it too, but it was not like before. The child was conscious and capable of sensing his menace. Eralorien committed his full desires upon Cherrie, upon Denan, and lastly, the selfish approval that Arielle lay with another man. He felt the recoil, and he felt the cruel emotion, so he focused on remembering her throngs of loud ecstasy at the hands of her murderer. He envisioned her beautiful, broken body with legs still spread.
Like a heaving furnace, Eralorien felt his own soul and its enchanted lure burn away to its heat. He felt the hatred, and he felt the knife bury into his heart, again and again. As the demon tried resurrection once more, he felt the child tear his soul from him like a monger would a trout. And then he felt as if he were floating as his body fell beneath him into the dirt beside Denan’s, and he lamented for his crimes.
“I’m sorry, my boy,” Eralorien whispered, but no words came.
He felt an invisible grip take hold. As the world drew black forever, he felt himself drawn towards the bandoleer of his young apprentice and the shards of rock upon it. He watched Iaculous weep at his own dead body’s bloody feet. He felt nothing at all as the final precious sleep called him to the night.
29
The Girl With Regrets
The cheese was precariously close to melting into a delicious slush of flavour on the top spit. The lower-tiered meats bubbled and sizzled just enough fat from each cut. Cherrie spun each piece in the fire and watched the meal take shape.
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