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Subject: {ASSM} The Bargain 1/4 {Maureen Lycaon} (MM+/m, nc, violent, caution, humil, anal, oral, magic, goth, slow)
Date: Wed, 16 Aug 2000 20:10:06 -0400
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THE BARGAIN
@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, August 2000. All rights reserved
under the Bourne Convention, but permission granted for
this to be distributed on Usenet and archived on the Web,
provided that *no* changes are made to it and that *no*
money or other consideration is charged for downloading it.
WARNINGS: You know the drill -- all rights protected under
the Bourne Convention, all resemblance to persons living or
dead is solely coincidental and unintentional, nothing here
is intended to advocate any of these acts, etc.
Another warning before you go diving right in for the
naughty bits:
This is psychologically a very cruel story, even though the
physical brutality described is fairly mild. If you're a
survivor of rape, particularly homosexual rape, this might
arouse unpleasant feelings or memories, so think twice
before you read it. I don't want to upset anyone that way.
Really.
Also, think twice if you're the type who considers Harry
Potter books "Satanic", or if you have an aversion to
knives.;-)
This story -- it's a story with spooge in it, not a spooge
story -- takes quite a while to reach the sex part, so
please be patient; the second half *is* mostly spooge. You
may also think the human sacrifice scene is gratuitous, but
trust me, it *does* belong there.
AUTHOR'S BORING NOTES: My thanks once again to Ron, who gave
useful critiquing and encouragement, and also to Partran,
who gave technical advice on medieval matters.
Some of the hints and allusions here may seem mysterious if
you haven't read my earlier story about Raven, "The Price".
You can find it (along with this story as one whopping big
114K file as well as my other erotic tales) at Maureen
Lycaon's Velan Archive of Erotica at:
http://velar.ctrl-c.liu.se/vcl/Authors/Maureen/
The Bargain: Part 1
"Fires work in me
A lithe supremacy
I tear asunder heaven as I would all enemies
Impaler Lord
Flesh upon the sword
My lower lusts are sated, the greater herald war"
Cradle of Filth, "Queen of Winter, Throned"
Normally, the real battle for a city was won before the
invaders ever reached the city walls. Dorgeyzhim had been
different.
The slaughter in the field outside the city two days before
had been bloody enough. The defending army had included not
only the city's guardsmen and nobility but also detachments
of forces from nearby Teriskor and even mercenaries.
Bayerghim would have sent forces, too, but it couldn't
spare them; it was on the border between the country of
Zhoven and the lands that had already fallen.
Nevertheless, the defenders were utterly defeated.
With most of them dead or prisoners, the walls were easily
breached -- but after that battle came another, equally
fierce.
When the Dark Legions' human and nonhuman soldiers poured
into the city, Dorgeyzhim's Bright Mages began their last-
ditch defense. Theirs was not a skill that could be wielded
on the battlefield; instead, they took refuge inside the
fortress-like Chantry, daring the attackers to break in.
The next day, the Dark Warrior had led his mages in a
battle of adepts against them -- and prevailed, though at
heavy cost.
After that, the mundane soldiers entered the Chantry
uncontested, took the surviving mages captive and hauled
out the bodies of the dead.
Now the bodies of Lord Gurnadey and the other nobles of
Dorgeyzhim hung from the city walls, stripped naked and
suspended by spikes driven through their wrists, along with
those of the mercenary commanders who had stood beside
them, like the corpses of common criminals.
They were the lucky ones; the captive Bright Mages and
Priests were destined for slower, more painful ends.
The Torgelin -- those of the Priests who were trained in
warfare in the city of Torgelin, far to the north -- still
held out in small pockets here and there, mostly in the
Temple of Light, but the fate of Dorgeyzhim was already
settled.
Bright Archmage Tirnal stirred and groaned. As he came to
full awareness he realized where he was, and allowed
himself a few breaths of time to wish he didn't.
The cell was barely five paces on each side, furnished only
with a wooden bench and a chamberpot; the floor and three
of the walls were gray, rough-hewn stone, with the fourth
being a wall of iron grillwork. He recognized it as a cell
in the Dorgeyzhim gaol, normally used for accused heretics
and criminals, now pressed into service for holding war
captives. The irony was not lost on him.
The only window was an iron-barred one high up over his
head near the ceiling. Now it revealed the bluish-gray sky
of evening. He had lain unconscious for several turnings.
The heavy grill separated the cell from the bare room on
the other side, with a sturdy oak door beyond it. He tried
instinctively to use his mage-sight to see if the iron bars
had been spell-treated, but found he could not -- and then
he felt the cold iron rune collar on his neck.
He reached up to touch it and found more mundane shackles
held his wrists and ankles. There was enough slack in the
chains to let him move around, even walk at a hobbled
shuffle, but not enough to let him run. The wrist shackles
kept his wrists pinned with only a little slack.
Without the rune collar, he could have freed himself with
but a few Words of Power. As it was, he couldn't even
perform a simple cantrip.
He thought back, remembering how today's battle had ended.
The magical duel had been a close-fought thing, but in the
end the Dark Warrior's victory had been as sudden as it had
been complete, and the backwash of collapsing power had
knocked Tirnal and his surviving fellow mages unconscious.
Doubtless they were now also collared prisoners; he doubted
anyone had escaped.
Jahl and some of the other apprentices had been captured
early on as they tried to flee through the supposedly
hidden passageway. He'd watched it happening via a
witchball mounted in the corridor. The sick feeling he'd
felt at the sight gripped again his stomach as he
remembered.
Now, with the rune collar around his neck, he couldn't even
block a magical probe. He had no doubt he'd be subjected to
one.
His one hope was that the Saelgarim's spell would hold.
Right now he could do nothing to strengthen it.
And if it didn't hold . . . then all hope for the Light was
truly lost, along with Jahl.
Suspecting what the outcome of the battle would be several
days before, Tirnal had taken a desperation measure -- one
whose nature he had confided to no one else. His fellows
knew he was attempting a summoning; what they didn't know
was its precise nature.
Fortunately, he had confided to no one else the prophecy he
had received regarding Jahl, not even to them.
It had cost him much to call the Saelgarim to intervene,
and then the angel had had no better scheme.
"Is there any hope?" he had asked, after he had explained
his plan to it.
He could almost swear there was regret and pity in those
golden eyes.
"No," it said, its voice more like bird song and chimes
than any mortal voice. "This city will fall."
And then the angel had placed a cool hand on his brow. He'd
felt it work to forge the mind-block, so much more subtle
than anything any mortal mage could create, and stronger as
well. He watched the process with a feeling of awe; though
he was one of the most powerful mages ever born, he could
never hope to duplicate that supernatural skill, and to his
trained eye it was a beautiful thing to see.
Even the Saelgarim hadn't been able to promise that the
spell would escape detection by a mage of the Dark
Warrior's caliber.
All Tirnal could do now was hope and pray as the last light
through the window faded with the coming of night, drowning
the cell in blackness.
The final battle for Dorgeyzhim took most of the following
day. The surviving Torgelin and city troops fought with the
fanatical savagery of desperation, but in the end they were
all rooted out and slain or taken prisoner.
When the Temple of Light was taken, a hush fell over the
city.
The sinking sun cast long shadows over the quiet streets.
The scent of burning hung in the air, and veils of smoke
drifted past the buildings that still stood.
Underneath the acrid reek was another smell -- the stink of
death from the hacked and gutted bodies that lay here and
there in puddles of coagulating blood. Scavenging dogs
nosed among the corpses, three of them gathering for a
feast around a disemboweled Torgelin.
The human scavengers were nowhere in sight; even they dared
not stir, dreading what the night would bring.
After sunset, the marble-paneled Great Hall of the Temple
of Light was lit by the flickering yellow glare of torches.
The majority of the hundreds of beings filling the vast
hall were of the Black Legions -- soldiers both human and
orc. Some still wore their dirt-smudged, bloodstained armor
from the day's fighting. They bore expressions that ranged
from stony watchfulness to intent, eager excitement as they
waited for the Archpriest of Light to be brought out, but
they did not even murmur to each other; they were too
disciplined for that.
A few here were not of the Legions -- they were the guild
leaders and the merchants of Dorgeyzhim. Each of them had
been taken from their homes where they had been hiding
after the fall of the city and brought to witness the
ceremony, whether they wished to or not. Each was now
surrounded by a little knot of guards ensuring they
remained for the entire ceremony.
Most were silent, cowed, radiating palpable fear. They
already guessed what was to happen here tonight. They had
heard the stories, even the eyewitness reports from
refugees of the cities that had already fallen to the Dark
Warrior.
Later, there would be other ceremonies in the open plaza,
where the common peasants and laborers could witness them
and know the utter defeat of the Bright Priests, but
tonight it was the merchants who were to bear witness and
to learn fear.
The Dark Warrior stood motionless by the east wall, a
little in front of the black-clad priests.
Raven was a tall man, but surprisingly lean; where most
fighters' bulging physiques suggested the raw, crude power
of an ax, his called to mind the slender efficacy of a
sword, with no wasted mass. His long, thick blond hair,
spilling well below his shoulders, made a striking contrast
with his black leather armor.
That armor bore no metal studs, no adornment or insignia,
and its suppleness meant it could be more form-fitting than
normal leather armor would be -- but it was endowed with
enough protective magic to make it equal to full plate with
helmet. Yesterday, he'd dispensed with it while leading his
mages in the attack upon the Bright Mages' Chantry, but he
had worn it again during today's final battle -- and now,
tonight, for this ceremony.
The three Archpriests of Darkness in their black ritual
robes stood behind him like a waiting trio of proud
vultures. They would play their part here tonight, but only
after he had personally performed the first sacrifice.
It was his privilege. They didn't resent it.
Afterward, they would send word of the proceedings to the
Grand Archpriest of Darkness in distant Fariskoll.
Raven watched silently, arms folded, as Dional, Archpriest
of the Light for this city, was unceremoniously dragged
forward by two soldiers.
Dional, a gaunt man whose years showed in his thinning
salt-and-pepper hair and lined hollow-cheeked face, had
been stripped naked. One could almost count every one of
his ribs; like many of the most dedicated Bright Priests,
he fasted often. His manhood dangled limply below a
scraggle of graying pubic hair as he was pulled to the dais
upon which the altar stood.
The gleaming white marble altar, with its gold-covered bas-
relief panels depicting scenes from the life of Rashke of
the Light, had cost a fortune in taxes laid upon the people
of Dorgeyzhim. It had been the center of their religious
life, and a great source of pride to the arrogant Bright
Priests.
Now it was magically stained a deep, velvety black. The
bas-reliefs were gone, part of the war booty, but new
additions had been made in the form of four stout iron
rings screwed deep into the marble itself.
Dional appeared to have been stunned into silence. Even the
sight of the desecrated altar where he had so often
officiated brought no reaction from him.
He had been taken prisoner today when the Dark Warrior and
his human and orcish soldiers had stormed the Temple to
finish off the surviving Bright Priests. Dional was no
warrior and had no training in arms; once the guards
defending him had been killed, he had been quickly subdued.
The Torgelin had put up more of a fight -- few of them had
been taken alive. By now, the Torgelin everywhere knew what
their fate would be if the Dark Warrior took them captive;
they almost invariably fought to the death.
There had been fewer Bright Priests than usual in
Dorgeyzhim. It was one of the few cities in which the
Bright Mages held enough power, and were sufficiently
independent from the Bright Priests, to have a separate
Chantry.
Five of the Dark Mages had died in the battle against them.
Three had perished outright; the other two, their minds
blasted, had had to be killed.
Raven and the other mages were exhausted. His powers were
still at their lowest ebb in months . . . but only later
would he allow himself to feel his weariness.
In the morning, after he had slept a few turnings, he would
deal with the matter of the other high-level prisoners --
in particular, the Bright Archmage.
For now, this was his moment of triumph after every
victory, and a battalion of Chareum angels could not have
persuaded him to forego it.
As the soldiers reached the dais holding the altar, four
black-robed lesser Dark Priests stepped forward. With well-
practiced skill, they seized Dional by the arms and legs
and lifted him to the top of the waist-high altar. They
pinned him on his back, spread-eagled.
Other acolytes emerged from the ranks, quickly binding his
wrists and ankles to the iron rings with rope. He offered
no resistance.
A Dark Mage walked up to Raven, bowed and handed him the
black-hilted ritual knife. It was small compared to a
dagger, but honed to a razor's edge for precision work.
He accepted it in silence, lifted it to his mouth, kissed
the blade in homage to the Powers he was about to pay
tribute to.
He walked slowly to the platform holding the altar and
mounted it. He stopped by Dional's side and looked down at
him.
The Bright Priest had the stunned look of a man far gone in
shock; he was beyond all speaking. Rings of white
surrounded the irises of his glazed blue eyes as he looked
up into the Dark Warrior's face.
Raven spoke not a word, but he smiled coldly down at the
Archpriest, thinking that it was a pity this weak man would
never truly understand the ironic justice of what was
happening here.
He leaned over him and, with a practiced eye, selected the
proper spot on that clapped-in belly.
He made the first ritual cut a little above the navel. The
wound he inflicted wasn't deep; it sliced only through the
first few layers of skin -- just deep enough to draw a
narrow line of blood.
The Archpriest's scream spiked the tensed silence, a cry
more of horror than of pain, as the blade's kiss pierced
his catatonic shock. He jerked futilely against the ropes.
Soft laughter rippled through some of the watching
soldiers. One of the Dark Archpriests grinned broadly. The
Black Gods preferred their gifts to be crying as they were
offered up; they hadn't had to wait for long this time.
Raven carved the second cut on Dional's thigh, the third on
his chest, working with the leisurely manner of a man with
all the time in the world. Dional's body tensed and jerked.
Each succeeding cut sliced a little deeper, drawing a
little more blood. Soon it was freely trickling down onto
the blackened marble.
Absorbed in the rite now, half in trance, Raven breathed
faster, dragging deep breaths into his lungs. He sliced
again and again, never hurrying, as all eyes watched the
sacrifice.
There was a certain sensuality in the ancient ritual as he
worked, bending over the altar with his face so close to
Dional's flesh that he could distinguish the fine dark
hairs on his chest and belly even by the flickering
torchlight, could see every twitch and spasm of his muscles
in response to the pain. The Archpriest's cries rang in his
ears, barely heard.
The rank, acrid smell of the priest's sweat and the growing
aged-meat stink of fresh blood mingled in his nostrils as
the ritual progressed.
Soon Dional was screaming in earnest, continuously,
unheeded. The swirling cuts covered his arms, his legs, his
entire torso, and as the ritual went on, even his genitals.
An electric sense of power filled the room. The orcish
soldiers and even many of the human ones felt it; their
eyes glittered with excitement.
Only the Dark Mages and Priests with their special sight
could glimpse the shadowy cloud filling the Hall as
something of the essence of the Dark Gods joined in the
ritual, feeding upon it, accepting the tribute.
A guild leader, his face pale, doubled over to vomit on the
white flagstones of the floor. The soldiers guarding him
glanced at each other and exchanged a few chuckles.
As the ritual cutting went on, the Archpriest began to slip
into shock. His screams were weaker, less frequent, slowly
dwindling down to half-unconscious groans.
At times Raven had to practically lie across the altar to
reach his target; eventually, he climbed up onto its
surface to crouch on hands and knees over his victim,
almost giving the sacrifice the appearance of a sex act.
His black leather armor became splotched and splattered
with wetly gleaming blood, his arms dyed to the elbow with
it.
Dional did not die until a full turning had passed, when
his still-throbbing heart was finally cut out and held up
in offering to the Darkness.
As the last life departed the twitching corpse, Raven once
again experienced that moment of ecstatic self-abandonment,
of oneness with the Dark, that he had known so many times
before. He *felt* the unseen presence in the room respond,
and he gloried in it, sharing its emotions -- joy, cruel
pleasure, a brief moment of satiety before it hungered
again with a hunger more eternal than his hate.
After the ceremony, the soldiers were given free reign for
the span of a night and a day. They made full use of it,
roaming Dorgeyzhim at will in search of rape, pillage and
plunder.
Thanks to the orcs, the bodies that had lain in the city
streets were almost all gone. The beast-soldiers had a long
tradition of grisly victory feasts, so they had better uses
for the corpses than the funeral pyre.
Meanwhile, their weary Commander slept.
Archmage Tirnal was unable to sleep, for all his mental
discipline. He paced in his cell, his leg shackles jangling
discordantly, until early in the morning.
In other cells, other Mages and Priests of the Light
awaited their fates in helpless fear, as did their students
and acolytes, including the girl Jahl. There would be
another round of sacrifices tomorrow night, and on into the
next few nights.
There was speculation among the soldiers as to what form
the Archmage's agonies would take before he was sacrificed.
Many had expected that Dional would be subjected to at
least some of the tortures that the Bright Priests meted
out to convicted heretics and worshippers of the Darkness
in the Hall of Justice, as had been the fate of other
captured Archpriests elsewhere; but they had been
disappointed this time.
Now they wondered if the Dark Warrior was instead saving
that public spectacle for the Archmage. Some whispered that
he planned the same fate he had inflicted upon the
Archpriest after the conquest of Irulli -- rape on the
Altar of Light itself.
Raven made a point of meeting his most important captives
face to face after each victory, for more compelling
reasons than cruelty. It was always worthwhile to take the
measure of his foes; it helped him decide what their exact
fate would be, and whatever knowledge was gained could
prove useful later.
Some reacted with panic or pleading; others attempted to
bargain; rarely, one offered to defect, which only amused
him -- he knew better than to trust in forced conversions.
Still others blustered and threatened divine retribution,
which he found even more amusing. It appeared that the
Bright Gods did not enlighten their Priests with the true
limitations of the Powers, a matter Raven was all too well
versed in.
Trained warriors and nobles sometimes -- not always -- put
up a better account of themselves.
Archpriest Dional had not been amusing or even interesting
-- but then, the Bright Priests seldom impressed him. In
his case, Raven had not even bothered with the usual public
tortures; the man was simply too old to make it worthwhile.
In any event, in Dorgeyzhim, the Bright Priests were not
the chief power -- instead, the mages had held primacy
under Archmage Tirnal's guidance.
This would be the first time Raven had dealt with a
defeated Mage of the Light of such power. And Tirnal had an
intriguing reputation.
Against long-standing tradition, over the past five years
he had begun to train women as mages -- something that had
not endeared him to Dional. The Grand Archpriest in Talsun
had not yet handed down any edict against him.
And then there were the rumors of his preferences in
bedmates.
As Raven walked down the prison corridor, his two orc
bodyguards keeping pace silently at either side, he hoped
that Tirnal would prove more interesting than Dional had
been.
Tirnal awoke as the key rattled in the lock, and then the
door creaked open. He pulled himself up into a sitting
posture on the wooden shelf.
The gaoler entered, key ring dangling from his hand. He was
followed by two massively muscled orcs in chain mail, their
doglike faces expressionless as they stared at Tirnal, each
one holding a saber in a clawed right hand.
And then someone else entered the room, almost hidden
behind their burly forms. The orcs parted to take up
positions on opposite sides of the room, standing guard. He
stepped forward -- a tall man in the prime of life, wearing
black leather armor, who moved with the easy grace of an
athlete or a leopard. His lean body looked all the more
slender compared to the orcs' hugely bulging forms, but
there was no mistaking their deference.
Tirnal looked up at the Dark Warrior.
During their combat, he'd seen him with mage-sight, but
only from a distance. Then he'd been almost completely
hidden by the nimbus of black energy surrounding him and
the other Dark Mages, giving no hint of what he looked like
in the flesh. Tirnal had caught a flash of blond hair, no
more; only the mage-warrior's incredible power had been
apparent.
He was pretty much as public report had described him.
Under that magical leather armor, his movements suggested
the lean, hard muscles of a trained athlete. His
magnificent wavy blond hair fell long and free below his
shoulders, glinting with gold highlights in the morning
rays from the window. His fine-boned, clean-shaven face was
that of an aristocrat, the nose just slightly too long --
the kind of slight imperfection that only adds to physical
beauty. His brooding eyes, so dark a brown they were nearly
black, gave away nothing of his thoughts.
*Face of an angel. Bright Gods, what irony . . .* Tirnal
thought.
The famous darksword was sheathed in a baldric on his back,
the hilt protruding from behind his right shoulder. A
black-handled dagger hung from his belt, at his right hip.
He looked down at the mage, his expression measuring but
otherwise unreadable.
Tirnal felt the stirring in his own manhood as he looked
back at him.
*I could lust for him, if I did not know what he is,*
Tirnal found himself thinking. *He is beautiful.*
But dread lay heavy in his belly as he faced him.
Raven looked down at the Archmage, seeing him in the flesh
for the first time.
During the combat, Tirnal and his fellows had been obscured
by the brilliant, multicolored light of the powers they
called upon, a brilliance so intense as to be painful to
the eye, like looking into the sun. Now as Raven took his
measure, studying him through the bars, he mused that the
mage was as attractive as the spies' reports made him out
to be -- and as compelling.
Tirnal was just entering middle age, with dark brown,
nearly black hair as long and flowing as Raven's own, shot
through with just a few white strands. The lines around his
eyes and mouth were still few and shallow and only accented
an open, honest face, with strong bones and a hint of laugh
lines around the mouth.
He'd always disdained the flowing robes of most Mages,
preferring simple, informal breeches and shirts, and that's
what he was dressed in now. Underneath them, it could be
seen that he was a fit, slender man, not with the muscular
development of a fighter by profession, but hardly frail
like many mages.
Perhaps it was those penetrating hazel eyes, or the way he
carried himself with poise and strength even now, but Raven
could sense the charisma with which he'd managed to get the
respect and admiration of his fellow mages and even many of
the Bright Priests.
With mage-sight, Raven could see the aura of power about
him, even though it was weakened from the magical struggle
and utterly restrained by the rune collar.
He returned his attention to his mundane senses, and now he
saw the well-controlled fear in the set of the Archmage's
mouth, his shadowed eyes, his tense, controlled breathing.
This man knew he was to die, and die painfully, and he had
resigned himself.
Raven felt an impulse of admiration for him. He seldom saw
that kind of courage.
"Tirnal," he stated rather than questioned.
Those intent hazel eyes gazed into his, and he knew he was
being studied in turn.
"Raven," the reply came. He said nothing more.
"You know my name, then?" Raven was only mildly surprised;
it wasn't impossible to find out, simply very difficult.
Tirnal nodded.
Raven waited, but he made no attempt to plead or beg.
"I've heard much of you also," he finally said. "You fought
very well."
Tirnal lifted his eyebrows. "What have you heard of me,
Commander Raven?"
Raven smiled as he eyed him carefully. "That you and the
Bright Priests have had . . . your differences, despite
your position."
Tirnal smiled faintly. "Your sources speak the truth."
"You're quite composed, for a man who is about to die by
torture. You have no wish to bargain? To plead for your
life?"
Tirnal looked, if possibly, even more directly into his
eyes. "Not for myself," he said.
"For whom, then?"
"My student, Jahl. A young woman."
Raven studied him. "I doubtless hold many of your students
prisoner, Bright Mage."
Tirnal nodded. "I know. I also know you will not permit me
to bargain for all of them."
"I will not permit you to bargain for *any* of them, Bright
Mage." Raven smiled coldly. "Why should I? Perhaps I will
go kill her now."
Tirnal rose from the shelf, chains jangling. The orc guards
tensed, sabers quivering, but he paced up to the iron
grille, still looking unwaveringly into Raven's eyes.
"I know I have little to bargain with," the mage admitted.
"But I have heard you have a certain sort of honor, Dark
Warrior."
Raven felt his eyebrows lifting. This was indeed proving
interesting.
"You have, then?"
Tirnal nodded, eyes never leaving Raven's.
"Then let me tell you in detail of what I intend to do with
you -- what I have done to other Bright Priests and Mages
in the past, in case your spies somehow failed to inform
you.
"First, you will be stripped naked, and certain of my
minions who value such a reward will quench their lust in
you until they are weary.
"Now that I have looked upon you, I think I will enjoy you
myself. You are attractive, and there is a special
pleasure, I've found, in taking a man thus -- especially
one sworn to the Light.
"When we tire of you, I will have you publicly tortured for
as long as I choose -- anywhere from several turnings to
several days. My henchmen are inventive and skilled, and
you seem a strong man who will not break too easily.
"After that, you will be sacrificed to my patrons. That is
not a swift affair, either. I will wield the knife -- as I
did with the Archpriest. He took a very long time to die,
by the way."
Tirnal blinked at that last. The fear was more obvious now
in that handsome face . . . but it was still kept firmly in
check. There was none of the stark disbelief or panic Raven
usually saw in a prisoner's eyes.
Unwilling admiration grew in his heart.
The Bright Mage swallowed almost imperceptibly, then
nodded.
"I suspected as much," he said. His voice was steady.
Raven narrowed his eyes. "Knowing this, you still call me a
'man of honor'?"
"I have heard that, on those rare occasions when you do
enter into a bargain, you keep to it no matter what the
cost. Witness those pacts by which you summon demons to
battle."
Raven felt as if he had been struck in the belly with an
orc's mace. He knew the mage had seen his eyes widen in
shock.
The two orcs remained impassive, their ugly faces
displaying no emotion, after the manner of their race. Even
so, he'd have to cast a spell of forgetting later.
Cold rage welled in him as he stepped up to the bars, eyes
boring into the Archmage's.
"What do you know of -- such things?" he demanded, and his
voice was as icy as a Phlegazeum demon's phallus.
Tirnal didn't blink, even though Raven was practically nose
to nose with him. "You might wish to send your bodyguards
out of the room first."
Raven stared at him, eyes still narrowed. Then he stepped
back, squelching his anger.
He whirled to look at each orc in turn. In moments, the
spellcasting was done, leaving them with only vague
memories of the conversation thus far. They blinked their
muddy eyes, but knew better than to question what had just
happened.
"Go now," he ordered. "Wait outside the door."
When they had obeyed, he turned back to the Archmage, who
didn't wait for him to speak again.
"You thought none but the greatest Dark Mages knew that
secret, did you not?"
"So I did. How is it that *you* do?"
"Let us just say . . . there was a time when that method of
giving power to the Black Realm was better-known. My
library, which you now doubtless will have burned, has a
few books from that time. Rest easy, few have ever seen
them -- they are the most heavily guarded tomes in our
entire collection. We have no more interest in revealing
the secrets of the Dark than you do."
Raven's eyes were bleak and savage. "You are doubly doomed
now, Archmage. Do you hope to enrage me into giving you a
quick death?"
Tirnal didn't blink. "Your alliance costs you much. Yet
each time you pay the price without flinching. You keep
your vows to the Dark Realm, no matter what the pain, and
once you have sworn by the Black River, you have never been
known to go back on your own word, even to an enemy.
"That is why I say you have a certain honor, and I seek to
bargain with you even though I know I can do nothing at all
to ensure that you keep your word."
Raven stared at him.
"Why this one student? What makes her more important to you
than all the others?"
"I love her."
Tirnal must have seen his reaction, because he added, "Not
in that way. Surely you know more of me than that. But she
is dear to me, as a daughter."
"You know I will mind-probe you . . ."
Tirnal nodded, gaze never wavering.
"What, then, do you offer? You are in a poor position to
bargain. Surely you don't expect me to believe you would
change allegiances."
Tirnal shook his head.
"No. I offer only my body, for as long as you choose to
enjoy it."
Raven laughed. It was a harsh and brittle sound, devoid of
humor.
"I hardly need to bargain for that, Tirnal. You will
eventually be *begging* to service me in any way I can
imagine." His smile was a demon's before it faded.
Tirnal still didn't flinch.
"And if that 'persuasion' were not necessary?" the mage
asked. "If I were to pleasure you and whomever of your men
you chose, in whatever manner you wish, freely and without
coercion? *Knowing* what would happen when you tired of my
flesh? How many have offered you *that* coin, Dark
Warrior?"
Raven actually blinked as he looked into Tirnal's face and
saw the quiet determination there.
A moment later, he had summoned his will and his probe was
sinking into Tirnal's soul, roughly forcing its entrance,
uncaring of the cost to his still-depleted power.
He was ready for the mental convulsions of a last-moment
attempt at resistance, but there was none: Tirnal simply
submitted and let him penetrate, as he had offered to do
with his body. His soul was an open book, there for the
reading.
Surface memories flickered: of the recent battle, of
training students, of life in the Chantry. Images of other
men, of sex; the stories were indeed true, but there were
few such images.
Raven did not concern himself with those memories; they did
not interest him now. He burrowed into Tirnal's emotions
instead, seeking for anything that would reveal a trap.
The fear of pain, humiliation and death already filled the
mage's mind like a sickly pale swamp, but underneath it his
love lay clear like a sparkling pool.
And then, bound to that love, there were images: the face
of a girl on the threshold of womanhood, with long,
straight ash-blond hair, and he saw through Tirnal's eyes
as she spoke to the mage, listened to him, smiled.
He saw Jahl as Tirnal had first known her, a painfully thin
girl with large, sad eyes, in the wake of famine. The way
her eyes brightened when she looked upon the teacher who
had rescued her from the streets of Dorgeyzhim, taking her
into the Chantry.
He saw her being taught the lessons of magic -- the first
and simplest lessons in quieting the mind and soul . . .
but nothing more.
The girl was what Tirnal said she was -- a prot g , no
more.
Oh, aye, there were images and feelings there for his other
students and his fellow mages. His mind was almost awash
with grief over them, knowing that those that still lived
faced fates as terrible as his own, knowing he could do
nothing at all to help them, not even to give them easier
deaths. He sorrowed for them more than for himself.
But it was Jahl who he loved about all else.
Raven forced his way still deeper, scanning the depths of
the other man's soul. He could find no secrets, no hidden
import to this bargain Tirnal offered, no evidence of any
trick. What he could see was the mage's love for his
foundling; he truly did think of her as his daughter, and
even stronger than his dread of his own fate was his fear
of what would happen to her, his sorrow he would not be
there for her.
Contemplating that love made Raven's own soul knot in a way
he couldn't describe to himself. He could never count all
the captives he had probed over the years by means of
magic, but it was not often he encountered anything
resembling this emotion among the minions of the Light.
One of the three deadly weaknesses, the teachings of the
Darkness called love. The Dark Gods found it loathsome.
Yet the mage-warrior found himself feeling something that
might be envy for the man who would soon be his victim,
because he could still love.
The Archmage meant to do exactly as he had said. The dark
fear and shame and the dreadful knowledge of what would
come told Raven all he needed to know.
He broke contact, drained with the effort he had expended.
There was something close to awe in his soul as he gazed at
Tirnal.
"You would make love to your torturers for this girl . . ."
It was a statement, not a question, yet he found he
couldn't keep the wonder out of his voice.
Tirnal nodded, his face impassive.
Raven took a deep breath, exhaled. The two men stared at
each other in silence.
Then Raven said, "I will consider your offer."
Without another word, he turned and left the room.
Address comments and criticism to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com .
More of my work may be found at Maureen Lycaon's Velan
Archive of Erotica at:
http://velar.ctrl-c.liu.se/vcl/Authors/Maureen/
------------------------------------------------------------
Forget Logic sometimes, listen to the logic of Nature.
A thought is dull without an instinct.
-- Fernando Ribeiro
------------------------------------------------------------
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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