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Subject: {ASSM} The Bargain 2/4 {Maureen Lycaon} (MM+/m, nc, violent,  caution, humil, anal, oral, magic, goth, slow)
Date: Wed, 16 Aug 2000 20:10:07 -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 2


Inwardly, Tirnal sighed in relief as the footsteps dwindled 
down the hall. The mind-block had remained hidden; Raven 
had suspected nothing.

He would carry his secret to his grave, or whatever passed 
for one when the minions of the Dark disposed of his 
corpse.




Jahl had lain in her cell for five or six days now, since 
she had been captured -- she wasn't sure which, because she 
was becoming uncertain of her count. The shackles and the 
heavy rune collar around her neck rubbed her raw.

A silent guard brought spartan meals of bread and cheese 
into her cell three times a day. That and the waxing and 
waning of the light through the barred window were her only 
measure of time now.

The first day, she'd tried calling out, hoping to hear 
another voice from another cell. But the door beyond the 
grille muffled her calls, and she heard no answer. Perhaps 
the rooms from which her voice could be heard were empty.

Beginning on the second day, she had heard the sounds of 
other captives being dragged to their fate: the footsteps 
of soldiers and prisoners in the corridor outside, the 
sounds of voices screaming, pleading or weeping as their 
owners were hauled into the corridor.

Once or twice she recognized the voices as those of other 
students, and their pleas shredded her sanity.

Two or three times she had given in to hysteria, screaming, 
fighting her shackles in panic until her wrists and ankles 
were bleeding underneath them, kicking the walls and the 
iron grille as hard as the short length of her leg chain 
permitted.

No one came, even to silence her.

When her panic had run its course, she huddled into a ball 
on her shelf-bed and wept.

Occasionally she still tried to calm her mind with the 
simple exercises Tirnal had taught her, but they never 
worked for more than a little while. Most of the time she 
alternately wept or staved off panic by pacing as best she 
could in her chains.

At times, when the terror subsided, she wished deeply, 
painfully for Tirnal to comfort her, one of the other 
students to talk to, but she was alone.

She wondered if it were possible to die of sheer terror, 
loneliness and grief, but she doubted it. Her end would 
probably be less merciful.

The idle workings of her mind were her worst enemy, 
conjuring up a thousand hideous visions of what was to 
happen to her, and to Tirnal, and to the other students and 
mages.

Like everybody else at the Chantry, she had heard the 
stories, the accounts of what had been done to the Priests 
and Mages of the Light in other cities that had fallen to 
the Dark Legions. They were enough material for the 
nightmares of countless lifetimes.

If she had been left a knife, she would have killed 
herself. But she had nothing, no weapon at all.

Today, panic was beginning to subside into numb lethargy. 
She guessed from the strength of the sunlight striking the 
far wall that it was near midday.

Once again, footsteps sounded in the corridor -- four 
soldiers, she guessed, drawing near.

Her numbness gave way to fear as the footsteps halted 
outside the door.

What was worse, to face her fate now, or to wait still 
longer?

There was the rattle of a key in the lock, and then the 
door opened.

She looked up, her heart pounding savagely, as a human 
gaoler entered the room. And then, two huge forms with 
oddly misshapen faces followed on his heels, stepping into 
the little room and making it seem still smaller. It took 
her a moment to realize that their faces weren't deformed 
after all; they had muzzles like dogs. Not men at all, but 
orcs.

They stared back at her with ugly black eyes, 
expressionless as snakes, but they said nothing to her. 
Instead, each orc stepped to one side of the room and 
assumed the rigid posture of standing guard, a taloned hand 
closed around its sword, as if rehearsing a well-known 
routine.

Then a tall, lean blond-haired man in black leather armor 
entered.

She realized who he was, who he had to be, from 
descriptions she'd heard. Dear Bright Gods, why had he come 
to her?

The Dark Warrior studied her in return. His handsome face 
was as emotionless as stone, his eyes so dark they looked 
black.

"So you're Tirnal's pupil." 

Her breath caught in her constricted throat, and for a long 
few moments she thought she would faint.

"Well? Are you not?" he asked sharply.

Somehow -- she never knew how afterward -- she found her 
voice.

"Yes, I am." It sounded as small as she felt.

"What are you to him? In truth?" Those dark, brooding eyes 
bored into her. She felt like a mouse cornered by a snake, 
all thought frozen, unable to move.

"An -- an apprentice. His fosterling . . ." she stammered.

He did not speak another word, but his eyes seemed to 
darken even more, and they glazed slightly.

Then she felt an indescribable sensation. It was not a 
physical touch, but a heavy, brutal pressure against her 
self, and then a fierce pain as something immensely, 
horrifyingly powerful forced its way in, penetrating her 
very soul, something that felt as dark and horrifying as a 
demon.

Only a few times before in her life had she experienced a 
magical probe, and those had been gentle, shallow ones, as 
Tirnal had shown her what one was like. Even without the 
rune collar around her neck, she would not have known how 
to defend herself against one.

She screamed as her mind was cruelly forced open. She 
couldn't see, wasn't conscious of the cell around her, had 
lost all awareness of everything but that intrusion. The 
pain grew worse as the darkness that had entered her began 
probing, spreading out, entering every nook and cranny of 
her soul, invading, searching, scraping her raw as it 
ransacked her.

Surely that darkness was possessing her, blotting her out. 
It would leave only an empty shell behind, not even her 
spirit left for the Bright Gods to accept.

She wasn't aware she had fallen and curled up whimpering 
into a ball on the cell floor, a position that offered no 
defense against the rape of her soul that was taking place.

And then the darkness relented, slowly withdrew.

She lay there for several long breaths, then slowly opened 
her eyes, shivering, her throat raw from that scream. She 
was still alive. Her soul was her own again.

She lifted her head slowly, cautiously, terrified the 
assault would be renewed.

The Dark Warrior was looking down at her through the bars 
like a judge from the Black Realm. He nodded, as if 
satisfied at something. His face was as impassive as ever.

"Very well," he said. "It appears Tirnal told the truth."

He turned and walked out, followed by the orcs and the 
gaoler, leaving her there on the floor to recover. There 
was a rattle as the door was locked again.




It was late -- near midnight. Only a single candle to mark 
the turnings still burned in Lord Gurnadey's bedchamber, 
casting thin, wavering light on the tapestries lining the 
walls.

Dominating the great room was its dead lord's bed, a 
massive, canopied affair with four sturdy oak posts and a 
dark green silk coverlet that must have cost a fortune in 
itself. The rest of the furniture consisted of several 
chairs against the walls, a wooden dresser beside the bed, 
and the great cedar chest that used to hold much of his 
funds.

The wool rugs and sheepskins covering the wooden floor had 
a new addition, a small, plain white rug with a single 
adornment: a black circle. It was the rug Raven normally 
used for meditation and sorcery, which was how he was using 
it now.

Weariness weighed like lead on his shoulders. Two mind-
probes in one day had further drained his magical reserves, 
and he needed sleep to even begin recovering. Right now, he 
should be savoring the comfort of that magnificent bed.

Instead, he sat cross-legged on the rug, gazing out into 
the darkness of the room as he considered Tirnal's offer.

The wisest course of action, he knew, would have been to 
slay the girl out of hand -- preferably with his darksword. 
To take no chances whatsoever.

So why did he not do it?

*I have never seen one of the Light like him*, he thought, 
and knew it for a part of the truth. He was forced to admit 
it now: he was dealing with a man who was his equal.

The other part of the truth was the love he'd glimpsed in 
Tirnal's soul.

Raven remembered all too well when he had last felt that 
emotion, so many years ago. The memory seemed from another 
life, as if it belonged to someone else. He had never felt 
it since. Not for a woman, not for another man.

He knew now, as he stared into the darkness of the room, 
that he would never do so again. The place in his soul that 
might have felt it was only ashes.

He closed his eyes, but he did not weep.

After a time, he returned his thoughts to Tirnal's offer.

*Maybe it really is as it looks,* he told himself. *He had 
no way to deceive me, after all.*

It would be better to consider this again in the morning, 
after he had slept.

Even as he thought this, he knew the unwisdom of the choice 
he was making, but he knew also that he would not unmake 
it.




Tirnal looked up as the messenger entered, flanked by the 
gaoler.

"A message from Commander Raven," the youth stated, his 
face expressionless. He walked up to the bars and offered a 
sealed and rolled-up piece of paper.

 Tirnal rose and walked over to meet him, chains jangling, 
and accepted the scroll in one shackled hand. The messenger 
turned away, and they departed without waiting to see if he 
opened it.

When the door had closed and the footsteps were dwindling 
down the corridor, he broke the seal, and unrolled and read 
it.

*I accept your bargain. So sworn by the Black River. Be 
ready tomorrow,* it read, in elegant, flowing script.

That was all, except for an ornate "R" sigil underneath.

The page quivered; he became aware that his hand was 
shaking. He carefully lowered it to the wooden shelf, 
feeling his stomach churning with mingled relief and fear.

He closed his eyes and prayed to the Bright Gods for 
strength, feeling hot tears begin to run down his cheeks.




The next morning, a pair of guards brought him a bucket of 
warm water and other supplies for bathing, and the gaoler 
unshackled him. Evidently Raven preferred his victims 
cleaned up before using them.

Tirnal forced himself to ignore the guards' stone-faced 
gaze as he stripped naked and bathed. There was no sense 
wasting time on being ashamed now. They watched him in 
silence.

When he had dried himself off, one man held his wrists 
pinioned painfully behind his back while the other removed 
the bucket. He was not shackled again; the gaoler took the 
chains with him as they departed, locking the grille and 
the door behind them, without bothering to see if he 
dressed.

He looked distastefully at his soiled clothes but 
eventually put them on again.

He only picked at the breakfast they brought him a little 
while later.




"It is time, Tirnal."

Raven stood in the open doorway of the room. He was once 
again dressed in his leather armor, wearing his darksword 
and dagger. His handsome face showed no emotion as he gazed 
at Tirnal.

With him was the gaoler -- and two other men, also in 
leather armor, though theirs was studded. One of them was a 
crude-looking, well-muscled man with a shock of red hair, 
who he recognized from descriptions as Raven's chief 
cavalry commander, Algarn. The other was a taller one -- 
almost as tall as Raven, but raw-boned and graceless -- 
with black hair barely to his shoulders and a nose that 
appeared to have been broken and reset at least twice; 
Tirnal guessed he was Zhourn, who commanded a division of 
foot soldiers.

The Archmage rose, his guts knotting, as the gaoler 
unlocked the grille. He concentrated on controlling himself 
-- not allowing himself to tremble, keeping his breathing 
steady -- as they entered his cell.

Raven stepped in front of him, looking directly into his 
eyes as he spoke.

"Before we begin, Archmage, let me be clear. If you try to 
escape, even by suicide, or if you lift a hand against us, 
I will consider the bargain to be at an end, and your 
pupil's life is forfeit. If by some chance you *do* escape, 
she will suffer in your place. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Tirnal replied, managing to keep his voice even.

"Good."

Algarn and Zhourn smirked openly as they eyed him, but 
Raven's handsome face was still an impassive mask, his dark 
eyes revealing nothing. Tirnal could not tell if this were 
giving him pleasure or pain, or neither.

"Take off your clothes," the mage-warrior ordered. "You 
will not need them again in this life, rest assured."

Dear Bright Gods, they were going to march him naked 
through the city streets . . .

And there was nothing he could do but endure it.

He obeyed, eyes lowered, feeling their gaze on his exposed 
flesh as he removed his shirt and breeches and dropped his 
boots on the floor. He ignored the sudden heat he could 
feel rising in his face.

When he had finished, Raven took a step closer to him, 
looking not at his bare flesh but directly into his eyes. 
There was the feeling of magic being worked, of pressure on 
his soul -- not a probe, but some other spell being worked 
upon him. With the rune collar around his neck, he could do 
nothing to stop it.

Then Raven stepped back. If the spell had cost him any 
effort, he didn't show it. "Do you know what I have done to 
you?"

"I can guess," he answered. "Some sort of spell to make 
sure I cannot fight you."

Raven nodded, a brief hint of a smile teasing his mouth 
before fading.

"If you try *anything* -- to strike out against me or my 
companions, seize a weapon, anything at all -- you will 
experience more pain than you have ever known before in 
your life. And I will know what you tried to do."

He took another step backward, then:

"Go ahead, test it, Archmage. Think of harming me."

Tirnal realized Raven wouldn't be satisfied until he 
complied, and so he obeyed. The dagger at the mage-
warrior's right hip -- if he could seize that and strike --

There was no time to carry out the thought, even if he had 
really intended to. Before his arm muscles could contract, 
the agony struck, starting at his groin but spreading 
instantly through his entire body, and his soul was 
similarly wracked by an unbearable feeling he couldn't 
describe.

He wasn't even aware he'd screamed and fallen to his knees 
until the pain eased and he opened his eyes to see the 
stone of the floor, feeling the rawness in his throat.

Now Raven really did smile.

"Good enough. I trust that will discourage any thought of 
desperate action on your part. Now, get up and put your 
hands behind your neck. Keep them there until you are told 
otherwise."

Tirnal got to his feet with some difficulty, his body still 
remembering that horrible pain and not wanting to move. He 
clasped his hands on the back of his neck, feeling the cold 
metal of the collar under his fingers.

He felt more naked than naked, knowing what was to happen. 
Every inch of his body that mattered was exposed to their 
view, and that awareness sent a chill feeling over his 
skin. He didn't even have the mercy of being chained, of 
being unable to disobey by trying to cover himself with his 
hands.

He drew a shaky breath.

The gaoler appeared embarrassed, averting his gaze from 
Tirnal's nakedness. The two other men were still smirking, 
but Raven only eyed him briefly and turned away.

"Let us go," he said.




Red-haired Algarn walked beside him, while Raven and Zhourn 
paced behind. They didn't hurry him, but they didn't let 
him slow down. Algarn's hard hand was on his left arm now 
and then, guiding him in the way he should go.

The little group of soldiers outside snapped to attention 
as they saw the Dark Warrior and the two commanders emerge. 
Tirnal saw their curious quick glances at him, and it cut 
him to the bone, but they were too well-disciplined to 
waste time staring.

While Raven looked on, Zhourn spoke to them. "I require six 
of you to accompany us to the Lord Commander's quarters."

Tirnal permitted himself an inward sigh of relief -- his 
rape, at least, would not be a public spectacle. His 
torture and death later would be.

The soldiers arranged themselves, four of them behind Raven 
and Zhourn, two walking ahead, as they stepped out into the 
street.

The sky had turned overcast, but with no promise of rain, 
and underneath that brooding cloud cover the city of 
Dorgeyzhim lay silent. The smell of smoke still hung over 
everything, but he couldn't see where it was coming from. 
He wondered how widespread the destruction was.

No one moved on the streets; the townspeople were all still 
in hiding. A small mercy for himself, he thought. But he 
wouldn't turn to look; he kept his head up, his back 
straight, refusing to show what he felt. The cobblestones 
were cold and bruising-hard under his bare feet. A cool 
breeze caressed his skin, raising goosebumps on his arms.

*Jahl will escape*, he reminded himself, but he didn't dare 
dwell on the fact. He wasn't sure what Raven could pick up 
on.

No one spoke to him. Their only sounds were their boots on 
the cobblestones and the rustle and creak of their leather 
armor.

They passed two more groups of soldiers en route: one small 
group walking briskly down the street in the opposite 
direction; the other, a detachment of orcish guards in 
front of the low, squat brick fa ade of a guild 
headquarters across the street.

Both times, Tirnal braced himself for laughter and 
catcalls, but the sight of their commander seemed to deter 
them; they stiffened, saluted Raven and remained silent. 
Even so, they stared; he could feel their eyes burning into 
his back and buttocks after he passed.

He felt what he knew was ill-founded relief as they 
approached the stone wall around the fortress-like hold 
where Lord Gurnadey had lived.




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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