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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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