Outlander Ch. 11

Before any suspicions arose, Vallen convinced the beguiled King to order Forsith to the northern front to assume command of the armies defending the border. It was an unusual order, but it was plausible that a fearful young ruler would turn to his most trusted general and childhood teacher to protect him from the Karokai.

With the General out of the way, Vallen's next move was to get his own men around the King in place of the Sentinels. The King's Sentinels, especially Captain Chael Dovangi, were said to be incorruptible. Vallen knew it would be foolish to try, and as it turned out, a simple decree was all that was needed to replace the Sentinels with the Swords of Aramon. The King's Chamberlain, Lord Kardigan, raised such an outcry at this decree that it gave Vallen the opportunity to remove him and the Sentinels in one fell swoop.

In a matter of months, Vallen had manipulated and murdered his way to become the power behind the throne of Aramoor. Now his attention turned to the final disposal of those who were foolish enough or strong enough to mount a resistance.

"Are you sure this is wise?" Connil asked as he fingered the edge of the paper that was Lord Kardigan's death warrant. He and the Chancellor were seated at a table in the Chancellor's study, where they met daily to advance Vallen's power plays.

Connil knew that throwing Lord Kardigan in the dungeon was one thing, but a public execution by hanging was something else entirely. He raised his gaze to look at the Chancellor. "You can't expect Captain Dovangi and his confederates to stand idly by."

"On the contrary, I fully expect Dovangi to attempt a rescue." The Chancellor smiled at Connil's look of surprise. "I want him to publicly show his treachery so we can remove him once and for all."

Connil frowned. "Why the elaborate plan? Why not just have the King proclaim him a traitor the way you did the Chamberlain?"

Vallen gave Connil a look of contempt. "You have a commoner's grasp of politics, Connil. I fear you will never become a Cardinal and join the Conclave." He shook his head as though disappointed.

Connil shrugged off the insult. The Chancellor loved to show off his brilliance at political machinations and could not resist any opportunity to explain his strategy. Connil hid his smile when, as if on cue, the Chancellor cleared his throat to continue.

"The court nobles will accept Lord Kardigan's execution because he isn't truly one of them," the Chancellor said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "He's just a trumped-up commoner raised to prominence by the old King because they fought battles together in their youth. The nobility never fully accepted him.

"Captain Dovangi, on the other hand, is the third son of Count Archibald Dovangi, Lord of the Eastern Dells. We will need the rest of the nobility to support us if we make an enemy of such a powerful man. Captain Dovangi must first be proved a traitor in their eyes or we face open rebellion."

Connil wondered if Vallen did anything other than plot. It seemed as though the Chancellor always knew what everyone would do before they did it. Connil begrudgingly respected the man's thoroughness if nothing else.

With the question answered, Connil shuffled through the remaining death warrants. One was for a farmer who had smashed his neighbor's head in with a rock because the neighbor's goats kept escaping their pen and eating the flowers in the garden of the farmer's wife. Connil signed the warrant without hesitation; the fate of a murderous farmer was of no consequence.

The next warrant, however, gave him pause.

"Are we really going to hang a fourteen-year-old boy for stealing pastries?" he scanned the warrant for the boy's name. "Tomas Nald, a message boy for the King's Keeper of Birds."

"He assaulted one of the Swords," Vallen said, using the shorter term for the Swords of Aramon.

"He stomped on the man's toe whilst trying to get away," Connil said, exasperated by the silliness of it.

"These people must be taught a lesson!" Vallen raised his voice and pounded his fist on the table. "Any assault on one of us will be punished most severely." Spittle flew from his mouth. "I grow tired of your opposition to every decision I make. Have you forgotten that your family's welfare hinges upon your cooperation?"

At Vallen's open threat, Connil's deep-seated bitterness boiled and rose to the surface. "Even after all these years, you still throw that in my face." His next words came recklessly in his anger. "Why me, Chancellor? Of all the Priests you could have chosen to be your Aide, why did you choose me? I was a true believer. Surely you could have found someone base and despicable like yourself."

Vallen laughed the full-throated laugh of true mirth. "You still don't understand, do you? There were plenty of corrupt Priests I could have chosen, but I wanted to take something pure and taint it. I wanted to take your beautiful faith and destroy it. I wanted to take your salvation and corrupt you into damnation." The Chancellor gave him a gloating smirk. "That is true power, Connil. That is why I chose you."

Vallen's words slapped Connil in the face like a physical blow. The Chancellor had used him like a plaything, had ruined his life for no other reason than a sick, depraved desire to prove he had the power to corrupt anyone, even a devout priest.

A knock sounded at the door, interrupting his stunned silence. "Come," Connil called, his voice unsteady.

A clerk opened the door and came in. "D-dispatches, Bishop," he stammered, sensing the tension between the two men. The clerk quickly shoved the small stack of parchments into Connil's outstretched hand and beat a hasty retreat out of the room.

"Anything of import?" Vallen asked, indicating the dispatches and allowing the subject to change.

Connil shook himself and flipped through the various pages and envelopes. "Standard reports," he said as he continued to skim through them.

He hesitated when he came across a tattered parchment folded in half, addressed to him and sealed with the unbroken wax seal of the Murkenshire Magistrate. It was odd that his father's seal wasn't on the letter, but it had been so long since he had news of his home and family that he put it out of his mind. He quickly slid the parchment into the stack of dispatches before the Chancellor could see it.

"You will let me know if anything needs my attention," Vallen said. "Now, if there is nothing else, I have other matters to attend to."

Connil gathered up his notes and dispatches then left the Chancellor to his business. Once in the hallway, he hurried to his quarters, scurrying along at an almost undignified pace. He was eager to hear how his mother and father were doing. Had his little sister and her husband added one more child to their brood? He wasn't sure the old farmhouse could house more additions to the family without forcing his parents to move out to the shed. He chuckled at the thought.

Once in his room, he lit his desk candle with a flick of the power and sat down to read. He broke the seal with trembling fingers, surprised that he still found joy in hearing of their mundane lives. He frowned when he saw how short the scrawled note was. His joy turned to ashes in his mouth as he read.

Bishop Connil Argan,

The Office of the Magistrate of Murkenshire District regrets to inform you that a fire consumed your family's farmhouse on the third night after spring planting day. There were no survivors.

An investigation conducted by the constable has determined that the fire was most likely an accident.

In recognition of your status as the sole surviving heir of Abel Argan, this office will be transferring ownership of his properties and moneys to you. Final disposition of the estate will be decided upon once you contact this office. You have our deepest condolences.

Harven Kanter, Magistrate

The letter fell from Connil's numb fingers and slid off the desk onto the floor. He stared blankly at the flickering candle flame as the wordsno survivorssank in.

First one tear then another spilled out of his eyes and slid down his cheeks. His family was gone. His father, whose stern but loving hands had taught a young Connil right from wrong; his mother, who had been so proud of her son the Priest; his sister, who had worn her cornsilk hair in pigtails when he'd left, and had grown into a lovely young woman with a fine husband who loved her; his nieces and nephews who would never grow up to have children of their own. They were all gone, consumed by unforgiving flames. The floodgates opened, and he wept.

A sudden thought turned his grief to horror. Now that his family was with Lord Aramon, would they know of the things he had done? Would they learn of the lives he had destroyed, the men he had ordered killed, all in the name of keeping them safe? When he faced judgment, would his family stand behind Lord Aramon and cast looks of aspersion on him? The thought was unbearable, and he wailed in ignominious agony.

With a sudden clarity, he saw the irony of the situation. He had damned his own soul to save them from death only to have them die anyway. Not by some nefarious means, but by an accidental fire. His wails turned to deranged laughter, and crazed guffaws came from him until his stomach muscles hurt. "It was all for nothing," he choked out between peels of manic hilarity.

On the heels of that thought came another realization. With the death of his family, Chancellor Vallen's hold on him was gone. He never had to obey Vallen again. His mind whirled, and it felt as if a great, suffocating weight had been lifted from him. He felt light as air, as if suddenly released from a vise that had been constricting his chest for a decade. He was finally free. A great sense of relief washed over him, only to be overpowered by a crushing guilt for feeling deliverance at his family's death. His emotions swung between grief, amusement, anger, and guilt until he finally collapsed onto his bed in exhaustion.

As he lay on his cot, drained and on the edge of sleep, he tried to pray for the first time in years. He prayed for Lord Aramon to shelter the souls of his family. He prayed that the Lord would protect them from the shame he had brought upon them, for the mockery he had made of his priestly vows.

He knew better than to pray for himself. It would be a futile exercise. There could be no forgiveness or redemption, not for the likes of him. It was far too late for that.

Connil Argan may have been a good man once, but that man was long gone.

When he finally drifted into a restless slumber, Connil dreamed of the day he would kill Chancellor Titus Vallen.

**********

Terell tried to open his eyes, but his lids, heavy as lead, had ideas of their own and settled back down. A moment later, he tried again with more success. A black, gossamer cloud floated in front of him like a curtain of ebony smoke. He blinked and tried to force his eyes to focus on the floating darkness.

He reached out for the ethereal black veil, curious as to what it was and why it was blocking his path. He frowned when his hand halted with a metallic clank after having moved only a few inches. He lolled his head to the side and peered at the iron manacle around his wrist. A wave of dizziness threatened to empty his stomach as his brain reoriented itself. He wasn't upright; instead, he lay on his back on a large four-poster bed. The dark cloud above him was a canopy of black lace supported by the tall, oak bedposts.

The black, iron links of the chain that ran from the manacle glistened as though recently oiled. Terell's gaze followed the links to a rusty, iron ring fixed to the bedpost. He didn't understand why someone would oil the chain and not the ring. That was just complacency. He would find the sailor responsible and give him a good dressing-down.

He tried to sit up only to fail. He turned his head and saw that his other wrist was likewise bound to another post, holding him down. Something wasn't right here. He shook his head and fought to clear his mind, to pierce the fog that dulled his cognizance. Slowly, ever so slowly, the understanding that being bound was not a good thing clawed its way into his consciousness. A knot of alarm formed in his gut then shot along his nerves, gaining force until it reached his brain as full-blown panic. He convulsed, thrashed, kicked out in fear only to cry out in pain as shackles cut into his flesh and bruised the bones of his ankles. He raised his head and looked down at his throbbing ankles and gasped when he saw that someone had removed all his clothes before chaining each of his limbs to a bed post.

"Don't struggle. You'll only hurt yourself," Belynn said.

Terell flinched at the sight of her standing at the end of the bed. It was as if she had appeared between one blink of his eyes and the next. She stood there, her blue dress complementing her sapphire eyes as she gazed at his nakedness with cold indifference. One hand absently fingered the top, unfastened button of her dress.

"Belynn!" Her name suddenly came to him. "Help me," his voice was frantic.

She tilted her head slightly. There was something chilling about the gesture, something that reminded Terell of the way a serpent held itself poised to strike, confident that its prey was incapable of escape. With horrible certainty, he realized she was his captor and not his rescuer.

"You drugged me," he said as the memory of their encounter returned.

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because I was told to," she answered, her tone matter-of-fact.

"You don't have to do this, Belynn. I think we both really felt something for each other. We could run away together, start a new life," he cajoled.

She laughed. "You gonna make me your lady? Take me away from this horrible life? Love me and father children upon me?" Her voice was tinged with bitterness. "I think not."

"Fuck!" He yelled in frustration. "Let me go, you bitch!" He jerked his arms taut against the chains and thrust his torso toward her as far as his restraints would allow.

Someone snorted derisively, and Terell suddenly became aware of others in the room. A man stood near the bed on Terell's left. He wore a look of mild amusement on his face. His intense, brown eyes were merry, and the corners of his mouth were turned up slightly. His hair was the shade of sand, and his clothes were the common, brown tunic and trousers worn by the masses. Unlike the typical commoner, however, the man clothes were clean and neat, as though they'd been chosen for show rather than utility.

Next to the man, in a sturdy-looking chair of weathered wood banded with iron, sat Monch. Terell's eyes widened in recognition. Monch was bare from the waist up. A mat of coarse brown hair covered his chest and bulging abdomen. His arms and legs were securely bound to the chair with ropes of hemp. A woman's scarf was tied around his head and wedged in his mouth, forcing his jaws open to display the gap where his front teeth used to be. Monch didn't try to speak through the gag, just stared at Terell with helpless eyes.

"Who the fuck are you?" Terell demanded of the smiling man. His fear had given way to reckless anger.

The man ignored him and instead shifted his gaze across the bed. "Urniri, get the lust powder."

Terell followed the man's gaze, rolling his head to the right to take in the visage of the voluptuous red-haired girl. She stared down at him with green eyes that gleamed with a cruelty that seemed out of place on her lovely face.

"Ah, Rynech," she whined as she reached out and grabbed Terell's flaccid cock in a rough grip. She grinned as Terell hissed in discomfort. "Are you sure he'll need it?"

"Just do it," Rynech snapped, irritated by her failure to instantly obey.

Urniri waited three heartbeats then gave Terell's cock a cruel twist before she flung it against his leg, allowing him to gasp in relief. She turned and sauntered to a mahogany escritoire butted up against the wall. She opened a drawer and removed a small porcelain container and a tiny silver spoon before returning to Terell's side.

"For God's sake, cover me with something," Terell barked to anyone who would listen.

"I'm afraid not," Rynech said and nodded at Belynn.

Belynn inhaled slowly then exhaled. "All right then." She unfastened two more buttons on her dress then pulled the blue material off her shoulders, allowing the dress to slide to the floor. The fabric pooled around her feet, the folds of blue giving her the appearance of a goddess rising from cerulean waves.

Terell gaped at her nudity. Her breasts weren't large or small but perfectly proportioned to her lithe body. The soft flesh stood out proudly before her as though defying the existence of gravity. Her nipples were puffy and a rose pink color that begged to be suckled. Her flat stomach and taut belly button paved the way to a silky patch of black curls. The gentle, ebony swirls drew his gaze, hinting at the treasure hidden below. Normally, the sight of such sensual beauty would have thrilled him, but now, here, arousal was the farthest thing from his mind.

"W-w-what are you doing?" Terell could not look away from Belynn's exquisite form.

"She's going to fuck you, stupid," Urniri said, a manic gleam of anticipation in her eyes.

"You people are crazy," Terell yelled. "I demand you release me and my shipmate at once—"

Rynech leaped forward and grabbed Terell by the chin with one hand and the top of his head with the other. He nodded at Urniri, who scooped some of the lust powder out of the porcelain jar with the tiny spoon. She quickly positioned the powder-filled spoon just below Terell's nose, hovering near his nostrils.

"Snort it," Rynech ordered.

"Fuck you!" Terell struggled to turn his head away from the drug, but Rynech's grip on his head was like iron.

Urniri placed her other hand over Terell's mouth to keep him from breathing through it. He held his breath as long as he could but eventually sucked in much-needed air through his nose, inhaling the lust powder with it. Rynech released him immediately.

The powder burned like fire deep in his nasal cavities. Terell shook his head and fought the sensation to sneeze. He let out a breath when the burning finally eased. "What did you give me?"

"You'll see." Urniri laughed as she walked over to Belynn and unceremoniously thrust her hand between Belynn's legs. "Dry, Belynn?" she scoffed as she stepped away from the other woman. "Someone doesn't enjoy her work. I'm wet. Maybe I should take him."

"He's mine," Belynn hissed at the other woman and glared at her. "I caught him."

"Fine." Urniri shrugged, held a scoopful of the lust powder up to Belynn's nose then eyed her with a smirk. Without breaking eye contact, Belynn snorted the drug deep into her sinuses.

"This is a madhouse. You people are truly insane," Terell cried. Without warning, a warm sensation swept through him as the drug began to take effect. His heart started to race, his legs began to tremble, and his cock stiffened until it was as hard as it had ever been.

Belynn watched as Terell's manhood grew rigid and waited for the drug to hit her as well. After a moment, she felt the rush of the intoxicant wash over her. Her sex tingled as it grew moist and before long, she was swollen and dripping wet.

Her drug-induced arousal did nothing to calm her nerves. Belynn had trained for this for years, had studied with the masters of her craft until she could perform the techniques flawlessly. She had strengthened the muscles of her pussy until she could milk the cum out of any man alive. She had practiced hundreds of times with artificial cocks of all sizes. She was ready, but this was her first real man and beneath her calm exterior, she was terrified.