Madman's Army

Chapter VIII

While the Grand Strahteegos spent his time planning for the march to Sahvahnahspolis, fuming at the previously unsuspected depths of treachery and outright cowardice of soldiers and trusted officers alike, dawdling of afternoons and early evenings in that slice of very hell behind his headquarters watching and listening to sights and sounds of horror and protracted death with the boy, Ilios, Council’s once-fine, once-large, once-effective army went about disintegrating.

As a last step before actually doing as he had threatened, old Guhsz Hehluh, the grizzled captain of the Keebai pikemen, sent down to aid the new government of the lands that had been a kingdom by Milo Morai, High Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, rode into Mehseepolis with a few of his officers and drew rein before the Council palace.

When, after many delays, he actually found himself closeted with Thoheeks Grahvos, he spoke very bluntly, as was his wont. “It’s damn good brandy, my lord Duke, but I ain’t here to drink your brandy. I come because I got a contract was signed by you and a couple other dukes away back when. I think me and my Keebai boys has given you good service.”

Grahvos nodded. “That you and they most assuredly have, old friend. You were and are the very backbone of our army.”

“Well,” said Hehluh, “we won’t be for much longer, not unless that old fart of a Grand Strahteegos Council wished off on us slacks off his crazy ideas some and starts paying us in full and regular. Our next six months’ pay is already more’n thirty days overdue now, and added to this loony plan of his to march the whole fucking army into the frigging salt fens to no other purpose than to pick a fight with the damn frigging fen-men—and you know damn good and well how many of them men he takes in is likely to come out, you know, you was with Zastros’ army—plus his cockeyed new-model rules that soldiers can’t go out of the camp nights to dip their wick, shouldn’t have wives or females of any kinds, can’t drink nothing ‘cept of that pukey watered wine, can’t smoke hemp or even tobacco and gets flogged for even owning a fucking pipe, I ain’t at all sure just how long my sergeants and officers and me can keep the boys in the line this feather-brain bastard has done drawn.”

Grahvos just sat, motionless and silent, for long moments after the middle-aged professional soldier had finished. When at last he spoke, it was to say contritely and with utter sincerity, “Guhsz, my dear old friend, I have been for long aware that Pahvlos has been changing in strange ways for the last couple of years, and I and some others of us have made efforts to first persuade him, then compel him to give up his military rank and retire. But Council consists of men, and all men are fallible, so Council is divided into cliques, some of them in favor of retiring Pahvlos, some of them very violently opposed, regardless of his mishandling of the army, its officers and its men. Those of us who recognize what he is doing to our army have, all else having been foiled by his fanatic partisans on Council—and I tell you this next in strictest confidence and then only because I know you of old, know you for the sort of man you are and, therefore, trust you implicitly—even tried to have him assassinated, no less than three times, but he is always heavily guarded and, obviously, very lucky, so our hirelings all have failed us.

“Unfortunately, he was appointed Grand Strahteegos of Council’s army for life or until he saw fit to retire. No provision was made to remove him for cause, because, based on his previous reputation, no one of us could just then suspect that ever there would be any cause to forcibly remove him; as I said, all men are fallible, alas. Therefore, until Pahvlos dies, from whatever agent—illness, mishap, battle wound or murder—or until certain cretins on Council learn what brains are for and begin to make use of them, we are stuck with the old man and all his many faults.

“Now I doubt that I can do much to protect the bulk of the army from their nominal commander, but I can damned well take you and your valuable men from under his insanities. When you leave here, you will have been paid every copper owed you according to your contract with Council and you will be bearing a document stipulating that your pikemen are, until further notice, a part of the Mehseepolis city garrison, under direct command of the city castellan. There are some acres just outside Tomos Gonsalos’ enclave, near to the road between there and the lower city, as I recall; I own this land and will give it to Council’s use, this day. Move your camp there as soon as possible, and between now and autumn, state-slaves and materials will be diverted there to build you and your force snug, permanent quarters, stables, wash-houses, privies, cook-houses, storehouses and whatnot.

“That should take care of you and your lot. Now, what is the case with Chief Pawl—more of the same?”

“Worse, in several ways,” replied Hehluh. “He and his have not been paid anything for over seven months now. He has been borrowing from poor Captain Baron Bralos, generous man that he is, in order to give his Horseclansmen just enough for to keep body and soul together. But he’s done had enough and he’s remembered he’s got a home and family, up north, and that’s just where he and his kin are all set to head for.”

Grahvos frowned worriedly. “Soon?”

“Not tomorrer, but while the weather’s still warm and good,” was Hehluh’s reply. “I tried to talk him around to coming here to see you today, but he allowed as how he’d been down here more’n long enough anyhow, and it was time he and his folks all went back home and let the High Lord send some more Horse-clansmen down here to take his place. I couldn’t fault him for thinking that way; in his place, I guess as how I would too, Duke Grahvos. Not every man jack of them is riding north, of course, but then you know about that a’ready, since you’re the one talked them into staying down here and taking up vacant lands and raising stock on them.”

Grahvos felt disappointed, however, for he had strongly hoped that, in the end, he could convince even more of the northern horsemen to remain in the Consolidated Thoheekseeahnee, and given a bit more time, he believed that he might have accomplished it. Yet another black mark to be charged to Grand Strahteegos Thoheeks Pahvlos.

The next blow to fall for old Pahvlos was the plague that struck the elephants, not just one or two, as was usual, but all of them, both the war-trained bulls and the three draught cows; only the young, immature and untrained bull seemed to have not contracted the pest. Neither of the captains-of-elephants and none of the feelahksee seemed to have any inkling of just what was wrong with the huge beasts, much less know how to doctor them. The symptoms were recurrent at odd intervals rather than constant, but serious and terrifying, all the same. At one minute, an elephant bull or cow would be its normal, well-behaved, obedient self, and then, in a mere eyeblink of time, it would become wild, uncontrollable and almost murderous, often needing to be chained to solid objects until the symptoms had abated, which might take minutes or hours or a whole day.

The Grand Strahteegos felt compelled to count out the elephants in his plans for the march to Sahvahnahpolis. But just then he had more than that to trouble and infuriate him.

With the loss of the medium-cavalry Horseclansmen and their great cats, which latter had proven so useful at scouting and patrolling, he knew that he simply had to have the lancers and gifted veteran senior officers to lead and command them. The only two of these now available and close to hand were under arrest, stripped of their commands and awaiting trial.

He talked the matter over with Ilios, now his most trusted confidant, then—gritting his teeth in suppressed rage—he dropped all charges against Captain-of-squadron Vahrohnos Bralos and Captain-of-squadron Opokomees Ehrrikos … only to watch helplessly as the wretched Bralos packed his wagons, mounted up his squadron and led them out of the camp, headed southwest.

A week later, after Pahvlos had watched an artificier’s hands maimed for the heinous offense of having sneaked both a woman of easy virtue and a quantity of cheap barley hwiskee into the camp, the entire company of artificiers had packed up their wagons and marched away, too, on the northern trade road.

The old man knew, then, that his eyes never would see the ancient city of Sahvahnahspolis. For, lacking artificiers to lay out camps and build temporary bridges and mend damaged roads, with only a scant handful of scouts and three lousy troops of lancers under an officer he no longer trusted, with no elephants at all, he knew that it might well be worth his very life to try to push what was left of the army into those swamps and their very real terrors. This reverse deeply disappointed him, made him begin to wonder if all of the many changes that he and Ilios had promulgated might have been too much, too soon, perhaps.

As always, these days, in time of trouble or anger or distress of any nature, he went to Ilios—sultry, dark-eyed Ilios, always seductive, willing and pleasing, the most satisfying lover, male or female, he ever had enjoyed. But after he had poured it all out, Ilios had not seemed at all displeased or disappointed; rather had the nearly beardless boy nodded his small head of blue-black curls.

“Don’t consider these things a loss, love, rather have you done a winnowing of your army—yours, not theirs, the army of Pahvlos, not the army of those silly, deluded creatures who make up the Council— you have driven out the alien barbarians who would have aided the Council in submission of all these lands to rule and domination by that devil-spawn thing Milo Morai. You have beaten the chaff from off the pure grain so that your army, though now smaller, is become all yours and still is big enough, more than strong enough, to allow you to take over this land whenever you feel ready to so do.

“So be not so glum, my own. I’ll tell you, let us order honey wine and cheese and biscuits, then go out and watch that personal guardsman of yours who tried to desert punished. He is to be executed anyway, so indulge me … please? I always have wondered how long it would take a man to die after boiling pitch had been poured down his throat.

“After that, we can come back here and make love, love. It’s always so very much more exciting after we’ve watched punishments … at least, it is for me.”

Old Pahvlos indulged his Ilios, of course; he could not but indulge the dear, sweet boy.

Mostly through Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos and Captain-of-brigade Thoheeks Portos, Thoheeks Grahvos was able to keep his clique of the Council of the Consolidated Thoheekseeahnee up to date on the sad state into which their painfully acquired army had sunk and was continuing to sink under the baleful aegis of their once-revered Grand Strahteegos.

“Let us all hope … and pray, too,” said Portos during the course of another clandestine and tightly guarded meeting at Tomos’ headquarters, of a night, “that there is no large-scale disturbance at any time soon, out in the thoheekseeahnee or, worse, on the borders, for to all intents and purposes our army might as well be chained in place here, unable to move any meaningful numbers of troops anywhere for any purpose.”

“Is it so bad, then, Portos?” Thoheeks Bahos had rumbled in a worried tone.

The tall horseman nodded. “That bad and far worse than that, my friend. Cavalry Brigade is become a distinct misnomer, a very sick and very grim joke. My own heavy horse is down by over a third of its former full-strength numbers, and in addition to them, there are only three understrength troops of lancers and the elephants. Captain-of-squadron Opokomees Ehrrikos flatly refuses to lead his light horse out of garrison for any reason until he is in receipt of a full, formal and public apology for the many wrongs done him by the Grand Strahteegos, and he and we, here, and the rest of the army all know that hell will have frozen over solidly before old Pahvlos so humbles himself.”

“What of the other squadron of lancers, the Wolf Squadron, Vahrohnos Bralos’ men?” asked Thoheeks Pahlios, who had but recently returned to Mehseepolis from his distant lands.

Portos shrugged. “He and they are gone, gone south to his holdings, I presume. He was treated far worse by Pahvlos than was Opokomees Ehrrikos and for far longer a time; immediately the old man was constrained to drop all his pending charges against those two officers and thus release them from arrest, Bralos packed up and mounted up and left with his men, their families and anything movable that any of them owned. His vahrohneeseeahn lies many leagues away, close to two weeks of marching time, I’d say.”

Thoheeks Bahos knew better than that, but he kept silent and just listened, even in this gathering of noblemen who all were, they averred, of like mindsets. Young Bralos and his effectives were actually camped in a seldom-visited area of Bahos’ thoheekseeahn, much closer to the capital than anyone else thought, and they there constituted Bahos’ ace in the hole. Should the drastically changed old man who once had been loved and deeply respected by them all try anything like forcing Council out of Mehseepolis with his shrunken army, Portos and his heavy horse would know what to do and the elephants and remaining lancers most likely would back them. They, combined with Tomos’ training brigade and Captain Guhsz Hehluh’s mercenaries, the Council Guardsmen, the city garrison and Bahos’ ace should be more than enough to put down any coup dreamed up by Pahvlos, thought the big, silent nobleman to himself.

“What of the foot and the specialists, my lord Portos?” Thoheeks Pahlios inquired further. “And Lord Pawl of Vawn and his beautiful, fearsome-toothed panthers?”

But it was Tomos Gonsalos who answered this time. “Captain Guhsz Hehluh’s mercenary Keebai pikemen are camped just south of the perimeter of my enclave, officially because Grahvos ordered them to be transferred to duties with the city garrison, unofficially because it was either something of that sort or see them march north, out of the Consolidated Thoheekseeahnee entirely, probably looting along their way in revenge for getting only half-pay for six months by old Pahvlos’ harebrained order. That was just the way that Chief Pawl and almost all of his squadron left, and for the same basic reasons: half-pay or none at all and always very late at that, being stringently forbidden such soldierly solaces as strong drink, hemp, tobacco and the company of females within the camp, while at the same time being most strongly forbidden to leave the camp to seek out such pleasure under enforced penalties of flogging, hideous torture, maiming, mutilation, even death.”

“But … but why, my lord Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks?” demanded the newly rearrived thoheeks in stunned astonishment. “I’ve spent more of my own life than I would’ve preferred in armor in armies and I’ve never before even heard of such stupidities; why, every commander worth his salt knows that withholding of a common soldier’s simple pleasures for reasons other than announced punishment is the surest way to breed discontent and desertions. Why was the Grand Strahteegos punishing our mercenaries and underpaying them? Is Council so low on fluid funds, then?”

Portos took over the sorry recountal at that point. “Lord Pahlios, it is not and was not, then, only the mercenaries who were being so cruelly and stupidly abused by Pahvlos. No, his strictures apply and applied to the entire army, officers excluded, of course. He claimed that in the old royal armies, it had been determined that congress with females decreased the vitality of common soldiers, and I suppose that he hoped that if he kept them all pent up for long enough, they would end up taking pooeesosee as he did some two years ago, just before all of this insanity commenced.”

“Rubbish!” snapped Thoheeks Pahlios scornfully. “A man is a man, common or noble; I’ve futtered more females in my lifetime than I can begin to count, but never a single man or boy, and I’ve fought and won some damned hard battles, too.”

“That Pahvlos, even at his rather advanced years, has taken a young man to camp-wife is not at all surprising or outside his nature, you know,” remarked Thoheeks Bahos, speaking to them all. “If you’ll recall, I was in the royal army for a stretch myself. Even then, Pahvlos kept his wife and children at his hold, far away, and a handsome young ensign or three in the army enclave, hard by the capital. Everyone knew him as a carrot-grabber, back then, not that he was the only one of exalted rank in the royal army, of course; I think that that practice, especially amongst noble officers, was much more common in the days before the rebellions and civil wars than it has been since.”

“And I, for one, am just as glad for it, too,” said Thoheeks Grahvos gravely. “For in my own royal army days, I saw more outright murders and senseless duels rise out of the bitchinesses and jealousies that seem to proliferate out of man-on-man sexual liaisons like flies from out a cesspit than I could recount if I lived twice my present age. Indeed, I was most pleased when I noted so little of it in Council’s own army.”

“As for the rest of it,” Portos went on, still speaking to Thoheeks Pahlios, “smoke of any sort seems to upset the nose of the delicate Ilios—that’s Pahvlos’ love-boy, my lord. It makes him sneeze, makes his eyes to water, so everyone is dead sure that that’s why the ban on smoking either hemp or tobacco in the army. And, incidentally, our Grand Strahteegos has taken it solidly into his head that the army, what’s now left of it, at least, is not Council’s, but rather his, and he so refers to it. As regards the proscription of any alcohol save only the well-watered mess-wine, I and those with whom I’ve discussed it are all utterly in the dark, for widespread misuse of alcohol was never any sort of real, recurrent problem in our units. And this last does not sound to have come from the delicate Ilios, for he does drink; in fact, he and Pahvlos regularly sit in the shade behind the headquarters building, sip wine and eat fruit and dainties while they watch common soldiers flogged and tortured and, occasionally, killed.”

“They what?” burst out Thoheeks Pahlios, horror and incredulity reflected on his face and in his brown eyes.

“Just so, my lord,” drawled Tomos Gonsalos in his Karaleenos accent, “and then, or so I am told, they both retire to his quarters and make love.”

“It’s nothing less than monstrous!” Pahlios remonstrated. “How is it that such an animal still commands our army, Grahvos? Though it does sound a bit to me as if this catamite has twisted him about a finger and adversely influenced him, robbed him of most of his wits insofar as running an army is concerned. Has there been any thought of having this boy, Ilios, quietly … ahh, eliminated?”

Thoheeks Mahvros, new chairman of Council and for long Grahvos’ protégé”, sighed. “Of course we’ve tried, Pahlios, we’ve hired certain men to kill both of them on occasions, no less than three attempts on the old man, but he’s got more guards than you could shake a stick at, not to mention a seemingly charmed life. His food is prepared in his private kitchen by cooks who have been given to know that they will assuredly be praying for death long before it is granted to them if anything that even might be poison sickens or kills him.”

“But back to your question about the regular foot and the corps of specialists, my lord Thoheeks Pahlios,” said Tomos Gonsalos. “He did his usual number on the artificiers—denying them women, strong tipples, hemp, tobacco, restricting them all to the confines of the camp as if he commanded some slave-army, paying them only half of the contracted monthly stipend— but, oddly enough, they stayed on and merely grumbled until he had both the hands of one of their sergeants mangled and crippled for some trifling offense against his new rules. It was then that the entire unit of artificiers, officers and men alike, packed up and marched out of camp. And my lord must know that without a corps of artificiers, the remnants of our army might as well be sunk four feet deep in the sand for all of the moving any large number of them can do, for only some of the roads and bridges are passable for heavy transport, even yet.” Responding to the beginnings of a contrabasso growl, he added, “This last, through no slightest fault of Thoheeks Bahos and his committee, but simply through a dearth of state-slaves, suitable materials on hand where and when needed and difficulty of transporting said materials elsewhere quickly.”

“And as regards your earlier question about the finances of our government, Pahlios,” put in Thoheeks Grahvos, “we are sounder now than we ever have been before, and sufficient monies were transferred to Pahvlos to meet all of the army’s expenses, in full, and regularly. He simply chose to not pay his troops more than half the money they had coming.”

“So where’s the rest of it, Grahvos, or does anybody know? Where does old Pahvlos say it is?” asked Pahlios. “And does anybody believe his assertions?”

“Never you fear, it is all safe and fully accounted for,” he was assured by Thoheeks Mahvros. “For all his other and heinous faults, the Grand Strahteegos is no thief or embezzler of army funds. The army paymaster, who recently retired, tells me that he had a full accounting done before he turned everything over to his successor and every last half-copper could be seen or traced to fully justified usage.”

“All well and good, then,” said Thoheeks Pahlios, “but still I must pose the question: What are we going to do about Pahvlos? When and how and how soon are we going to put him out to pasture or put him down?—which last is more along the lines of what he deserves for all the harm he has done us and so many others.”

No one had an answer to his questions, however, not then and not there, but less than two weeks later, the Grand Strahteegos Thoheeks Pahvlos the Warlike lay dead upon the floor of the Council Chamber, the hilt of a slender dagger standing up from his back, he having been killed by Thoheeks Portos, but only after he had run up to the weapons racks, grabbed out his sword and a dirk, threatened to sword Thoheeks Grahvos and others, dirked Thoheeks Mahvros in the shoulder and called on his adherents to come and join him in what would have amounted to civil war. And such a war would have almost certainly rent the new-made nation apart, destroyed all that so many had labored so long and hard to erect.

Two hours after the necessary murder, newly appointed Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Portos rode into the enclave of the army headquarters at the head of his sometime brigade of cavalry, fully armed for war. Leaving his officers and troopers to round up all of the late Grand Strahteegos’ people and explain to them the new, hard facts of what was now to be, Portos dismounted and stalked through the main building, back to the private quarters of his late victim in search of his next chosen victim.

The brace of personal guardsmen in the corridor outside the door had been chosen more for their good looks and youth and grace than for any attainments of combativeness or fighting skills, so they were but a momentary hindrance to the tall, thick-muscled veteran warrior. He left one of them stark dead and the other crawling slowly up the empty corridor, sobbing weakly, in great agony and leaving a broad smear of gore behind him. Portos doubted the guardsman would make it far. He stooped, wiped his blade clean on the fancy cape of the dead one, sheathed it, then pushed open the door to the suite and entered.

Ilios was sitting on the edge of a bed, dark eyes still heavy-lidded, when Portos stalked in. “Wha … what are you doing here, and unannounced, Captain Portos? Those damned slothful guards will be well striped for this.”

Portos grinned coldly. “No they won’t, boy. One of them lies dead out there and the other will be dead soon enough. If it’s protection you want, you should put scarred, ugly warriors on guard, not pretty popinjays.”

Ilios paled, put one hand to a cheek, his eyes wide. “You mean you killed them, both of them? Pahvlos will likely see you hang for such …”

Coldly, contemptuously, Portos stepped closer to the bedside and slapped the boy on the other cheek. “Pahvlos will never again do anything for or to another living soul. He’s dead too. I drove a dagger into him less than three hours agone. The new Strahteegos is Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos, and he’s a lost cause for such as you, boy; he and his wife live together in this camp and are, I am informed, most congenial and contented, one to the other.”

Seating himself unbidden beside the shocked boy, he gripped one of the bare, dimpled knees with a big, hard hand and said, “On the other hand, boy, there is me. I am now sub-strahteegos, and I always have been most susceptible to such treasures as you.”

Ilios realized that, objectively speaking, he had no other options there and then. Turning his head to look up into the hard, black eyes of Pahvlos’ admitted murderer, the boy smiled shyly, then puckered his lips for a kiss, letting the merest trace of a tongue-tip show behind those lips, enticingly. Such had always worked well on Pahvlos, Ilios’ first and only lover… .

Ilios gasped when he saw Portos’ body stripped of his weapons, armor and clothing—extremely hairy, seamed with scars from head to feet, tall, of a darker than Ehleen average and muscle-corded—but those features were not what brought the gasp. Nature had endowed the man hugely.

Portos padded over to an opened chest of toiletries, rooting through it, then turning with a flagonette of sweet-scented oil. Rubbing a small measure of the stuff onto both hands, he sat back down on the rumpled satin sheets and drew the boy’s slight body nearer.

Ilios gasped when the big, oily hand commenced to work in his crotch. Later, lying in the glowing aftermath of his blissful fulfillment, it took him a good minute to realize that the man, his new protector and lover, was speaking to him.

“What did my love say?” he purred.

“Your body is incredibly small and narrow, I said,” declared Portos, adding, “But then, as I recall, Pahvlos never was able to effect penetration of me.”

To the boy’s look of astonished surprise, the man nodded. “Oh, yes. Did you think to be the first? I, too, was one of Pahvlos’ boys, when I was but a new ensign of barely fourteen years of age and he was a fortyish brigade commander, a sub-strahteegos already. But I seriously doubt that he remembered me in more recent years, for he had so many like me, keeping precious few around for any great length of time.

“But enough of reminiscing now, Ilios. I am not yet done with you.”

Ilios quickly assumed a sitting posture, shaking his head with vehemence and saying firmly, “No. Oh, no. I can’t … won’t let you do that, not yet, no. You’re so … so huge, love. You … you’ll hurt me terribly, probably injure me. No, I …”

And that was as far as he got before Portos’ big, hard, oily palm smashed against the side of his small head, stunning him for a moment. However, he recovered enough to try to resist when he felt those horny hands begin to start rearranging his body and legs. He discovered to his immediate sorrow that such resistance was not only in vain, it was a serious mistake.

Portos’ fist struck his hairless chest like the kick of a warhorse, forcing all the air from Ilios’ lungs, and before he could once more breathe normally, if painfully, the brutal man had shredded a sheet, tied him to the bedstead by wrists and ankles and was returning to the bedside with a waist-belt in one hand and a look of grim anticipation on his face.

“I understand that you enjoy watching men flogged, Ilios. I’ve heard that it excites you. If so, your own flogging should arouse you even more. And even if it doesn’t, it will be a salutary lesson to you that you must never deny me my desires … ever.”

“No … oh, please, please, no. Don’t do it to me, oh, don’t!” Ilios whimpered, straining at his bonds, tears of terror streaking his pretty face. “I … I can’t … cannot abide pain, don’t you see? It … it … I … my heart will … NONONO!”

Ilios had never gained any real friends among Pahvlos’ officers, guardsmen and servants, having always been sullen, aloof, demanding and often downright bitchy, tolerated and catered to only through the underlings’ fear of Pahvlos. As the loud whacks of hard-swung leather impacting upon flesh and the shrieks of pain and shrill pleas for surcease, for mercy, penetrated easily out beyond dead Pahvlos’ private suite, all of the assembled officers and lesser men exchanged grins and nods. The spoiled, overindulged little piece of pig dung was finally getting part of what was, in his case, long overdue.

Portos was no novice at delivering beatings of all sorts, and he tried not to draw blood from the tender, pampered flesh, but he did not stop, to stand, panting, until the entire expanse from Ilios’ neck to his knees was but a single, raised welt and shrieks and pleas and shouts were become moaning sobs.

He left his victim long enough to track down a ewer of wine, splash out a cupful and drink it off before going back to the bed, loosing the ankles momentarily, then retying them to the ornate posts at the foot of the overwide bed, thus splaying the slender legs widely.

Portos took his time, knowing his victim to be completely helpless, enjoying himself to the fullest and beginning to half wonder if, after all, he might not be well advised to keep the boy about until he had had the pleasure of completely breaking him … or he found a wife with a fat dowry, whichever came first. But, as he spent finally within the boy’s quivering, agonized body, he came back to his senses. It was most imperative to Council that this Ilios be “persuaded” to immediately quit the environs of Mehseepolis, for Pahvlos, in his bemused dotage, had named his lover his heir, and such as Ilios was not at all what the Council envisioned as a fitting thoheeks and member of the ruling nobility.

After scrubbing himself well with the sponge and toweling dry, he went to his pile of clothes and gear and began to dress while whistling the tune of a merry harvest-dance popular when he had been a boy, more than forty years now past, virtually unmindful of the steady, low moan and occasional gasps, sobs and whimpers from the brutalized boy still secured to the bed with strips of satin sheet, his small hands and feet beginning to discolor from the biting tightness of the makeshift bonds.

Ilios lay in certainty that he had been injured, possibly fatally injured, in the course of the rape, and he wondered if his wounded body could stay alive for long enough to reach an outpost of his people, far to the south, in time. Moreover, he was almost as certain that he had one or more cracked ribs, thinking that the sharp stabs that breathing spawned in his chest could come from no other source.

But terror took over his thoughts again when he saw the redressed, armored man approaching the bed with a slender, sharp-glittering dagger in his hand. The very dagger with which old Pahvlos had been slain … ?

“No, please,” the boy croaked weakly, his tear-filled eyes unable seemingly to leave those six inches of bluish steel blade. “Haven’t you hurt me enough?”

Portos smiled icily. “Oh, no, little Ilios. Today was only our beginning, yours and mine.”

Extending the dagger, he sliced through the strips of satin that held Ilios’ wrists to the headboard, did the same for the ankles, then said, conversationally, “When once you’ve washed and dressed, pack up your things and come to my quarters. You’ll not be welcome at any other place in the camp, city or thoheekseeahn, you know. Tonight, I’ll fit you with a nice, thick peg and start stretching you to my size and tastes, eh?”

Then he turned on his heel and left the suite, stepping over the two dead guardsmen as he strolled up the corridor, his weapons and armor clanking, clashing and ringing.