Lord Lothar trod his checker plate and iron battlements, inspecting his defenses, not being the kind of commander who would dare consider leaving his work to his subordinates. This, his daily ritual, since before the war, was ever vigilant in the management of his men, and resources. In the past few days, all on duty here could feel their Lord's dark, seething displeasure, visible in the set of his body, and the tone of his already gruff voice, none desirous of being singled out for his attention.
He paced his kingdom of iron this evening, boots ringing on the metal with his each and every angry step, eyes scanning the horizon impatiently, his black-scaled armor catching the rose-tinted light, shining like the opalescent skin of a venomous snake. Venomous too was his mood, his blood boiling in fury, as he thumped his mailed fist down hard on the iron railing venting his frustration, as he gazed ever eastward, the light breeze as cold as he felt.
He has done it again, that old bastard Stephan, reneging on their agreement. Recalling all too well the events of this time last year. He had a deal, peace, and protection he would offer in return for supplies and the hand of Stephan's beautiful daughter, Frances. Lothar was growing decidedly impatient with her father's excuses and procrastination. What had it been last year? His thoughts dripping with sarcasm, that was it, she was too young! Too young! He scoffed when most girls were now given away as young as twelve.
No, he had had enough of these pathetic time-wasting excuses, his patience had reached its end, and he would bring his full force to bear if Frances was not presented to him soon. Stephan would be shown that he was not a man to be toyed with, if she did not arrive of her own accord within the week he would send a detachment of his feared knights to demand that their agreement be met. Pity help the old man then if refusal was his answer, for Lothar would then forcibly annex Stephan's lands with his own. Enslaving its now-free citizens under his stern, unforgiving rule.
The sun had almost set, and the thundering sound of the great diesel generator turning over disrupted his brooding contemplation. He would watch the eastern horizon yet again tomorrow, his displeasure sharpening by the day, his patience growing razor-thin.
*****
The chosen eight left the valley stronghold as the evening closed in about them. Renard easily convincing Bennett and the others that it would be a good idea if he went ahead on horseback. He alone could ride, and well. Enabling Renard to advance scout the country ahead, and to hunt more easily for the benefit of the party he had sensibly reasoned. None realizing that his request harbored other hidden intentions.
As the last rays of light faded from the sky he rode out front, alone and nervous with his plans. Not quite sure as yet what he would do exactly. Praying that events would play into his hands as they had done thus far. Renard was well pleased that Bennett had elected to stay behind, at least he felt reassured that Frances would be adequately protected during his absence. Hopefully giving him time to warn his family of their impending doom, all without being discovered. At least that is what he had hoped.
The way back to his cherished, childhood home Renard knew well, and although nervousness dogged him, as the miles passed he began to feel in control. Reaching to affectionately tousle his mount's chestnut mane, patting the trusty gelding on his arched neck, reveling in being on horseback again after all this time. This harsh desert was a punishing test for a horse, with Renard needing to stay alert to his mount's needs if they were both to successfully complete the task he had in mind. All depended on this rugged horse he had chosen most carefully, without him what he had in mind would be most unachievable.
Renard had decided to lead the party for a time in the wrong direction, knowing that a steep gully would obstruct their passage east, which they would have no option but to skirt. This should buy him the necessary time, during which he would slip away on the pretext of a hunting trip. The others would see nothing unusual in that, in fact, they would expect him to do so, thus playing into his hands. Once away he could take the shortcut home on his swift mount, warn his family, and return, all without arousing suspicion amongst the others. At least that was the plan.
Sven, Gareth, and Aran, accompanied by four others made good time in Renard's wake, utilizing the captured mules to carry the bulk of their provisions. Lightening their packs considerably as they traversed the rough terrain. Despite their much-eased burdens coupled with the anticipation of a rich raid soon in their sights, not all the men were in good cheer.
Aran was especially glum, his usual good-natured manner turned sullen and severe. His nose was still smarting, threatening to bleed again, hampering his breathing as he ran behind the others. However, nothing was hurt more than his pride. The events of last night still playing on his mind, and goading his ire. With each stride he was conscious of Frances' gift, her plea for help bouncing against his chest, so near to his heart, hidden safely beneath his shirt. Hearing her silken words again echo about in his head. "Take this, give this to my father Stephan, he will know that I am safe and that I have sent you. You will not be harmed." Recalling again her light velvet touch, and the sweet smell of her, as she had pressed the golden amulet into the palm of his brawny hand, promising without words so much more.
So Aran had this task firmly set in his sights, though he was still quite unsure just how it would be achieved. Sven shot him a glance in the failing light loaded with hidden meaning, one of unspoken brotherly concern. Aran at once felt contrition twisting his stomach, knowing he was fast approaching the moment when he would have to choose, between the love of a woman like no other, or the steadfast older brother who was always there for him no matter what. With these dark betrayals besieging his mind he quickly averted his gaze. Concentrating instead on his footing in this treacherous terrain as the group progressed eastward.
*****
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
It seemed all the inhabitants of Bennett's desperate kingdom, their lives ruled by suffering and fear, were waiting for word from the eight-strong surveillance party that had been absent for some nine days. However, there were others too who waited, longing for different events to come to pass.
Bennett had spent these last few days overseeing the general running, and law and order issues within the camp. Checking the dwindling weapons stores, which he was positive would shortly be needed, and supervising the manufacture of others, such as crossbow quarrels, and arrows by the few there who were skilled enough to know how. Any day now there would be word, and he must be ready to move out, much depended on this raid being a success.
There was also that insipid female who must be guarded at all costs. His every night was spent sleeping but a few inches from her in his hut. What did they all see in her? He wondered. Wishing that he could just throw her to his rabid, openly salivating horde, but no alas it could not be, at least for the time being. Women had never interested him at all, recalling at once his mother, a weak, pathetic scrap of a female who possessed no opinion on anything of value. An object to be much despised, and he had treated her as such.
Both Bennett and his mother lived in the shadow of his father, a brutal man prone to excessive extremes, a man who exercised his dominance with fists, from who Bennett first learned his trade in violence. Spending his youth in the company of fear, vowing that when he grew up none would rule him ever again so long as he drew breath.
Of course, he always lived with the specter of discovery by his father of his homosexual inclinations, and as a youth, he had a hard time pretending to be straight. All the pretenses he squirmed to think of those days, the entire time his secret desires always for the bodies of well-built young men. Being athletic and muscular as he was, doubly increased his nightmare, all assuming that he was something he was not, especially girls. They would make eyes at him and flirt, and his mates were bewildered by his lack of interest.
Hence many difficulties followed. Necessity finally dictated that he lived two lives. One was a total parody that left him nauseated and depressed, the other a voyage into dangerous, erotic extremes.
Unlike so many others when war broke out laying waste to the land, Bennett seized the opportunity for change and a new life. Harnessing chaos to his advantage, at once giving full reign to all his most perverse, and twisted desires, in the pursuit of who he really was. Holding nothing back, torture, rape, murder, he was guilty of them all. His faceless, nameless victims' testimonies only bleached bones now, forgotten in their shallow graves. While he lived his life in style, the power of a Lord was finally his to hold.
Dusk would shortly cloak the land in muted colors, cooling the air, and it was time he made his evening pilgrimage to the stench and squalor of the east side. The tenth time he had done so, still with no sign of a favorable response from his prisoner. Bennett had to admit he was beginning to run out of patience, as the hole should have worked its persuasive magic by now, and yet it had not.
The usually decisive man was in a quandary, none had ever resisted the horror of imprisonment for so long. Perhaps he should just kill him after all, though deep down he was unsure he could bring himself to do so. Black steel-capped boots trod the well-worn, dusty path to the hole as they had the nine nights previous. Bennett hoping for the impossible, a pleading penitent slave. Too soon arriving at his destination, solid boots ringing loudly on the massive trap door announcing his arrival, waiting for a response from below.
Carlos was acutely aware of Bennett's nightly visits, standing upright his only means to gain full stretch of his cramped and aching muscles, as the space was too small to do so lying down. Standing silently now, glancing upward at the black shadow of his warden, looming above. The last traces of light filtered through the tiny spaces, uneven, between the trap doors' rough-hewn slats. The precious and much longed-for light so soon paling into the gloom, and he wondered despondently if he would ever get the chance to gaze on the sun's magnificence again or feel the dry, desert wind, fresh on his face, and in his hair.
He knew the answer as unpalatable as it was. Only if he conceded to Bennett's wishes, with total obedience becoming his lot would he ever get to see these things again. The alternative, this nightmare of suffocating imprisonment, followed by Bennett's promise of a slow, inglorious death. He could not say those words to gain the much-longed-for, sweet release. Pride would not allow him to live with himself. Thus he maintained his stony silence, instead concentrating on the septic mud squelching coldly between his toes.
Every night the ritual was the same, Bennett waiting in silence for the pledge he would not hear. Carlos looked skyward, choking on the words he could not bring himself to utter. Even if they would save his life.
*****
During this time of waiting and expectation, Bennett's warriors were fortunate enough to enjoy an unexpected raid nearby. This bloody distraction was a welcome one, and although the settlement some miles to the north was but a poor one with few spoils. It proved a morale boost to his restless force. The only woman captured was an old crone, along with eight surviving males, most of these too were aging, or direly injured as a result of their fierce resistance.
Bennett appraised his men's handiwork, taking in the sorry huddle of human misery, as they stood demoralized and afraid, surrounded by his leering, bloodthirsty pack. The callous man at once locked his pitiless gaze on the one he sought amongst them.
"Bring him to me."
He gestured to the fawning, ever-eager Pig. Pointing to a yellow-haired boy, hardly more than a child, huddled afraid amongst the adults. The old woman cried and clutched vainly at the youth.
"Don't hurt him please, he is my grandson." She wailed. Positioning herself bravely between Pig's approaching evil, the boy sheltered directly behind her.
Pig hit her savagely as she attempted to block his advance, knocking her senseless to the ground. Directing the youth forcefully from the protection of the crowd, toward his leader's presence, black and heartless.
The flaxen-headed boy's eyes were downcast, settling on Bennett's steel-toed boots, as he was escorted nearer for inspection.
"Your name?" Dispassionate was the hard voice.
"N..N...Nathan." The boy stammered, his uncertain voice quavering with unbridled terror of the moment.
"Well, Nathan, understand this, as I will say it only once. You will be spared if you do everything I say......" Reaching his powerful hand ever so gently in a caress beneath the youth's chin, raising the boy's green eyes to look into his own chill gaze.
The cruel avaricious man liked what he saw, this lad of no more than sixteen, an innocent, one not yet tainted by this world. He smiled a smile that did not reach his eyes and continued.
"Do you think you can do that for me Nathan, and not run away?"
The boy nodded his head in affirmation, and Bennett led him away. There was no given signal that any there was conscious of; though unspoken, all knew and responded. Butchering the remaining survivors in an orgy of blood-filled frenzy, as Bennett banished innocence, just feet away.