Chapter 11

"Another." Terell waved his cup at the barkeep. The light of the lanterns danced in the amber stream of liquid as it flowed from the decanter into his cup.

"There you go," the barkeep said. He waited while Terell fumbled for a copper coin to place on the bar.

As the barkeep walked away, Terell stared at the two drinks in front of him until they merged into one and decided he was drunk. Not only was he drunk but he was also tired. He was tired of being angry. He had tried being angry at Ava, but that didn't last. It was hard to stay angry at someone just for being right. He didn't love her and never had, at least not in a romantic way. He cared about her, and she was beautiful, but she was far too serious-minded for him.

It was their parents' expectations as well as the convenience of proximity that had pushed them together in the first place. Both had felt an obligation to give a relationship a try. If he was honest with himself — and after five drinks he was — the half dozen or so times they had slept together he hadn't felt any more for her than he had felt for the other girls he had bedded.

No, anger wasn't what he felt when he thought of Ava. It was embarrassment. He was ashamed and deeply mortified by how he had behaved when Ava had ended their dalliance. He badly wanted to find a way to undo his irrational actions, to take things back to the way they were when he and Ava had been just friends.

When being mad at Ava failed, he had focused his anger on the Outlander instead. Blaming Jack worked for a little while. It was the Outlander's fault that Ava's affections had waned. It was clear to Terell that Jack had replaced him as the object of Ava's desire. However, not being stupid forced Terell to face the absurdity of being angry at losing the romantic regard of a woman he had no romantic interest in. It was also very hard to hate the Outlander when Jack insisted on behaving like a man worthy of respect.

In the end, the only person Terell was mad at was himself. In fact, he had been furious at himself when he stalked around the ship pretending to be mad at everyone else. He had snapped at crewmen, avoided his mother and father, and had done anything he could to avoid facing the fact that he was acting like a complete ass. The whole thing was exhausting.

He was by nature a light-hearted, carefree lover of life, and with the clarity that comes with inebriation, he resolved that starting now he was letting all the anger and bad feelings go. He would apologize to Ava and hope for the best. He would stop strutting around the Outlander like a man looking for a fight and start behaving like the man he had always been, a man who lived for the joys life had to offer.

Having made the decision, Terell suddenly felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He sighed with relief and took a large gulp from his cup of ale. All he needed now was a comely young woman to celebrate his return to his festive ways.

As if on cue, a young woman stepped up to the bar on his right and waved for the bartender. "Ale," she said when he approached.

Terell eyed the girl and was impressed with what he saw. Her hair was almost as short as a man's but maintained a femininity that surprised him. Her dark, almost ink-black hair hugged her neck close but expanded into softly-curled bangs that framed dark, sculpted eyebrows and eyes of sapphire blue.

He didn't think she was a whore looking for a client. Her blue dress was cut just low enough to show a hint of the tops of her breasts, but it was by no means indecent. Her lips were full and red, but they weren't painted. Also, her cheeks weren't rouged in the way whores were wont to do. As he swept another admiring glance over her bodice, he figured she was there with her husband or lover. He was surprised when she stayed at the bar and sipped her ale rather than returning to a table.

"You're pretty," he slurred and gave her his most winning smile.

The young woman seemed to notice him for the first time when he spoke. She looked him up and down. "So are you," she said, arching a delicate eyebrow at him.

"I'm Terell." He gestured at his own chest, sloshing a bit of ale out of his cup.

"Belynn," she said and smiled at him.

"Where's your man?" Terell, unwilling to believe such a woman was alone, kept waiting for her companion to appear.

"At sea for another month," she said and leaned toward him slightly. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes then casually moved her hand down past her breasts to her lap. His eyes followed the motion down her lithe body and its unspoken promise of pleasure.

He cleared his throat and dragged his eyes back to her face. "The nights must get lonely," he said.

Her mouth turned down in a pout, and her eyes took a forlorn cast. "Oh, they do."

He took another drink of ale and summoned all his drunken charm. "You don't want to be alone tonight, do you?" he asked in what he was sure was his most seductive tone.

"I really don't," she breathed and licked her full lips. His manhood twitched in his breeches.

"Upstairs?" he asked, nodding toward the staircase. He frowned in disappointment when she shook her head.

"My house." She giggled when his smile quickly returned.

"How far is it?" He reached for her, but she slid away and headed for the door.

She looked over her shoulder at him. "Come," she said. "It's not far."

He stumbled in his haste to follow, and his mouth watered at the sight of her swaying bottom as she sashayed out of the tavern. Once outside, he reached for her again, but she giggled and pulled out of his reach. He laughed and pursued her down the dark street lit only by a torch on each street corner. This was a game he knew well.

He quickly caught up to her, grabbed her by the arm, spun her around and pulled her to him. Her body melded to his as though she was designed to fit him alone. She snaked her arms around him and slid her hand up to grab a fist full of his hair. She pulled his head back, denying him when he tried to kiss her. Instead, she ran her tongue from the base of his neck up his throat and over his chin, finally allowing his head to come down until their mouths met.

Terell moaned as her tongue slipped into his mouth. She tasted amazing, like morning dew tinged slightly with the sharp taste of ale. Her silky tongue explored his mouth, causing his heart to quicken and his manhood to lengthen against his leg. He went to press his hardness against her, but she spun out of his arms.

"Do you want me?" She had a playful look on her face as she backed away from him. She ran her hands down her sides and over her hips while she pushed her chest out.

"You know I do," he breathed, his voice laden with desire.

"Then come and get me," she giggled before she turned and ran.

He laughed and staggered after her. He finally caught her when she stopped in front of a medium-sized house. She slipped back into his arms and kissed him with a passion that made his legs tremble.

She broke free of the fiery kiss to look at him. "Are you ready for me, lover?"

"Oh yes," Terell sighed as he looked into her eyes.

She took his hand and led him into the house. Once inside, she pulled him across the living space to the hallway that led to her bedroom. She released him but maintained eye contact as she slowly backed down the hallway, unbuttoning the top button of her dress as she went. He smiled hungrily and followed when she disappeared into the bedroom.

Belynn was already seated at the end of the bed when Terell entered the room. The bedposts were oak pillars that rose five feet from each corner of the bed to support a black lace canopy. She reclined on the bedcovers, propped up by her arms, and smiled invitingly at him. When he strode to her, she rose to her feet, and they collided into an embrace, arms caressing, tongues dancing.

Behind Terell's back, Belynn popped open the hidden compartment on her ring and rubbed her finger in the dream powder concealed within. She pulled her mouth off of Terell's and raised her powder-coated finger to his mouth. He sucked on it eagerly and rolled his tongue around the digit.

With a quick twist, Belynn turned him so that his back was to the bed. When she suddenly pulled away from him, Terell looked at her, confused, as the passion melted off her face and gave way to a look of blank indifference. The room began to rotate faster than a normal drunken spin, and his legs suddenly felt like they couldn't support his weight. His left leg buckled, but he righted himself with great effort.

"What's happening?" he asked. She didn't answer him, only tilted her head to the side and watched him with flat, dead eyes. A dull heaviness descended on him, and as the blackness closed in, she gave him a little shove. He fell back onto the bed and surrendered to the darkness.

Connil Argan had been a good man, once.

He had started out like most young men who had been tested and found able to access the leylines. He'd been given a choice between the Aramonic Priesthood and the Covenant. Unlike the others, however, Connil had no trouble at all coming to a decision. He was a devout boy, he attended church regularly, and he genuinely cared for the salvation of others. Choosing the Priesthood over the Covenant had been an easy and obvious decision.

Of course his choice had nothing to do with the rumor that most Warlocks of the Covenant died on the front lines fighting the Karokai. The fact that the Aramonic Priests remained safely under the protection of the Swords of Aramon at Caer Denwyn, the Priesthood's fortress, had not factored into his decision at all.

Caer Denwyn had been built in antiquity by Enec Orodu, the first priest of Aramon. It was said that he had wiped the blood from Lord Aramon's face and had given Him water as He lay chained to the rock. Years later, Enec received a vision from God giving him the sacred tenets on which he had established the order.

Enec built an outpost on the banks of the mighty Denwyn River and named it Caer Denwyn. As the years passed and the priesthood grew in number and stature, that outpost was repeatedly expanded and fortified. The city that grew around it adopted the name. Caer Denwyn became a city for the devout, a haven for those who wished to live a life of purity, basking in Lord Aramon's light.

It was at Caer Denwyn that Connil learned the true meaning of devotion. He embraced the Priesthood's tenets with all his being and glowed in the knowledge that everlasting salvation would be his. He devoted himself to mastering everything he was taught. He learned and innovated on the methods for using Lord Aramon's Gift. He served with distinction in every office assigned to him by his superiors until that fateful day came when he received a most wondrous offer.

A message had arrived, promoting him to Bishop and inviting him to serve as the Aide to Chancellor Titus Vallen, the leader of the Conclave. The Conclave consisted of the Chancellor and the twelve Cardinals that governed the Priesthood and the Swords of Aramon. As the Chancellor's Aide, Connil would be privy to events and decisions at the highest level. Surely, he was being groomed for greater service, perhaps as a member of the Conclave one day.

Serving as the Aide to the leader of the Conclave did not bring Connil closer to God as he had hoped. To his horror and disgust, he instead found a den of wickedness. It was not the tangible evil of the Karokai that infested the Conclave, but the more insidious malignancy of lust, greed, and corruption.

The Cardinals indulged in every immoral carnal desire known to man. They held secret orgies of the flesh in blatant violation of the Priesthood's tenets. They extorted brothels, gambling establishments, and legitimate businesses alike for protection money. The Swords of Aramon enforced the Conclave's demands without mercy. Any who opposed them was either excoriated as a heretic or was secretly assassinated.

Connil had been outraged when he came to understand the full extent of the Conclave's perversion. Armed with righteousness indignation, he had threatened to expose the Conclave's wickedness to the entire body of the Priesthood. The Chancellor had merely laughed at his threats.

"Go ahead and try," the Chancellor had said. "You will be dead by the end of the day. A regretful suicide, of course. A letter will be found detailing your involvement in all kinds of wickedness. Poor fellow, you just couldn't live with the guilt." Vallen had smirked at Connil's shocked silence. "And lest you think your own life means nothing, I believe your parents still live in Murkenshire, together with your younger sister and her children."

"H-how do you know that?" Connil had stammered.

"Fool! Did you think we would offer you this position without knowing everything about you?" The Chancellor made no effort to hide his mockery. "It would be a shame if your relatives had to pay for your loose tongue, your niece and nephew especially. Still, if you feel you must, then by all means, go now. Go and tell the Priesthood. Tell them all and suffer my wrath."

Connil remained standing before the Chancellor, shaken by fear and immobilized by indecision. The Chancellor gave another mocking laugh. "That's what I thought. Perhaps now you will see the wisdom in keeping your mouth shut and doing as you are told. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, Chancellor," Connil had said, head bowed.

From that time on, without question, Connil did what he was told. At the Chancellor's behest, he ordered raids on businesses that refused to pay. He signed the death warrants of men whose only crime was that of resisting the demands of the Chancellor or the Cardinals. He ordered atrocities in the name of rooting out heretics, but it was all to increase the Conclave's power or to get some local lord to fall in line by killing some of his peasants.

Chancellor Vallen took great pleasure in forcing Connil to attend the frequent orgies held at various locales for the members of the Conclave and their aides. Thou shalt not lie with a woman was the last tenet that Connil had not broken. Connil clung to the idea that if he could just hold on to that one final tenet, then perhaps he could still be forgiven. Perhaps he could somehow find redemption.

He couldn't stop his body's reaction to what happened at these gatherings, though. He stood to the side, but he couldn't ignore the moans of pleasure, the scent of sex that permeated the air, the sight of beautiful women fulfilling every licentious desire of the men in attendance. He slipped deeper into a self-loathing depression until he no longer cared enough to resist. He was already damned, had already committed more atrocities than he could remember. What was one more broken tenet?

The whore who broke his resolve sat alone on the sofa, surrounded by couples lost in the throes of passion, fucking and sucking with hedonistic glee. She reclined in a languid pose with her legs spread wide. The fingers of her right hand gently stroked her wet slit. He could see the light glisten in the moisture coating her fingers as they slipped between her enflamed nether lips, probing and teasing the pink flesh.

Her other hand cupped her left breast and alternated between pinching her distended nipple and squeezing the supple mound. Her hair was a rich, chestnut color and was swept all to one side and pulled over her shoulder so that the strands ended on the swell of her right breast, just touching the areola. A large yellow flower was tucked behind her ear, giving her lovely face the illusion of innocence. There was, however, nothing innocent about the smile she gave him when his eyes met hers. The wanton invitation in her dark brown eyes finally pushed him over the edge, and Connil surrendered to his lust.

He approached her, discarding his robes as he went. He was of average height, and the farming muscles of his youth had long faded thanks to the sedentary life of a priest, but he still had a full head of brown hair and hadn't grown corpulent as many priests had. She seemed pleased enough at his appearance and licked her lips when the last of his garments hit the floor to reveal his manhood jutting before him. When he was close enough, she grabbed him by his cock and pulled him on top of her. She guided him straight to her carnal entrance.

Poised on the edge of surrender, Connil hesitated and looked over at the Chancellor. Vallen sat in a velvet recliner with a whore on each side of his cock running her lips up and down his shaft. He leered knowingly at Connil, his final victory at hand.

Ashamed, Connil turned his eyes back to the whore who gazed up at him questioningly. He answered her by sinking his cock into her as far as it would go. He was unprepared for the luxurious, molten heat of her silky sheath. She squeezed him with her pussy, and the pleasure was too much for the inexperienced Connil. Just seconds after entering her, his cock spasmed and shot a massive jet of cum. He groaned in release as his pent-up desire ejected spurt after spurt into the carnal furnace that was her pussy.

As his orgasm waned, Connil was immediately overwhelmed by a wave of guilt. Unable to contain his despair, he wept. Over the whore's laughter, he could hear the Chancellor's mocking laugh as well.

When he finally regained his composure, he realized that his cock was still encased in the whore's twat and still as hard as steel. He withdrew his cock halfway then slammed it back into her. He did it again. And again. He fucked her hard. He tried to fuck the guilt away, and by the time he came for the second time she wasn't laughing anymore.

He flipped her over and took her ass, rough and hard, ramming her mercilessly. When he came for the third time, filling her bowels with his seed, it was she who was crying while he laughed the manic laugh of a man with nothing left to lose.

When the Chancellor traveled west to the Capital several years later, Connil went with him. As King Roadan's Advisor, Vallen's ambition grew until it consumed him like a thing alive. He saw a chance to be the ultimate power in Aramoor and naturally turned to his long-suffering aide to help him carry out his plan.

Vallen first tried to control the King's mind, but this proved impossible. The King's will was too strong, and he couldn't be manipulated without destroying his identity. The minds of the young were much more malleable, easier to confound and manipulate with the power. Vallen turned his attention to the King's young son, Damoden, and plotted to remove King Roadan.

At considerable cost, Connil procured a rare, almost unheard of poison from the medicine man of the Nordg barbarian tribe. The barbarian tribes lived in the wastes east of the kingdom's border, and while trade with such heathens carried some risk, the tribes did offer a number of truly unique items. The poison was called the Nectar of Silence, and once consumed, lay dormant until the victim slept, never to wake again. The poison's most valuable property, however, was in the way it left no trace after death. Even a witch imbued with her powers would fail to find evidence of it.

After the King was found dead, Damoden was crowned and assumed the throne. Unaware of the danger and lacking the knowledge of how to defend his mind, the new King quickly fell under Vallen's unnatural influence.

Undeterred by her failure to discern the cause of the King's death, the Sorceress Amalee continued to seek answers to the riddle of the king's demise. When her research turned to poisons, Vallen felt threatened enough to take action. A cudgel to the back of the Sorceress' head, followed by a nasty tumble down the stairs relieved Vallen of the problem.

After Amalee's death, Vallen proceeded to eliminate all influences other than his own. General Forsith had spent the most time with Damoden prior to his father's death. He had trained the boy in swordplay and in the strategies of war. He would likely be the first to notice any change in Damoden's behavior.

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.