Ghulamen 02

—

Bianca stared openly at the man she'd claimed. He sat on her bed, a walking contradiction.

Well, a seated contradiction.

The latch around his neck prevented him from reaching the Verve, but Bianca could tell he could surge — the echo of it surrounded him so strongly at times it was hard to look away.

He was a man...and yet he smelled good.

He had long, white lashes, but dark-gray, intelligent eyes.

Beautiful, full lips, but he refused to speak.

A sinewy build on a gawky frame, but the subtle grace of hidden strength.

His gaze openly roved her body, and yet when she moved to touch him, he turned away.

She couldn't bring herself to force herself upon him, whatever her sisters said of men always being willing, even at the point of a knife. She refused to believe it was herself. She'd seen men adjust themselves in the heat of battle with her, blood leaving their brain to travel south.

"What's your name?" she tried once more. His chin jutted out in stubborn anger, and she sighed. At least he hasn't tried to escape, yet.

It had been two days since she'd claimed him. She'd lead her raiding party back across the rift, into Am'thon. She'd fed him, combed him, tried to bathe him through continuous refusal, and otherwise kept him within her sight. She pursed her lips.

An enigma.

***

Artem was at a loss to know what to do. He was emotionally empty, cut off from his only natural weapon and captive to perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.

She'd saved his life.

She had also ordered the destruction of his village, the death of Callahan.

Callahan...

Artem shoved the pain down deep.

They had brought him back trussed up, separate from the rest of the men of the village. He'd only seen one or two of the older warriors, clearly in shock. Artem hoped the women and children had gotten away.

Bianca, his captor, had removed his blindfold and told him her name this morning. She'd given him food. Well, spoon-fed him, really. Some sort of stew that he didn't want to admit actually tasted decent.

Then she'd combed his hair and even tried to wash him before undoing most of his bindings. Not his hands, though. They remained lashed together. Not to mention the advances she had made.

Artem swallowed. His body responded to hers, no matter how much he tried to cut himself off from her beauty. Those eyes...

Even now they watched him carefully. A certain, cunning truculence lurked behind them, an alluring lethality that warned him what this woman was capable of, despite her youth. She couldn't be much older than himself.

He still couldn't seem to touch the Verve, despite it having been more than long enough for him to have fully recovered. He wasn't exactly sure how many days had passed, for he'd been blindfolded the majority of it, but at most two.

Artem worried that maybe he had pulled too deep, too quickly, burned himself out.

Callahan warned against something like that.

Raw pain flared deep in his being again, and once more he pushed it down.

"Ma'thala!" a voice called from outside the tent. Still, Bianca watched him. She spoke.

"I will leave you on your own to grieve. I understand you must make your peace. I..." she trailed off in her lilting accent, her voice like a spring mountain stream. Beautiful, clearcut. Cold. She sighed, and Artem caught a look of open consternation on her face for a moment before she stood up gracefully from her stool.

Artem tore his gaze away to stop from staring. He looked at the floor, but her figure refused to leave his mind's eye. She was wearing little more than a long woolen undershirt that he could tell, and it did little to hide her natural, physical endowments. He tried looking back up at her face and became suddenly lost again in large, honey-brown eyes surrounded by gold-russet skin. He had to shut his own eyes to escape. She clearly had little shame, no modesty.

The guard called for Bianca once more, and she exhaled in — frustration? Artem couldn't tell.

What was he going to do?

***

There was a certain allure to the man. His gaze had a quiet intensity as it roved the room, noting details and specifics, sometimes even closing, but always returning to Bianca. He reminded her of a certain wild animal she'd once encountered once in the far north, where the sky cried in frozen tears.

"I suppose I'll call you Tiri, then. Short for Tiriganiarjuk." Bianca murmured, more to herself than to the man. He still didn't speak.

She nodded to herself. Tiri. Bianca still couldn't quite gauge what he was thinking, but at least now he had a suitable name. She turned, a small part of her enjoying the way his eyes followed her body as she headed to the entrance of the tent. She drew the entrance flaps, following the voice of her attendant.

Elmina stood six paces away, ledger in-hand. She was a short one, Elmina. Of seventeen winters, almost ready for ceremony and Bianca's current understudy. Bianca liked her. She found her sharp of wit, and though a little lacking in strength, very capable regardless.

Bianca strode past and Elimina fell in step with her.

"The Council Elders want to speak with you," Elmina spoke quickly.

"Of course they do," Bianca muttered sourly.

"They want to know about the man you've chosen and if he's a suitable mate, among other things."

"That's my business." Bianca scowled. Now that she finally had chosen a Ghulam, they were going to be picky about it?

"Oh, yes. I'm sure the Council will agree," Elmina replied dryly. Bianca gave her a sharp look. "Ma'thala," she added quickly. She bit her lip.

Probably trying to gauge why I'm so irritable this morning, Bianca thought.

"What made you choose him, anyway? I mean, he barely has any meat on his bones."

This made Bianca groan.

"Not you, too."

"I'm only joking, Ma'thala," Elmina snickered, "just repeating what I heard from Palema."

Bianca rolled her eyes. They had only walked a few more steps before Elmina spoke again.

"Have you bedded him yet?" Elmina asked, staring straight ahead.

"Elmina!"

"What? I was merely curious." Elmina maintained an innocuous expression, face forward.

"Was?"

"Well, the answer is clearly no. But with someone of your..." she looked Bianca up and down, "...stature, I'm sure he'd be more than willing."

"You're not old enough for this conversation," Bianca huffed. Elmina frowned.

"Oh?" Elmina cast Bianca a puzzled glance. "I've hit a sore spot, which can only mean..." She stopped walking. "You've already made advances?"

Bianca didn't answer and refused to stop. She remembered his face when she'd touched his thigh...the lust, the need...

...then the horror, the rejection. Bianca scowled again. Strode faster. Elmina hurried to catch back up.

"He rejected you?" she whispered.

Again Bianca sighed, scowl fading slightly. This girl was a perceptive little monster. Bianca was a little afraid of what she'd be in a few years.

"Yes," she admitted haltingly. Elmina wisely stayed quiet. They walked a few more steps.

"I honestly don't know what to do with him."

"That answer is easy enough," Elmina replied confidently.

Bianca glanced at her questioningly.

"Seduce him," she said.

"Oh? And you know all about that, do you?" Bianca asked, raising an eyebrow. Elmina blushed.

They arrived at the dispatch tent, and the guards there drew the drapes back for her.

"Thank you, most wise one. I'll ask for your advice later on such matters," Bianca said, and the girl's face colored further.

"Ma'thala." Elimna saluted fist to shoulder across heart, palm down, and turned on her heel to walk away.

Serves her right. Little monster, Bianca mused, giving a small smile. Although...perhaps I will ask for her advice on this again later.

Just for ideas, of course.

She made her way into the dispatch tent.

—

Artem sat bound on a cot in his captor's tent, mostly nude, breathing deeply with his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. He focused on the swirl of energy that he could feel through his body and searched every nook, every crack, every crevice in his mind for access to the Verve. He instinctively clawed at where the barrier should be, finding nothing but what felt like mental mud. He dug through the slog, searching, pulling, seething.

It's no use!

Frustration broke through his calm for a moment and he jerked violently against his restraints, causing fresh scabbing to crack, blood gliding down the backs of his hands and dripping onto the floor.

Useless, useless, useless!

He wanted to scream, to cry, to try and run, but he could feel the two Am'thon outside. Or rather, the one, channeling, but they were always in pairs. Unless he could figure out how to tap back into the Verve...

He had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the unusual collar around his throat. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it. Though he'd mostly been kept separate from the other men, he'd seen it on them, too. It looked like a simple pendant on a rope, metallic.

It irritated him immensely. It was itchy, but it also felt distinctly...wrong.

Artem shuffled to the edge of the cot, trying to hook the collar on the wooden frame. It refused to catch, sliding over the glossy finish. He grunted, continuing despite the minimal odds of success, pouring his frustration into the task.

A noise outside the tent froze him mid-attempt. Artem quickly straightened, closing his eyes in meditative fashion.

When nobody entered, Artem cracked an eye. Only the sight of the tent flaps fluttering slightly in the wind greeted him. Except...the thrumming of the Verve nearby. It sounded different. Was it closer now?

Artem froze, barely daring to breathe as silver parted the entrance to the tent. He knew that knife.

The mask of the she-demon that had chased him that night slid slowly into the tent, the holes in its eyes wholly focused on him. Artem struggled to suppress the fear that latched onto his every muscle, speeding up his heart. He could see her through his eyelashes. She cocked her head at him but he stayed frozen, feigning nescience. She crept forward, face covered by the silver mask. As she got closer Artem saw how grotesque it really was. A heinous smile under those upturned, laughing eyes. It took all he had not to shudder. He saw the knife flip casually in her hand, of the same ilk as the one Artem used to attack the two women yesterday.

The same one that had murdered Galid.

Artem's blood began pumping with rage as well as fear. He stayed stock still, but inside he was scrabbling for purchase against the block that kept him from the Verve. fuck, fuck, FUCK.

Artem let her approach, unmoving. He'd only get one chance.

"I know you can see me, little boy."

Artem's blood turned to ice.

"I can hear your little heart beating like a drum. Look at me."

Artem opened his eyes fully. The demon crouched in front of him, reaching a hand out to caress his face. Sheer, all-black robes draped over a tight-fitting gray leotard that hugged rounded hips and an ample chest, leaving long muscular thighs bare beneath the dark material.

"That's better," she chuckled. The she-demon raised the blade to his neck slowly, almost gently, and an idea popped into Artem's head. A very stupid idea.

He felt the edge line up against his artery and stiffened involuntarily.

"Be sensible, little boy." The mask leaned in, the whisper caressing his ear. "I can cut you free. I just have a few questions."

Artem began to tremble. The knife felt cold against his neck, sucking out the warmth from his body. He didn't speak.

"Did you tell your new mistress about me?" Another sensual whisper. She reached out to stroke his hair with her other hand, tilting her head.

It dawned on him that this woman was somehow divided from the other Am'thon, though clearly one herself. Artem swallowed.

"Be a good little boy, now." She pressed him back into the cot, lifting a knee to sidle up along his inner thigh as she mounted him. Long, dark brown hair fell around the mask and curtained her face to his, and she returned the knife to his neck. She leaned down to his ear again, this time sliding the mask up just out of his view. Her lips pressed against his throat, next to the knife, in a kiss that sent fear tingling down his spine. Or was it desire?

"Tell me what it was you said, and we might have some fun before I set you free — if you like." Her tongue made its way into his ear, and Artem shuddered, his body betraying him. "And I think...you like." Her thigh brushed up against his bulge, and she gave a mock gasp of surprise.

"What have we here?" she chuckled darkly in his ear, and he shuddered again. "Are you...enjoying this already? A little slut, are we?"

She traced a hand down to her thigh, to where it had been stopped, feeling him. She cupped her hand around his rapidly hardening length.

"Oh...my. Impressive, little slut," she murmured breathily. She hummed, squeezing him through the thin layer of fabric. "Though, not so little any longer, I see—"

"Nadi? Falion?" Bianca's voice carried in from outside. The she-demon half-rose, mask sliding back over her face and a second knife — this one edge-lined with a faint, viscous blue gel — flipped into her free hand, but not before Artem caught a glimpse of a black tattoo forking like lightning up her throat and over a pointed chin and full lips.

Artem gritted his teeth, lining up the pendant with the knife still hovering above his neck. He quickly offered a prayer to the Gods. Please, let this work.

The she-demon paused, preparing to throw the edge-lined knife, aiming for the entrance to the tent.

He headbutted the demon through the mask, making sure to use the crown of his head, aiming where he thought her nose would be under that mask. He felt the pendant press into his neck, knife biting around it, but not deeply.

"Hyughk!" The woman fell backward, one hand dropping a knife to clutch her mask, the other still holding on.

"Tiri...?" Bianca stepped through into the tent fluidly, eyes wary.

The woman let out a wordless howl, brandishing the knife high.

Several things happened at once. Bianca's hand flickered faster than the eye. The she-demon plunged her dagger downward toward Artem's exposed chest. Artem instinctively reached for the Verve...

...and found it.

He crushed the boundary between himself and its flow, embedding himself in it and exploded into motion, shifting his hips to throw himself out of the dagger's path—

—something crashed into the she-demon, altering the trajectory of the knife directly into Artem's thigh. He hissed in pain, waiting, but the woman only collapsed, stunned. Only then did Artem see the fist-sized stone rocking on the ground and the dent in the mask that it had made.

"You're hurt."

Artem's eyes flickered warily to Bianca who stood cautiously, hands out, palms facing forward, giving the distinct impression that she didn't want to scare him off.

"I'm going to approach you, Tiri, okay? To help," Bianca emphasized. Artem still didn't speak. He allowed her to approach, evaluating his options. She stepped over the limp figure of the masked woman, moving quietly, hands still raised. Artem licked his lips. He could run. She wasn't channeling, yet.

"Good, Tiri. I'm going to touch you, now." She blushed slightly but reached out to place a hand on the outside of his leg. Artem tensed, and she froze, voice careful. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

Artem looked down at the blade six inches deep in his thigh, blood pooling down his leg around his foot, re-evaluating his situation.

Yeah, okay maybe I can't run. He grimaced, beginning to feel the wound now with the adrenaline dying off.

Seeming to realize that he wasn't going to just take off, Bianca sat next to him gingerly, examining the wound.

"You're lucky, Tiri. It missed the femoral artery by less than an inch. Try not to move too much."

She then looked up at him, openly staring, and he felt his face begin to heat — until he realized she was peering at his neck, raising her hand to it. He stiffened, preparing to run regardless of his blood-spouting thigh if she noticed the damaged pendant.

"This one's lucky too. Not too deep," She said, absently pressing her fingers against his neck. Her eyes sucked him in, spools of copper in amber lakes, and she tapped the pendant with her index finger.

"I'm sorry we have to keep you restrained with this, but... just can't have you surging right now..." She gave a half-sad, half-apologetic smile.

Surging? Artem questioned silently, confused.

She seemed to grow conscious of how close they were and straightened, flushing.

Artem made the connection. Oh, channeling.

She must not be able to sense that I'm channeling, then. She doesn't know the pendant is broken. Artem realized. He didn't understand why, but it was the only explanation. He quietly released the Verve, relaxing, then quickly winced, the pain of the wound in his thigh increasing severalfold.

"Alright," Bianca said reasserting herself with a quick tuck of a luscious, brown lock behind her ear, "I'm going to heal you now, so be still for me..." She closed her eyes. Artem waited patiently.

A minute, maybe more, passed before she exhaled and opened her eyes, her movements now accompanied by the distinctively slow oscillations of the Verve that Artem was beginning to associate with her channeling. Her eyes wandered over his mostly-bare body briefly before she reached out, placing one hand on his thigh and one on his neck. She concentrated, a vein above her collarbone pulsing, and he felt warmth spread through her hands into him. Susurrating eddies of Verve unfurled from her hands, accompanied first by a terrific, widespread itching in his thigh and throat, then a vibrating pain.

Artem couldn't care less. He watched, wide-eyed, as the dagger slid out of his flesh of its own accord, dropping to the floor with a clatter. His muscle, sinew and skin knit themselves back together as if woven at speed.

What power... Artem was dumbstruck. This woman had tapped far deeper than he'd ever dreamed. Not that he had the talent for healing, but...she was incredible.

When it was finished, she sat back slightly, sighing, and wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. Artem was finding it increasingly difficult to hate her, especially when she sat so infuriatingly close to him that he could smell her. Even her scent was attractive.

Nutmeg...and cinnamon, he noted.

"There we are. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Bianca said, mostly to herself.

Artem cleared his throat, and she met his gaze, curious.

"Thank you," Artem said quietly.

Her eyebrows rose, but before she could reply, another girl, younger looking with a shock of bright, red hair burst through the tent flaps. "Ma'thala, we found Nadi and Falion..."

She stopped when she saw them both, Bianca's hand still on Artem's thigh. She smirked.

Bianca was still looking at him, but her face had hardened.

"Good. I have some questions for them. In the meantime, take the woman to the interrogation tent. I have questions for her, too."

"What woman?" the girl asked.

Artem and Bianca looked to the floor where the she-demon had fallen. All that remained was a bloodstain on the carpet.

—

Bianca stalked back from the dispatch tent, having finally convened with the Elders. Fury boiled beneath an icy calm. She had originally returned to loosen Tiri's bonds, after recalling how his wrists had bled the night before.