JULIEN

II

Chapter 76

A minor victory

Julien was an adolescent who was constantly troubled by the changes his body was going through and so, like the vast majority of people in his situation, he found it impossible to resist the erotic ministrations of the Eng'hornath sorcerer. But deep inside his consciousness Yulmir, Protector of the Nine Worlds, was in a position to understand what was happening, and suddenly Julien knew for sure that if he allowed the sorcerer to achieve his end he would be permanently sullied by it: even if by some impossible miracle he was able to escape death, something within him would always be in thrall to his tormentor, and the act which had the power to bring him close to the only being he had ever loved so strongly would for ever carry echoes of this appalling moment. He would never be able to share the act with Ambar again without thinking of this moment and being repelled by it.

In fact he didn't even need to pause for thought: he knew that at all costs he had to resist giving in to the mounting need and desire which were already close to triggering the first spasm of released pleasure. He also knew what he had to do to defeat it and to regain control over a reaction which he had never really had any control over in the past.

However, knowing what to do didn't make it any easier: a part of him wanted more than anything to give in to the uprising surge. Every nerve, especially those stimulated by the sandar, was screaming out to him that the delightful sensation of release was at hand, and that all he had to do was to surrender to it.

He was only a few heartbeats away from an orgasm that would have been his downfall when he finally regained enough control to shut off the nerve signals, moderate the flow of hormones and put an end to the tyranny of unsought pleasure. Despite the stimulation, his penis went flaccid between the sorcerer's fingers.

The slap to his face was delivered with such ferocity that at first he only felt it as a bump: it took a few seconds for the burning pain to blossom. Tears blurred his vision, but through them he could see the look of insane rage on the man's face, and that told him what he wanted to know, because the rage was an acknowledgement of failure. Julien knew that he would pay for it in due course, but he had at least won the first confrontation.

The second blow would have ruptured his spleen if the sorcerer hadn't remembered at the last moment that the boy was no ordinary victim and that it was essential for the success of the whole enterprise – and, indeed, for his own survival – that he be handed over to the One who would be his keeper in relatively good condition. Nevertheless, the lightning pain that shot through Julien when the blow landed was worse than anything he had experienced previously. His leg buckled under him as he struggled to breathe.

The celebrant shouted something that Julien, lost in a fog of pain, didn't even try to understand. The two acolytes dragged him to a sort of protuberance of the stone table, more or less spherical in shape, and threw him face down onto it, tying him spread-eagled to stone rings that were hewn out of the rock itself. The stone was coated with a thick brownish coat of viscous material which could only be layer on layer of ancient blood. The smell from it was sickening, and Julien vomited up his breakfast.

The pain in his stomach had receded a little and so he was able to think clearly once more, although that wasn't such a good thing because his thoughts were exclusively of the experience to come and they were far too lucid for comfort. The position in which he had been placed made it only too clear what was likely to happen next, before things became even more serious. He was also able to realise that if none of his friends had yet come to rescue him it could only be because Wenn Hyaï's klirk didn't function in this place – and that, of course, meant that nobody was likely to be able to come and save him any time soon.

He had time now for fear to seep fully into him, no longer just the fear that arose from suddenly finding himself in a deadly situation. Now it had become a fear distilled from the certainty that he was going to die alone at the hands of torturers whose only interest was in making him suffer as much as possible. He wouldn't even be able to stop the torture by answering their questions because they weren't going to ask him any. All they wanted to do to him was to hurt him.

He was going to scream, alone, in a world where Ambar wouldn't be able to hear him, and he was going to die without ever seeing Ambar again.

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Chapter 77

Pain

The Voice of the Circle of Eng'Hornath found it immensely difficult to keep his rage reined in, but at the vital moment a flash of lucidity hit him and prevented him from giving the little red-haired shit the retribution his resistance deserved. It was only just in time, too, because he had almost killed him and only pulled the blow a little at the last instant.

He had had him tied to Dr'Haïrr's Belly with the intention of raping him as violently as he could, but again he had to deny himself the pleasure of immediate revenge. Ideally he would have liked to be able to inflict on the little bastard, not pleasure, but a punishment that would rip him up internally. But he knew that if he proceeded it might not prove lethal immediately, but it might still compromise his survival. And although it would be pleasant to witness his victim's slow agony, he simply couldn't afford to jeopardise the entire enterprise for his own momentary enjoyment.

Furthermore, it would be extremely unwise to present The Whisperer with a trophy that might, even if he were to pull out just before the final moment, contain his own semen. He had a very good idea of the sort of use to which a Dre Tchenn could put such a precious fluid.

On the other hand, there was nothing to prevent him from administering a beating, provided that it could be done without inflicting any lasting damage...

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Julien's parents had had principles, and one of those was that you won't get anything from a child by violence. He had therefore never been slapped or spanked, far less 'given a hiding'. All the same, the terrible burn of the khanil whip across his back came almost as a relief. Even though he could feel something that felt like an acid burning its way through his muscles into his bones, at least it wasn't the abomination of the vicious rape he had been expecting.

Nevertheless, his scream came like music to the sorcerer's ears. The khanil whip was actually a living creature like a cross between an electric eel and a jellyfish, contact with which caused an excruciating burning sensation which instantly paralysed the creature's prey and which efficiently discouraged most would-be predators. The outlawed group of sorcerers had always used it as an instrument of torture.

The art of using the khanil consisted mainly of knowing how to vary the target area and the direction of the strike so as to generate totally unpredictable waves of pain in the victim. But the drawback was that, like any more or less sophisticated instrument, the khanil could act as a barrier between the torturer and his victim, and the sorcerer needed something more to calm his rage: he needed direct contact. Hurting someone was good; feeling that you were hurting someone was better still. He wanted to lay his hands on the flesh, to feel the sinews stretch and break, to see at close range the sweat of anguish seeping from the skin and running over it. His desire to put his hands on that pale body to knead, twist and break it was like a sudden hunger, even more commanding than sex.

He threw the khanil back into its tank and then brought his hand down on Julien's buttock and squeezed, digging his thick, claw-like nails into the white skin while the screeching of the flute got louder, sounding like the legs of some huge spider crawling over obsidian, and the arrhythmic beat of the drum became even more insane.

He felt the muscles contract under his hand as the boy, who had been silent for a moment, gave a rattling exhalation and then, as he twisted more savagely, making blood well up under his claws, uttered a mixture of a howl and a sob of despair so perfect that the sorcerer ejaculated, his whole body tensed up, his head thrown back and his erect member spitting out long ropes of thick semen that steamed in the frigid air of the early dawn.

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