Lord of Avalon (8 page)

Houston, Texas, September 2035

“She’s so brave! She must really love him.” Joyce put her
empty glass on the coffee table.

“Are those tears in your eyes?”

“No, of course not,” she said, turning aside.

“Maybe you’ve heard enough for tonight,” Jack said, reaching
up to pull her chin back to face him.

“Oh, no you don’t! You have to tell me what happens!”

“I wouldn’t want to upset you…”

“This?” She waved at her bleary eyes. “This is a good cry.
Like when I’m watching a chick flick, you know.”

“Oh,” he nodded. “So you like our plucky little heroine?”

“Yes, very much.” She looked down at her naked breast,
peeking out of her robe, and tried to imagine being naked all the time. “I pretend
I’m her. You know, just a little.”

“Uh huh,” he said, smiling, imaging Joyce as Jenya.

“But you can’t fool me.”

“What do you mean?”

“The part about getting sucked off while they were
driving—that was sooo American, I can’t even tell you.”

Jack laughed. “That transparent, huh? Hey, it could’ve
happened!”

“Well, I forgive you—you’re making Jenya out to be such a
clever slave, after all.”

“Hey, a lot of her personality came through on the tapes.
I’m just filling in the blanks, you know.”

“I’m certainly enjoying it.”

Jack pulled aside the other side of her robe and peeked at
her erect nipples. “Yes, I can see that,” he said dryly. He leaned in and
gently licked her pale flesh. Joyce closed her eyes.

He licked her like a cat, using the broad flatness of his
tongue on her breasts. The slight rasp of it on her skin only increased her
lust. “God, what you do to me,” she moaned. She began to squirm on his lap. He
moved down and sucked a nipple into his mouth. Her heightened libido jumped
another notch. She wanted to grip him between her thighs. Joyce very nearly
came, right then. She reached out and held onto his arms, thankful she had
found a man who knew how to love her.

Jack licked her and licked her, moving from breast to
breast, nipple to nipple. She thought she could just stay like that forever, on
the verge of an orgasm without reaching it. It was a delicious dilemma.

“God, Jack…” She gasped and squeezed his arms. She ached for
release.

He paused, talking around one of her nipples. She could hear
his voice vibrate through her breast. “You know what you’re going to have to do
to hear the rest, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she said. She was more than ready. But first he was
going to have to stop licking her breasts. She hung on, poised between
pleasures—the story that turned her on emotionally, and the foreplay that
excited her physically. Which was better? Right now, it was a toss up. Later,
she knew only the physical would suffice.

Finally, Jack pulled away. He nodded and she climbed off his
lap, suddenly aware of how shaky her knees were. She stood in front of him,
feeling a little exposed. She was half-dressed while he remained fully clothed.
She was becoming Jenya, in a way.

He just stared. No, ogled.

It had been a long time since she’d been ogled by a man.
Perhaps when she was coy and slim and sassy in her twenties, men looked at her
as Jack did now. Back then, she took it for granted. Now it was a special
honor, coming from a rare man. This man knew the secret to her heart, she
decided: he realized that whatever he gave her would be returned threefold. She
would do just about anything for Jack.

She didn’t know if she could wait. She wanted to feel his
hard cock in her. Joyce could imagine the sensation: the wet stroke of him, the
sounds of their love-making, the little cries she’d make. The heat in her pussy
increased.

Joyce debated: sex or story? She wanted both. But the story
was flowing now. If they made love, Jack might lose his train of thought.
Okay
,
she thought,
let’s keep his brain alert, yet not ignore his cock.
She
gave him a little tease. She straightened up and made a show of easing the
shoulder of her robe down, like a stripper. Jack smiled.

She let the garment fall away to her feet, leaving her naked
once again.

She was certain he could smell her lust easily now. She
glanced down to see the fluids seeping out of her pussy and glistening through
the red-brown hairs. God, was she ever ready for his hard cock!
Breed with
me, master
, she thought.

“Come here,” he said, his voice hoarse. She approached him,
wondering how she was going to sit in his lap without ruining his pants.

“What about your pants?” she asked timidly.

“What about them? Come here.” He took her into his arms as
she sat down, feeling her lubrication leaking onto his khaki trousers. If he
didn’t care, she didn’t care. All she wanted right now was to hear the rest of
the story. She knew she’d get fucked soon.

He stroked her breasts again and ran the other hand over her
back, down along her naked ass. He liked the full curves of her, he’d told her
many times. She wasn’t plump to him, just exactly right, he’d said. She could
tell he meant it.

“You’d better finish the story before my head explodes,” she
said.

“Or maybe some other part.”

“Um. We wouldn’t want that, would we? Okay, let’s see. We
left our hero shortly after our heroine had injured herself in an effort to
distract the guards, right?”

“Right,” she said, letting her eyes fall on the bulge in his
pants.

They found the doctor’s office with Mardor’s help and he
aided Rydah in carrying Jenya inside. Nerat, a second-tier Damon, was ancient,
Rydah noted. He thought the old man smelled like a rotting forest log. He hoped
the doctor knew what he was doing.

Nerat washed the blood away and dabbed Jenya’s wounds with
tantra root to speed the healing, then wrapped her with gauze from her knee to
her hips. No sooner had the bandages been applied then spots of blood began to
seep through them.

“It’s just a bad scrape, Lord Rydah,” he said. “Nothing was
broken, thank Rand.”

Jenya gritted her teeth but made no complaints.

“Can you give her something for the pain?”

The doctor nodded and brewed a tea. Jenya drank it and
drifted off to sleep. “She’ll need at least a full sun’s rest. Maybe two. I’ll
have to change her bandages on the morrow, to make sure she doesn’t develop an
infection.”

“Do what you have to, doctor. She must get well!”

Rydah went outside. The soldier waited by the carriage. “How
is she, m’lord?”

“Not good,” he said truthfully. “She needs at least a sun of
rest, maybe more. The doctor’s is worried about infection.”

Mardor nodded. “Um, my lord…”

“Yes?”

“My orders were to accompany you here, but my liege didn’t
say anything about staying.”

“Well, that’s not my concern. You can stay or go. But I’m
staying until she recovers, then I have to get back to Blethryn to complete an
important project for High Lord Bandar.”

He had dropped the name on purpose. It seemed to have the
desired effect.

“You work for High Lord Bandar?” Mardor said, awed.

“Of course. I’m his scribe.”
Well, one of his scribes
,
he thought. The guard didn’t have to know that there were about fifty others.
“I help spread His Word to other cities by editing church documents.”

“And he is waiting for you now to complete a project?”

“Yes, he is,” Rydah lied. He had just completed a project
and had no idea when more material might come his way.

“Yet you stay with your slave?” The guard clearly thought
Lord Rydah risked much.

“If she carries my Damon seed, you had better believe I’m
staying. High Lord Bandar will understand as well.” He paused. “I only hope
he’ll understand why you’re late returning to Blethryn.”

Mardor blanched. “I was given orders to accompany you to the
doctor’s!”

“Yes, and you have. I plan to stay until my breeder gets
well. What you do is your business. I am not your commander.”

He left him then, and went to the carriage to remove his
belongings. The doctor had told him of a home in the village that sometimes
took in strangers for the night. Though it was not even mid-sun, he wouldn’t be
going anywhere without Jenya.

He walked down the street to the house he’d been told about.
On the way, he passed another squad of soldiers. They paid him no attention. A
heavy-set old woman opened the door to his knock and her eyes widened when she
recognized the cloak of a Damon.

“M’lord! Please, come in out of the hot sun!”

He entered to a small room. A cold fireplace took up most of
one wall. “I was told you take in travelers,” he said.

“Oh, yes, m’lord. It would be my pleasure! We don’t get many
visitors to Mantaro. Please, come this way.” She waddled down a short corridor
and stepped aside to present a well-furnished room with a single bed.

“I’m sure you’re used to finer accommodations, m’lord. I
hope this will be acceptable for your needs.”

“This will be fine.” He held out a coin—more than the room
was worth, he was sure.

She took it quickly and tucked in into her large bosom
before he could change his mind.

Once he had stowed his gear, he became restless. He returned
to the doctor’s office to see if he could sit next to Jenya’s bed. When he
walked by the carriage, Mardor was still there.

“Sire?”

“Yes, soldier?”

“Um, if you’re going to stay here a couple of suns, I think
I should head toward Blethryn and report in. But I’ll tell them about you and
perhaps they’ll send you a new escort.”

“That’s kind of you, but I’ll probably have left by the time
a new escort arrives. I can find my own way back.”

“Very well, sire. If you’re sure.” He seemed anxious to
leave. Rydah wasn’t about to discourage him.

“I’m sure.”

Mardor saluted and Rydah nodded in return. Only Warriors
saluted each other. Damon leaders just nodded.

He watched as the soldier mounted up and rode out quickly.
Rydah sighed with relief when he was out of sight.

He entered the doctor’s office once again. “Is she still
sleeping?”

“Yes,” he said. “She’ll probably sleep for another
hura
or more. Sleep is the best way for her to heal.”

Rand’s curse on that! He needed to find out what she knew
and get to the Acolyte before more soldiers came—soldiers who knew he was
Symal’s uncle.

Once Apnar heard that Mardor rode off and left him alone,
he’d probably lose his head.

Jenya dozed fitfully, her wounds disturbing her sleep. She
woke up several times, her body aching. She felt like she’d been assaulted,
only she had done it to herself. When she awoke mid-sun, she was amazed to see
her master, sitting by the bedside, cooling her forehead with a damp rag.

“M-master?”

“It’s all right, Jenya. You needed your rest.”

“Oh, no! We have no time!”

“Of course we do. You’ve been injured. I’m worried about
you.”

Jenya was touched. In the slave pens, she had learned of
masters who would simply return their injured breeders and obtain another
one—unless, of course, they were already carrying their child. They would let
Syminton deal with the cost and time of recovery. Often, the rejected breeders
would no longer be saleable, and instead would be sent down to the breeding
pool.

She glanced around the room. She spotted the doctor, sitting
in the corner observing them. Her eyes told Rydah all he needed to know.

He turned. “Will you excuse us, doctor? I need to examine my
slave.”

“Of course,” Nerat said, rising. “I’ll be outside.”

When he was gone, Rydah turned to Jenya. “By Rand, you took
an incredible risk! I ought to beat you with a strap! I bought you to have my
children, not to jump from carriages!”

“I’m sorry, master, I didn’t know what else to do! Memma
told me how urgent the situation was. I thought if you could get to them first,
you might be able to save Symal.”

Rydah wanted to grab his slave and shake her—and hug her.
That a slave would risk everything just to give her master a chance to slip the
guards? It boggled the mind. How could she have so much faith in him when she’d
only known him a handful of suns?

And what was he going to do to justify her faith?

“All right. We’re alone. What did Memma tell you?”

“Symal has a relative that no one knows about. It’s Memma’s
mother’s illegitimate sister. She lives in Balgari. Her name is Athela. Memma
thinks the Acolyte and Symal are there, but Farda can’t go anywhere near there
to check. She thought you might be able to get away. To prove that Farda sent
you, Memma gave me a password.” She looked embarrassed. “I’m only telling you
what Memma said.”

“Come on, out with it.”

“Very well, m’lord. ‘Princess Bluta.’ That’s what she told
me.”

Rydah had to laugh. A bluta was a large, placid, slow-moving
beast that was cut up for meat that Damons considered a delicacy.

“All right. How can I find them?”

“Go to Balgari and seek a man called Darikani. He’ll lead
you.”

“Good. You rest. I’ll be back in a sun or two.”

* * * * *

Rydah passed several patrols on his way to Balgari. His
Damon garb kept him from being questioned too closely. He told the guards he
was traveling to scout rural crafts for Damon households. Deep down, he knew
that when Apnar put together Mardor’s report and the patrol sightings, he would
soon zero in on Acolyte Lepdar’s location.

Even as he came to help, he was increasing the danger for
Symal.

He rode into Balgari and tied up the carriage to a post in
the main square, outside the dining hall. There were patrols here as well, he
noticed. They seemed bored, as if they felt they’d been assigned a backwater
while the real action was happening somewhere else.

All it would take would be one suspicious guard. He cursed
himself for not donning a disguise just before he entered the village.

Rydah strolled into the café. People turned to notice the
Damon in their presence, an unusual sight in this farming community. He ordered
a
pula
, the strong drink of choice in the farmlands and sat at a small
table and looked around at all the eyes on him.

Rand, he was such a terrible spy!

The waitress dropped off his drink and accepted his coin.
“Excuse me,” he said.

She stopped. “Yes, sire?”

“I’m looking for Darikani. Do you know where I can find
him?”

“Who’s asking?”

“A friend.” He slipped her a few more coins.

She shrugged and looked around nervously. “Don’t know him.”

He cursed inwardly. What had he done wrong?

He sipped at his drink and watched the crowd for the High
Lord’s men. Fortunately, there were none at the moment. He pondered his next
move. Should he ask somewhere else? Should he try to disguise himself now?
Wouldn’t that raise more suspicion? He felt lost.

“Damon?”

He turned. A middle-aged man stood before him. He wore a
tunic of the Craftsman class.

“You are looking for someone?”

“Yes, Darikani. Are you he?” He pitched his voice low.

“Why do you seek him, m’lord?”

“A friend sent me.”

“Oh? Who would that be?”

He sighed, anxious to end this circular conversation. He
lowered his voice, “‘Princess Bluta.’ “

The man’s eyes widened. “You come from Memma?”

“Yes. And Farda. I’m his brother.”

“Yes, I heard that he had a Damon brother.” He looked
around. “Come.”

Rydah left his drink and followed Darikani out the rear door
of the cafe.

He stopped by the stinking pile of trash that had gathered
near the back door. “Forgive me, m’lord, but would you be willing to swap your
Damon clock for something, umm, less conspicuous?”

“Yes, of course. I was foolish for not thinking of it
myself.”

Darikani nodded and escorted Rydah along the back of a few
buildings until they came to a barn. The craftsman held up a hand, then slipped
inside. He returned a moment later to wave Rydah inside.

“We should be safe from the prying eyes of the patrols here.
They’re everywhere. But they pay little attention to us, as long as we don’t
have strangers with us.”

“They’ve already seen me.”

“Yes. Damons travel through here occasionally, so your
presence is not that unusual. But they’ll want to know where you are at all
times. Once they realize you’ve given them the slip, they will start looking
for you in earnest.”

They walked through the semi-darkened barn to a tack room,
where Darikani found some old cloaks bearing the Craftsman design. Rydah immediately
stripped off his Damon insignia and began putting on the outfit of the lower
caste.

“You having come in wearing Damon clothes might actually
work out better when it comes time to leave,” Darikani told him. “We’ll leave
your carriage out front of the cafe. When you return from our visit, you can
don your cloak again and stroll along the storefronts as if nothing was amiss.
If you are challenged by guards, just explain you were looking for new crafts
and lost track of time.”

“Yes, that might work. I imagine it will help if I act
indignant at being questioned.”

He smiled. “The mark of a true Damon, m’lord.”

Rydah wasn’t sure if Darikani was insulting the Damon caste
or trying to make a joke. Either way, they were in this together now and, if
caught, might end up being hung side by side. Rydah thought that gave Darikani
a lot of latitude to make jokes at Damon expense.

Darikani looked at Rydah’s new outfit. “You look like a
legitimate Craftsman,” he said. “But I worry that guards might recognize you.”
He turned and rummaged through a wooden box of old clothes and pulled out a
shapeless hat. “Would you mind, sire? It would help cover your Damon hair.”

“Not at all—if it means not being spotted.” He donned it.
There was no looking glass, but he imagined he looked silly. The brim of the
hat hung down over his eyes, forcing him to rotate it until he could see. The
Craftsman looked amused.

“Come on, I have two horses we can use.” Darikani stopped,
then turned back. “You
do
know how to ride, m’lord?”

“Yes,” he said evenly. The Fyrads might be a third-class
Damon, but they were still Damon. Riding lessons had been the norm growing up,
although his father did not own any horses himself.

Darikani saddled up two horses and the men mounted them. “We
can’t act as if we’re in a hurry,” he said. “If we’re stopped, let me do the
talking. If worse comes to worst, and they discover you’re the strange Damon
who just rode into town, tell them you put on a disguise so you could negotiate
a better price for their crafts.”

Rydah nodded. Darikani thought far ahead, making him a much
better spy, despite his lower rank. He gained new respect for his guide.

They clopped outside into the bright sun, letting the horses
walk slow, heading east, away from the center of the village. They passed a
small patrol of two guards, who let them ride by unchallenged.

They left the village behind and continued east along a
narrow road. “How much farther?” Rydah asked after several
lapars
had
passed.

“Quite a ways—we’re going in the wrong direction, right now.
I wanted to make sure we weren’t followed.”

Nervously, Rydah looked over his shoulder, seeing no one.
“We have to turn around and go back?”

“Not that way. We’ll have to go south.”

They reached a junction with the overgrown ruts of a cart
path, leading south. Darikani rode on for a few hundred
capeks
, then
pulled off the road and dismounted. He led the confused Rydah back along the
edge of the road until they came to the cart path again.

“Here,” Darikani said, pulling his horse to a stop. He looked
around. The road was deserted. He began rummaging through the saddlebags.

Darikani pulled out four squares of rough leather and some
ties of the same material. The Damon became even more confused.
What was he
up to now?

The craftsman began tying the leather to the hooves of his
horse. Rydah suddenly understood.

“So the horse won’t leave tracks, right?”

“Right,” he said. “There should be some in your saddle bags
as well.”

Rydah got down and found them and soon both animals’ hooves
were tied up like holiday gifts.

“We only have to do this for about a half-league,” Darikani
said. “Just far enough so a passing patrol won’t get curious as to why two
horses were heading down an abandoned cart path. We have to walk them so their
hooves won’t dig into the soil. Stay inside the wheel rut if possible.” He led
the way down the right-hand rut.

Rydah followed along the left, putting his feet one in front
of the other. “Where does this road go? Why was it abandoned?” Rydah asked.

“It led to the Harpton farm. They were killed last
ryne
.”

Rydah covered his surprise. “What happened?”

“They were all hung by the High Lord’s men for failure to
pay tribute.”

Rydah was shocked. He hadn’t heard anything about this! He
couldn’t imagine High Lord Bandar having a family killed because they couldn’t
pay their taxes. Imprisoned, maybe, or having their farm seized, sure. But
killed?

“How could this be? Did they riot? Spread sedition?”

“No. Harpton struck a guard when he arrested his oldest son,
Barktar. They were going to imprison Barktar until Harpton could pay. When
Harpton hit the guard, they hung the whole family, on the spot.”

Rydah had to ask, though he didn’t really want to know.
“H-how many were in the family?”

“Five. Harpton, his wife, his son, and two daughters.”

Rydah’s mind reeled. “The High Lord’s men killed two girls?”

Darikani swung his eyes toward the Damon, slyly pleased to
observe Rydah’s shocked expression. “Yes. The guards said they were acting on
High Priest Kendam’s orders. He felt they had to be taught a lesson. A lesson
for all of us.”

They walked in silence for nearly a mile, Rydah’s head
filled with the news. He had thought Bandar was a benevolent leader. Surely he
couldn’t know what his men did out in the field, could he?

They came to a meadow overlooking a run-down farm. The main
building had been burned, and the fields filled with old stubble.

The Harpton farm.

“We can remove the pads now. We’re going to ride through the
woods west until we are well past the village, then we’ll be close.”

Rydah couldn’t take his eyes off the farm, a question on his
lips. “How old were the girls?”

Darikani let the question hang in the air as they observed
the burned farm. “The older was thirteen, the younger, ten.”

Rydah felt the breath catch in his throat. How could the
priests allow that? “The soldiers burned their house down as well?”

Darikani looked up as he removed the pads. “Yes. And seized
the land. Although they haven’t done anything with it. It’s just hectares going
to waste.”

Darikani finished before Rydah did and waited patiently
astride his horse until the Damon stuffed the pads back into his saddlebags. He
made no move to help the Nobleman. In other circumstances, that would be
considered rude. But Rydah was too stunned by seeing the farm to notice.