Chunk 8
The counter-thingy's still fritzed up, but the NaNo site has theirs out and they're working, so I'm switching over. The third-party ones were cool but at least these show the right number. [wry smile] I got a bit over the daily goal today, so I'm a bit closer to being caught up, yay.



[EDIT: Aaaand, the official NaNo counters are not working. [headdesk] The speedometer one is still stuck on day before yesterday's total, but this one is stuck on yesterday's number. Bother. Anyway, today's total was 12,479. :/ /EDIT]
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That did it. Conversation ceased and almost everyone in the room turned to look at the grey-robed man near the door. The few exceptions were men still busy with their new slaves and Arden supposed they could be forgiven for not noticing even a good, echoing bellow.

Unfortunately, he doubted that forgiveness was on the arch-priest's mind. Fortunately for the men still going at it, the arch-priest had another target in mind; all he'd wanted with the shout was an audience.

Sure enough, the priest strode through the room, taking a straight path and letting others shift out of his way. The fact that everyone did, in a room full of nobles and conquering war heroes, was testament to the current supremacy of Baruno's temple, and specifically its Holy Patriarch.

The man swept up to the head table, pointed an accusing finger at Duke Pormano, and proclaimed, "Blasphemer!"

Pormano gave the priest a shallow bow, his expression calm and grave. He had to have been expecting this, which didn't surprise Arden at all. It was an old and cherished custom that when an enemy resisted, when the Molani defeated them they slaughtered all the warriors and enslaved everyone else. It gave enemies of the empire an excellent reason to surrender, or to just go along with whatever suggestions the imperial emmisaries might make so that it never came to war at all.

Slaves comprised a large portion of the loot from any conquest, and the common soldiers' pay was a pittance. They were given rations, basic clothing, equipment, shelter -- a few coins for beer were considered adequate, aside from the fact that their commanders couldn't afford to field their troops if they had to pay as well as support them all. The soldiers looked forward to looting the conquered, which gave them an excellent reason to fight hard and win.

It had been so for a millenium or more, and yet for some reason the Patriarch of Baruno's temple had declared that the god wanted all the Ruvori men killed. All male Ruvori with more than twelve years were to be put to the sword, so said the Patriarch. And the Emperor had agreed, more or less, with little enthusiasm; he'd known it would be an unpopular decree with the men, and the Empire rested on the backs of its soldiers.

But it had been done nevertheless. Almost.

An exception had been made for one hundred Ruvori men, those claimed (or to be claimed) that night. A handful of high-ranked men whose tasks were complete had been told to find "the hundred most beautiful men in the city" and send them to the palace. After all, one must be civilized, and surely out of nearly a million souls, the moon god could spare one hundred.

Apparently not. Or at least his priest was annoyed on his behalf.

"These men were to be put to the sword for Baruno! It was agreed! You have broken an oath made to a god and it will bring your doom!"

The arch-priest was clearly trying for a good thunder-and-death impression, but Arden wasn't overly impressed. He didn't recognize the man, which meant he wasn't from the capital. Likely some provincial prelate sent to tramp behind the army and sit out the boredom of the seige. Even the smallest temples in the poorest quarters of the capital city were choice positions, to be fought over and schemed after by the most ambitious priests and priestesses. The Patriarchs could afford to be choosy and unless this one was the brother-in-law or bastard son of Baruno's Patriarch, he'd never celebrate in one of Cara's temples.

Skilled orator or not, he was still angry and might have enough real power to spread it around.

The duke said, "It was agreed that mighty and benevolent Baruno would not miss this small handful of souls, after the stones of the city ran red with blood in his honor for the last two days and nights." He stood with his neck slightly bent to honor Baruno's priest, but his voice was firm; there was no hint of either submission or shame in him.

"It is not for you to decide!" bellowed the arch-priest. "All-seeing Baruno knows of your perfidy and will crush you for your willful disobedience! These vermin will be killed!"

Arden winced. No subtlety in that one.

Pormano straightened up and stared down his long nose at the priest. "I do not take shouted orders from rude underlings who forget their place," he spat.

The priest glared right back at him. "The orders come from Baruno through the sacred voice of the Holy Patriarch, and you will take them no matter what messenger delivers them!"

The room stood silent while everyone watched the battle of wills at the head of the room. Even the men who'd been fucking their slaves had either finished, or finally caught on and stopped to watch. Arden caught himself squeezing his wine cup hard enough to flex the tough horn; if the angry little priest had his way, he'd lose Luka despite everything. The thought had him clenching his jaw as well as his fists.

He owed a debt to Luka and if he failed to honor it, the gods would make him pay for it. That could cause a man trouble all the way to the pyre, and if the gods were in a particularly droll mood, that could be a very short trip.

Even aside from that, he didn't want to see Luka killed. He was a good man, strong and honorable, a man who took his duties to heart. He held himself to a high standard and demanded the same of his students, and was a powerful enough leader to make them scramble to avoid disappointing him. Arden had seen that during his days guesting in the man's house, and such a man would be an asset to anyone. If Arden could tame him -- not break him but bring him around to accepting his new situation -- he'd be a fine addition to Arden's household and to the imperial familia.

And... that was it.

Arden slugged down the last of his wine and set the glass down on a nearby table. He took a few silent steps backward until he was out of the main aisle of the room, then slipped away, leaving the general and the arch-priest to their snarling dog-fight behind him.


Chapter Three

Luka lay naked across what he assumed was Roscha's bed, or at least the bed of some courtier who'd been slaughtered when the fucking Molani had taken the castle.

The two slaves had hauled him away after Roscha'd finished with him, and he still cringed at the thought of it. The humiliation had been worse than the pain; he could hardly remember ever having wanted that foul misbreed of a diseased goat to touch him, but now he'd be satisfied if only he had a chance to break the bastard's neck before he died.

For now, though, he was secured too well to move much. The slaves had carried him away from the hall to the room without untying him, leaving his wrists lashed to his ankles and the stick in his mouth. He could taste blood from the corners of his lips and the cord was tight enough that it was abrading a pair of raw furrows in each cheek.

They'd manhandled him like a baby or a dog, lifting and turning him while they washed him and combed his hair. One of them rubbed some ointment into the worst of his cuts and scrapes, muttering about how it was disgraceful that his Highness had had to take a slave who looked like he'd been in a wineshop brawl.

Luka had tried to head-butt him out of sheer fury, as he had with Roscha earlier, but the slaves were nimble and obviously accustomed to dealing with other slaves who were in a temper. They slapped and pinched him on parts which were already bruised, where the pain would be greatest for the least amount of effort. Despite that, the pain wasn't enough to notice, especially when he had greater injuries to distract him, but he got tired of struggling to strike back and never landing a blow, so he finally settled back to fuming and glaring.

It really wasn't the slaves he was angry with anyway. They were slaves, bound to do what they were told or be punished. It was their master whose guts he wanted to see spilling across the floor. That lying, traitorous ball of shit!

The slaves had finished cleaning him up, then with dire warnings of further punishment, had untied him. It was just as well he hadn't had any plans for making a break for freedom because after having been bound in a kneeling position for most of the day, his arms and legs both were numb and cramping. Which sounded like a contradiction but they managed it anyway.

They'd laid him out on the bed and re-bound his wrists to one of the bedposts. He'd half expected to be tied spread out, to make raping him again easier, but perhaps Roscha didn't want a mere slave taking up his entire bed.

Whatever the reason, they'd left him free to kick but still gagged, and were trimming his nails when the door swung open and smacked into the wall. Roscha strode in and barked, "Out!" The slaves gathered their tools in half a moment and scurried away, closing the door behind them more quietly.

Roscha. Luka squirmed on the bed, his weakened and aching muscles tensing in his instinctive struggle to get up and get his hands around the liar's throat. Roscha ignored any possible threat, though, and sat down on the bed next to Luka.

He leaned over, bracing his hands on either side of Luka's head, as though he were going to kiss him, which was impossible with the damned stick still in his mouth. Roscha stared down at him, his eyes intense, and said, "You have to listen, we don't have much time."

What? Luka was the man's fucking slave -- literally -- and they had their entire lives to hate one another. What was he talking about?

"I'm going to leave that thing in for now because I need you listening, not cursing me." Roscha touched Luka's cheek gently with one finger, along the line of one of the tough cords but not near enough to cause any more pain. Luka jerked his head away and snarled. He'd be damned if he'd take pity from the likes of a Molani, especially this one.

Roscha sighed and got up, moving across the room to dig around in a chest.