Chunk 9
I discovered tonight, right after posting my numbers, that I had my NaNo account set to the wrong timezone; it was an hour east. [facepalm] I was wondering why my graph looked off, duh. It's fixed now, although today's numbers are still registered to tomorrow (which is today right now, but anyway), but at least it should start registering correctly tomorrow night. All this time I've been scrambling for midnight and NaNo thought it was one. I'd just been figuring I was late a lot, that the site was slow or whatever. :P Anyway.... Good day today; I made up some more slack. :)



[EDIT: Dammit, the counter's off again. It looks like it takes a while for the correct number to get down the pipeline or something. :/ I'm actually up to 15,039. /EDIT]

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"I don't suppose mentioning that I'm the only reason you're alive now would help?" he asked over his shoulder.

Luka made a contemptuous-sounding grunt from behind his gag. You didn't thank a man for saving your life when he just wanted you as a fuck-toy.

"I didn't think so," Roscha said, standing up with some items in his hands. "Having you be properly grateful would've been the easiest solution, though, so I had to try."

He sat back down beside Luka and set a small wooden box on the covered basket next to the bed. "Listen, then."

Roscha had a small but sharp looking knife in one hand and Luka made it a point to give anyone with a weapon at least some fraction of his attention. Was Roscha going to kill him now after all? That didn't make any sense, but then none of this cursed situation made sense.

"When the Temple of Baruno -- the Patriarch, that is, speaking Baruno's wishes -- urged war on Ruvor, he said that the god demanded it" Roscha explained, speaking quickly. "That there was some evil being plotted here, something foul which would bring darkness and plague upon the world if it succeeded. The Patriarch said so, claimed that Baruno had come to him in a vision and revealed it. I'm not sure how much faith the Emperor had in the prophecy, but he was happy enough to have an excuse to come make a try for your city. Running an empire takes a constant flow of wealth and this city is very rich."

Luka had heard some tale of a divine curse but had discounted it as either false gossip or merely an excuse the Molani were spreading. He still thought so; gods hardly ever involved themselves directly in mortal affairs, certainly not in the heart of civilization.

Those who were meant to tend to the divine needs and speak for the gods, however, were very likely to take advantage of their position, and try to manipulate events to their own advantage. This Patriarch, or perhaps the Emperor himself, had seen a pile of gold sitting to the east and decided to come take it, with the stamp of the Molani moon god to cast a veil over their greed.

"That was all fine and nothing new, although hard on your folks, I'll admit," Roscha continued. "But Baruno demanded that all of the Ruvori men be killed."

Wait, all? All? They never did that, even the Molani never did that. They were brutally efficient at getting what they wanted but how did it benefit them to slaughter all of the Ruvori men? They were in the habit of taking slaves in appalling numbers, and a slave was valuable, could be used or sold. Killing valuable slaves was like casting money into the sea.

And at least a slave could have some hope of escape, or even of being freed, as a reward for some deed or at his owner's death. Some Molani freed their slaves when they died, hoping they'd be grateful, and offer prayers and sacrifices to beg the gods to show mercy on the departed soul.

Suddenly his own slavery seemed to be a slightly lesser evil, despite his earlier thoughts of preferring death. Of course, if Luka could die after killing Roscha himself, he'd still do it. But that was personal, that was just himself. The Molani had really killed all of the Ruvori men?

Luka had been overwhelmed defending his school and his students. He'd seen some of his boys fall but had assumed they'd been subdued, knocked down, enslaved like himself. He'd been beaten senseless and carried away to the palace, for the Molani give-away feast, and had assumed the others had been similarly... distributed. But killed? All of them? He was still having a hard time comprehending the overwhelming bulk of the slaughter, of fitting it into his imagination, but what shreds of the image had so far managed to force their way in were gouging bloody shreds out of his soul.

Luka could see that Roscha was upset by it as well. Or by something, at least. Impatience, puzzlement and a hint of fear flowed across his face, bringing an urgent cast to his features.

"We were supposed to kill all of you." Roscha glanced up at the door, then spoke more quickly. "But one hundred were saved, for the duke's victory ritual. It was just... what one does, and I suppose we couldn't believe that Baruno truly meant that every single one must be killed." He lowered his voice and went on in a harsh whisper, as though he feared someone crouching outside the door to listen, "You saved my life and I'll not ignore that obligation. I made sure you were one of the hundred. We were told the one hundred most beautiful men in the city and you--" He cut himself off and closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw working on some words he was determined to swallow.

Roscha shifted on the bed and straddled Luka's hips so he was sitting on him. For an instant Luka was afraid he was going to be raped again, but there was nothing sexual in Roscha's demeanor when he went on. "But one of Baruno's arch-priests objected. I left him arguing with the duke but he'll likely win one way or the other. They'll kill all the men left in the hall first, then they'll come for those who'd been taken out. We have to do this and you must cooperate." Roscha's lips quirked in a sideways smirk. "I know you must want a chance to kill me yourself. This is the only way you'll get it. Survive and bide your time! Follow me and we'll save your life, so you can decide later what to do with it."

He didn't wait for Luka to acknowledge him, but took the small knife and stabbed the tip of it into Luka's chest, into the thick muscle over his heart, then began to carve.

Luka made a loud, pained noise, the bellow startled out of him. He clenched his teeth on the stick in his mouth, grateful for it for the first time that day, and lay there with his eyes clenched shut, determined to stay silent. Roscha kept talking while he worked.

"This hasn't been necessary since my grandfather's day," he whispered, "but that priest is going to be a bastard for the rules and rituals, so we're doing it. Taking you before witnesses should have been enough, and would have been any other time. But he obviously hadn't even thought of it, or was disregarding it if he had. So we're doing this up properly and no one will be able to dispute it."

Roscha was slicing Luka's flesh open in short strokes -- stab, carve, stab, carve -- and Luka was panting with the sharp, tearing pain of it. He could feel blood trickling down the side of his chest and hoped the bed cover was ruined with it.

"There." Roscha wiped the blade off on the covers and dropped it, then picked up the box. He opened it, licked his fingertip and dipped it in, bringing it out covered with crushed, white crystals. "This is going to hurt," he warned, before smearing the salt into whatever design he'd carved.

Luka couldn't prevent the scream from escaping, nor cut it off once he'd begun. The pain went all the way through him and he'd no strength left for fighting it off.

"I'm sorry," Roscha murmured. He kept going, though, rubbing salt into every part of the wound. "This will make sure it scars, so it'll always show. It's permanent. Some people do this with a hot iron, but that's barbaric. Even if it weren't, I haven't got a hot iron. That's faster, I'll grant. And might hurt less, since it's over with all at once. But this is older, more likely to hold up to a challenge. I'm sorry, I know it hurts. We have to or they'll kill you. Hang on, I'm nearly done."

The man was babbling and Luka could almost believe that what he was doing bothered him, if he hadn't been focused on the pain exploding in his chest. He thrashed and jerked, but Roscha's weight kept him pinned in place for the torture. One more thing to hate him for.

"There. We'll have to wait a while before rinsing it out. That'll help keep foul spirits out of it anyway -- they fear salt."

Luka was lost in a dark fog of pain. He struggled to leave it but it huddled around him and clung. He hardly noticed that Roscha had the knife again and was cutting him loose, freeing his wrists from the bedpost and removing the stick from his mouth.

"You nearly bit that in half," Roscha murmured. "I'm sorry. We're almost done. I've accepted you as my slave, now you need to accept me as your master. I need you to do this, Luka. You need to do this." Roscha tugged him off the bed and Luka's legs collapsed under him, spilling him to the floor. They were still numb and aching, fighting for supremacy with his sliced-up chest.

He heard a cluster of footsteps and loud voices out in the corridor. Roscha must have heard them too because he grabbed Luka by the arms and hauled him up into a kneeling position. He left him there swaying and tore at the laces on his breeches. For the second time that night, Luka was threatened with another man's cock, but this time it was much closer, bobbing right in front of his face.

"Luka!" Roscha hissed at him. "You have to do it! They'll kill you if you don't accept me!"

A fist pounded on the door and a hesitant voice called out, quickly drowned out by a much harsher one. They spoke Pilen, and Luka had never learned more than a few words of the Molani language, but he could guess they were demanding entry.

Roscha ignored them. "Luka, please!"

His "master" sounded near desperate and Luka fought for some clarity of mind, pushing the pain back enough to think, if only shallowly. He considered just ignoring them all and letting them kill him. Then it would be over. Everything he knew was gone -- his school, his students. His mother and sister had been handed over to some other Molani bastards and were likely lying somewhere covered in foreign spunk. Even if he escaped, he'd never find them. Tochi was dead, and the other boys who'd looked to him for teaching and protection. He'd failed them all.

Whoever it was outside had become impatient and the door slammed open, much as it had when Roscha had come thundering in. Only this time there were more of them. Luka saw one of the slaves who'd hauled him in earlier, and a man in fine grey robes, and two more in grey livery who held longknives already stained with blood.

On the other hand, he could get some revenge before dying. Roscha wanted his mouth -- Luka could give it to him, and do his best to unman him before the priests killed him. He'd have company on the road to the next world.

Although there'd be plenty of company already, from what Roscha had told him, even without adding one more.

The Molani babbled back and forth, Roscha and the priests finally shouting at each other. The one in robes bellowed a command and the two with the knives strode forward.

Roscha pushed between them and Luka, blocking them with his body. "Luka, do it!" His eyes whipped around the room as though searching for something, then he shook Luka by the shoulders and hissed, "Tochi's alive!"

Luka's head snapped up and he stared at him.

"I made sure he was chosen! I pointed a friend at him, a man who'd treat him gently. He's alive and we can find him, buy him if you like. Don't leave him alone!"

Fuck. Roscha was probably lying. He just wanted Luka for himself and he'd proven that lies came easily to his tongue.

But what if he wasn't?

A dark-stained hand tried to pull Roscha away from Luka. Roscha turned and snapped something short and imperious-sounding at him and the hand was jerked back. The two priests were determined, though, and shoved around, Roscha. One had his knife drawn back.

Fuck. He couldn't take the chance.

Luka grabbed at Roscha's hips and yanked him forward, took his limp cock in his mouth and sucked.

He'd hardly had time to get a flavor of him, sweaty and musky, before Roscha pulled away and shoved the priests back. He snarled something at the one in the robes, something about family. He pointed back at Luka, and said that he was Molani now.

Luka stared at Roscha's back, his eyes widened in horror and anger. What the fuck had they done?

He looked down at his chest for the first time and saw that Roscha had carved an M over his heart, with a linked S and A. M for Molani? That was his wonderful idea, to convince them that Luka had become a Molani? What, did every man who wanted to be a Molani citizen -- and Luka knew there were many clamoring for what they saw as a great privilege -- have to suck a royal cock?

The two priests with the knives were looking back and forth between Roscha and their leader in the robes.

Roscha invoked the name of their emperor somehow. The priest sneered at him, but eventually backed away. There was a final exchange of threats, then the priests turned and went away.

The door closed behind them and Luka felt a wave of relief. No matter what he'd been thinking earlier, he didn't want to be cut down by some holy thug with a knife.

Roscha waited only a few moments, long enough for the footsteps out in the corridor to fade away, then hauled Luka to his feet. "We have to go," he said, yanking Luka toward the door. "And you have to come with me. If I leave you here, they might come back and if I'm gone they're likely to kill you anyway and apologize to my father after. Come."

Luka balked and yanked back. He said, "I'm not going out there naked!" His mouth was still stiff and stinging and it came out a slur, but Roscha obviously understood.

"You're a slave, no one gives a fuck if you're naked! We have to get to Bayon and tell him what works before they kill Tochi!"

That-- was different. Luka grimaced but followed, letting himself be yanked along by one arm.

They ran along the hall until they came across a pair of slaves on some errand. Roscha stopped them and spat a question. One shrugged but the other pointed back the way they'd come and babbled some instructions. Luka recognized a "right" and "left" repeated a few times, before Roscha swore and yanked him away again, running faster.

Three corridors and five turns later, Roscha banged on a door, then burst in. "Where is he? Do you have salt? I should've brought -- where is he?"