The right side of Neila’s chest had been crushed by hooves, and one leg bent at an angle no human limb should ever see. She lay helpless as ribs shifted and organs flowed back to where they belonged. She would be fine. The entire process left Neila quaking with wave after wave of ecstatic pleasure. But instead of trusting her ability to heal and following after the escapees, Stevan knelt and tenderly scooped her up into his arms.
The part of Neila that still clung to coherent thought wanted to scolded him, to beat against his chest and push him away. She was so enthralled by the bliss of her healing, however, that she was unable to respond to the insult. Worse, his touch sent shivers of desire down her twisted spine. When she was able to move once more, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss.
She was infuriated with herself. How could she be so weak?Memories of her mother’s loving gaze flashed through her mind,reminders of a life before pain and pleasure had melted together, a time when there had been only love. She hated those memories. She pushed them and Stevan away, ordering him to put her down.
He did as she bid, but the look of concern and affection on his face infuriated her. She slapped him. The echoes of the blow repeated through the surrounding temples. Bones in her hand cracked with the force, sending yet more shivers of pleasure ran down her spine.
Despite the crimson handprint on his cheek, Stevan was unfazed. He gave Neila a bland, unconcerned stare as the print faded away to nothing.
Her fury refused to go with it. “What are you still doing here?” she barked. “Go after the Lord Defender. And don’t come back without him.”
Stevan looked at her quizzically, but bowed in acquiescence. “As you wish, Neila.” He turned authoritative, barking commands to a couple nearby soldiers. His experience as the Lord Defender’s second shown through as they hurried to do his bidding. That he had been her prisoner just a day before did not appear to matter. The three of them left her to retrace the path of the fleeing cart.
As she watched Stevan go, Gregor came up to stand beside her. “It was the Elahner woman, the one you freed at his request.” He said the word “his” like a curse. “She and a monk of Yush assaulted our caravan at the front gate and stole a cart.”
“Dammit,” she muttered. Tamping down her fury, she took a deep breath. There was nothing she could do about it now. Instead, she focused on the task at hand. “How does it go in the city?”
“It is ours,” Gregor said, “but many nobles and merchants have retreated to their mansions. They refuse to come out. They have enough hired men to be a problem.”
“Then we must be rooting them out. Go door to door if you must. Send those you find here for the blooding. Kill those who refuse to submit.”
“Of course,” Gregor said.
He left her at the fountain, surrounded by the quivering mass of people too enthralled by its tainted waters to know what was happening. She waded through the throng to wait by the fountain’s edge.
With time to think, she wondered at the Lord Defender’s bleeding wound. Why did he not heal? Worry began to gnaw at her. To distract herself, she slashed at her wrist again, refreshing the waters with her blood. This caused a frenzy of activity as people dove in for another taste. She thought nothing of it. All that mattered was the distraction that small measure of pleasure the injury caused.
More people arrived at the fountain. Most were herded in at sword point, many hobbled by injuries. Their wounds were forgotten as they drank from the water. Any resistance they still held melted away, leaving them trembling for more.
As the day wore on, she continued to cut at herself to sustain the bloodings. Though exhausted and drained, she continued on, slashing her arm again and again to feed the throngs. Eventually her body protested, her stomach growling from hunger. She tried her best to ignore it, finding the joy in her own discomfort.
As the sun sank in the sky, she was too tired to think. Gregor came and tried to talk to her, but seeing her blank stare, he took her hand and lead her from the fountain. She no longer had the power to protest his touch.
He brought her to a beautiful, ostentatious building with fluted columns and ornate crenellations along the roofline. It was a small castle turned into a work of art. The veined granite from which it was built made her think of clouds.
The former owner groveled at the entrance in greeting. “This is High Priest Mital,” said Gregor with disdain. “He has graciously given us his home for our use.”
“Yes, my lady,” the High Priest said, his tone simpering and apologetic. “I am at your service, as are all those who serve the Three. I offer my second as your attendant if you please.”
His sickly sweet words brought Neila back to herself. She smirked in contempt. “No, I think not. I want you to attend to me.”
“Me, my lady? But…”
“But what?” Neila asked testily. “I be wanting you. You to make my bed. You to serve me drink. You to clean the privy. You, and only you.”
“My lady, who will oversee the the worship of the Three?”
“Who?” Neila teased. “That would be me, and you will be cleaning my shoes while I do it. Or I will be making your useless hide into shoes. What will you be saying to that?”
“My lady…” he said hesitantly, trying to come up with a response.
“You drank at the fountain, yes?”
“Yes, my lady.” His head hung down in shame.
“Do you wish to taste again?”
His eyes flicked up, his pupils wide with desire. “Yes, my lady.”
“Then do as I say, and you will get what you desire.”
“Of course.” He bowed low. “Thank you, my lady.”
That stopped all argument. His resistance culled, he did everything she asked.
That evening she dined in the mansion’s grand hall. The walls of hand carved maple gleamed in light that flickered from ornate sconces around the room. The space could host a hundred, but only herself, Gregor, and a handful of appointed men sat at the long dining table. A handful of servants flitted in and out of the room with food and drink, while High Priest Mital acted as Neila’s personal attendant.
Stevan was not there. Disappointed that he had not returned, Neila feigned interest in discussions over guard rotations and living assignments. But not even High Priest Mital’s fawning relieved her boredom.
When Mital spilled her wine for the third time, she decided to leave before she killed the man. She waved away his feeble apologies and took her leave, going to bed while Gregor played at being the barbarian king.
She woke early the next day, intent keep her word and act in Mital’s stead for the daily devotions to the Three. As they walked to the temples, Mital tried to explain the required rituals. Neila paid little attention.
Ignoring Vor as Mital directed, she turned first to the temple of Kurn. Standing before the great statue of the god was a line of children.
“Who are they?” she asked in confusion.
“They are what remains of the temple’s priesthood,” said Mital. “All the senior priests died in defense of the city. These are the trainees who were too young to take up arms.”
Damn it all, Neila thought. Of course the city guard were all acolytes of the God of War. She surveyed the group of children. They were a stern bunch with dour faces, every one of them scowling at her with undisguised anger.
Instead of offering a prayer to the Kurn as she was told, she drew the god’s sword from the scabbard at her hip and approached the children. Picking one out of the crowd, she walked up to a boy no older than ten summers. Though he trembled before her, he stood his ground, staring defiantly into her eyes as if ready to claw them out when she got close enough.
“You be doing Kurn honor, young one,” she said. She rested the blade on her forearm and offered it to the boy. His eyes went wide. The fury dropped away as he knelt before that blade. He bowed his head and tenderly kissed the metal.
She did this for each of the children. She finished at who she assumed was the oldest, a boy barely tall enough to look directly into her eyes.
“This temple be now yours. Care for it and the city in the name of Kurn the Defender and Kurn the Destoyer. This be in your hands. Understand?”
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The boy nodded. “Yes, my lady.”
She looked back down the line of faces. Their scowls were gone, replaced with reverence. With a nod she left them.
Turning then to the temple of Hir, she approached a line of young women. In front of them stood their High Priestess, Oracle Sherine. She was a beautiful woman, tall and elegant in a flowing white pleated dress. Upon her introduction to Neila, the woman dropped to the temple’s marble floor to prostate herself. She touched her forehead to the ground, her dress spread around her like a shroud.
“Dearest of Kurn, we greet you. We offer the Temple of the Oracle into your service.” The Priestess rose to her knees but remained on the ground, eyes cast down.
Sherine remained in that position for some time, quiet and respectful, making Neila twitch from the silence.
Neila searched her memory, trying to remember what she was supposed to say. When Mital tried to prompt to her, she waved him away, trying to hold onto the flashes of memory from her childhood.
“Blessed be Hir,” Neila finally said, the memories trickling in. She had stood with her mother at the Great Temple of Hir in the city of Orphir, clasping her hand as she said the words she looked for. “And blessings to the Great Lady. I be accepting your offer. Rise and be well.”
Only then did Sherine rise to her feet. Turning to the women behind her, she raised her hands, prompting them to break into a song to the Goddess. Sherine directed them, fingers flicking in time to the music.
Neila waited respectfully. Hir was not be her favorite among the gods, but she bore no ill will for her. She half listened, half remembered her mother, the giant statue of the Great Lady looming over the both of them.
The song complete, the High Priestess turned back to Neila. “You give much honor to Hir,” Neila said. “Thanks be to you and yours.”
“And to you, Neila, favored of Kurn.”
Neila turned away, guided by Mital to her next destination. She left feeling thoughtful, having thought about the gods more in one morning than she had in many seasons. It left her feeling smaller and more vulnerable than she was comfortable with.
Then came Vor. She stood before the statue on his throne and looked up at the figure disapprovingly. At this time of day the amphitheater was still in shadow, the morning sun not yet fully risen. Line of priests stood to either side, heads bowed in silent respect.
Her stomach tightened in response. “I will not be worshiping Vor this day or any other.” She said it defiantly. The very thought of doing otherwise made her anger rise like a burning furnace. Neila was not sure where her rage came from, but she did not care. It felt wrong, and that was all he reason she needed.
“But my lady, we must give our blessings. The people are waiting.” He motioned behind them, where row upon row of worshipers sat silently on their knees on the marble floor.
“No,” she said again. Digging in her heels, she continued. “In fact, I be wanting him gone.” She turned to Mital expectantly.
“Gone, my lady? I don’t understand.”
“Gone. What are you not understanding about that? I be wanting the statue removed. Destroy it and throw the stone into a midden heap. But leave the throne.”
“But my lady…”
Her rage turned into cold fury. She looked at him blandly, her hand restly idly on the hilt of her sword. She was shorter than the High Priest, but Mital understood the threat. His hands moved to his belly to protect it.
“Of course, my lady,” he said with a pained expression.
One of the nearby priests spoke up in protest. “This is heresy! How dare you!”
Neila drew her sword. She walked up to young man and looked up into his eyes. He sneered down at her with disdain. She smiled, her gaze never leaving his face. “Shame. Such a pretty face.” With a swift motion, she stabbed him in the gut.
He cried out in pain. His knees buckled, but she kept the blade in place, refusing to let him fall. He tried desperately to stay on his feet, to keep the blade from spilling his bowels on the the temple floor, but he failed. The sword gutted him to his sternum as he collapsed.
She shivered as she drank in his pain, feeling it come in waves until the moment he took his last breath. Only then did she allow his body to slide silently to the floor.
With a sigh she turned to the other priests. All of them looked away. Two of them started to heave, regurgitating their morning meals onto the marble. Beyond that, she heard no other complaints.
Gregor stood nearby, lips white from the effort of keeping his mouth firmly shut. His face turned red with anger, but he succeeded in saying nothing. He became a statue, fists curled into tight knots.
The rest of the worshipers fled. Neila felt no remorse. She remained where she was, supervising as High Priest Mital gathered the priests and priestesses of each sect to do the requested work. A team of horses was brought in and the statue tied off with heavy ropes. After several tugs, the ebony and obsidian figure toppled from the large marble throne. It fell onto its face and shattered into a pile of unrecognizable rubble.
The priests then began the work of clearing the debris. Gregor had the forethought of using some of the more intact stone slabs to the foot of the throne, providing Neila with steps up. As the work continued around her, Neila walked up those steps to sit on the gigantic seat. From her high perch, she watched as the area was cleared of the last remains of Vor the Emperor.
Though she was dwarfed by the ornately carved seat, the back of which rose to more than her full height standing, she felt more than large enough to fill it. As word of the work spread, people of the city came to watch. Soon the crowd of gawkers turned into a line of people paying her homage over the course of the day.
She returned to that seat over the next three mornings as the people of Nassir kneeled before her. She offered bloodings in the fountain for them to drink, and sitting back on her throne, watched as the people squirmed and writhed with the joy her blood gave them.
From her seat she could see Kurn kneeling in his temple. It felt reassuring, as if it was there to watch over her. When boredom overtook her, she would stare at it, earnestly studying its solid features.
Following her gaze, High Priest Mital felt the need to jabber on about its history. Kurn’s temple had been built atop the tomb of the first Emperor’s High Lord Defender, a man whose real name was lost to antiquity but whose penchant for destruction earned him the title of The Destroyer. The mounds to either side of the southern route from this very city were said to be from the bones of those who defied him.
For once Neila found Mital’s incessant prattling comforting. Though the stories also mentioned how that Emperor had sacrificed his general to Vor in exchange for divine aid in his battles, she enjoyed the thought that she now followed in The Destroyer’s footsteps. In that first age, the taking of Nasir had been a prelude to forming the Empire. Neila saw her own conquest as a first step in her own road toward greatness.
Within a few days the city returned to a relative state of normalcy. Her own guards now stood post at each gate, and local farmers were once again allowed to come and go as they pleased.
Gregor had been busy. Conquered or not, the business of the city must continue, he had told her. And fortunately for her, Nassir's business was religion. Once the gates opened, pilgrims returned to give homage to their gods, not caring who ran the city. The only stipulation was to drink once from the fountain in the temple square. After that, their faces awash with holy revelation, they were free to spread the word of Neila divinity.
Unfortunately, The bloodings took their toll on Neila. She ended every day exhausted and ravenous, eating anything she could get her hands on to feed the gnawing hunger within her. Even Mital, glutton that he was, was amazed by the quantities she consumed. Then she would retire to her rooms and sleep, too tired to do anything else.
She never remembered her dreams, but always awoke with her limbs wrapped around a heap of pillows. For a few moments between sleep and waking, she would imagine they were Stevan. But disappointment always followed. She would wrap her hands around one and strangle it, squeezing until the stuffing looked ready to burst from it before throwing it across the room.
After four days Stevan had not returned. The monotony of sitting upon that dark throne and shedding blood into the fountain was getting to her. She desperately needed something or someone to make her feel alive again. She considered taking another lover to her bed, but none felt right. Before Stevan, she had torn out the throat of her last lover with her teeth. After a less than satisfying evening in bed, he had dared to brag of his sexual prowess. In rage, she ended the night with his gurgling scream. Though the moment had salvaged the ruin of their lovemaking, it brought an emptiness that she did not want to repeat.
On the fifth day, a lookout sent word of Stevan's return. She rushed to the eastern gate, pacing with impatience for his arrival. He rode in just ahead of his men, stone faced and drooping in his saddle. She smiled at the sigh of him, but his face gave nothing in return. Lips stretched taut in a grimace, he did not acknowledge her presence.
Then she looked down the line of men. There were no prisoners. He had failed to return the Lord Defender to her. Anger flaring, she drew her sword, prepared to show Stevan her disappointment with a thrust of her blade.
That’s when she noticed the sweat dripping from his brow and the grey stippling of his hair and beard. His face had become a field of furrows so deep he appeared even older than when they first met. He wobbled in his seat, knuckles white from the strain of holding the saddle horn.
"I’m sorry, my lady, I failed." The words came out a whisper. Then his eyes rolled up in his head. Stevan toppled from his saddle onto the cobbles at her feet.
Anger forgotten, Neila dropped her sword and kneeled beside him. She moved his head to her lap and swept the sweat matted hair from his eyes. Pain rippled from him, sending a pleasant chill down her spine.
“What happened?” she asked between gritted teeth.
“Forgive, my lady,” said one of the other riders. He was a young man, but like Stevan he looked tired beyond his years. His hair was plastered to his skull, and his tunic was dark from dripping sweat.
"They led us on quite a chase. We were close, I think we could have caught them eventually, but we all became sick. His lordship got it first, even worse than the rest of us." The young man swallowed, looking nauseous from the effort of speaking.
"He wanted us to continue, of course,” he continued defensively, “but we wouldn’t have made it. His lordship could barely keep his seat. We had to come back. Please, my lady. Forgive us."
Neila tried to summon her rage, but the flits of delight emanating from Stevan made it impossible. She stroked his cheek, the sensation tingling through her fingers. The anger would not come.
"Are you knowing where they went?" she asked instead.
"We found the tracks of their wagon near Yushen, my lady. It's a trading town near the mountain pass to Elahn."
She nodded absently. Stevan’s eyes were clouded, looking past her into the sky without a hint of recognition. Taking up her fallen sword, she placed an edge to her opposite palm and cut deeply. She put the wound to Stevan’s lips.
Life slowly returned to Stevan. His hands first twitched, then reached up to hold her hand to his mouth. She did not resist. Neila allowed him to hungrily suck at the wound until it was healed. Only then did his breathing steady and his eyes gently close into sleep. The tingles of pleasure ceased as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Looking to her own men, Neila ordered them to help her. At her direction they picked up Stevan and followed her through the city to Mital’s mansion. There they gently laid him on her bed.
She sent the men away, but remained by Stevan’s side. The comforter was white, but his dusty, sweat soaked clothing created a dark smudged outline on the covers. That darkness seemed to soak in the light from of the room, as if he was drinking it in just as he had with her blood.
She laid down next to him and put her head to his chest. She listened to the steady beating of his heart and inhaled his scent of sweat and woodsmoke. The coarseness of his dirty clothes rubbed against her cheek like sand. But she did not care.
