Spoils of War (Part 1)
“Why aren’t you listening to me? I told you, I decided to take a slave of my own and I want you to release this man to serve me!” a young man exclaimed as he stomped between the group of soldiers and their captives. The older men were exasperated. Why on earth had their General agreed to let his son come on this campaign? If the man thought that bringing him would toughen the boy up, he’d been sadly mistaken. The spoiled young man had ordered every kind of luxury for his quarters, and he made new complaints and demands daily. The soldiers in charge of watching after him quickly grew weary of the task.
“Young Sir, I think it would be best to wait until your father returns to—”
“The slave is not for Father. He’s for me! I expect you to obey me!”
The older men shifted uneasily, debating how to best handle the situation. How could they placate the brat and still obey their orders from the General?
“I understand, Sir Aranck,” said one of the younger soldiers, giving his companions a meaningful look. “We will prepare the slave for you and bring him to your tent later.”
The man was rather pleased with himself for devising a plan that would buy them time until the General’s return. Unfortunately, Aranck was not so easily put off. “No, no, no!” the boy said, annoyed. He waved his hand with impatience. “I don’t want any fuss!”
At this statement, one of the soldiers nearly burst out laughing, but somehow restrained himself. No fuss? Weeks of the boy’s whining about every trivial discomfort quickly came to mind in direct contradiction to the young man’s words.
His grin of amusement faded, however, when Aranck stepped up to his chosen slave and asked for his chain. “Give him to me. I’ll take him back to my tent myself.”
The men glanced at one another. The captive the boy had chosen was a tall man, lean and muscular. His tanned body, naked but for a loincloth, bore the scars of battle.
Aranck was heedless of their stares. He was quite pleased with his choice. He didn’t want some frail, meek slave—he wanted someone he could flaunt, someone worthy of his status as the General’s son. In his eyes, the captive was an appropriate servant for a person of nobility such as himself. From the soldiers’ point of view, the dark warrior looked far too strong and dangerous for the boy to control. There was little doubt that the captive could easily break the boy’s slender neck if he wanted to. It would be endangering the young man’s life to let the savage near him.
However, even the boy’s personal guards did not have the authority to refuse him or dress him down, much as they wanted to. They all believed the insufferable young man should have been given the same treatment as the young soldiers in the camp. Since the boy technically had not yet come of age, though, Aranck was only on campaign as an observer. This meant that the General was the young man’s sole guardian, leaving his men in a tight spot. They couldn’t outright refuse the brat’s requests, but if anything happened to the boy, it would be their own hides that paid the price.
Aranck’s new demand for this dangerous slave was the worst episode they had been forced to deal with thus far. Out of earshot, the soldiers began to murmur in discontent.
“If only he’d been born a girl,” one of them muttered, “then we wouldn’t have to deal with this.”
“He’s certainly pretty enough to pass as a woman,” snickered another. Though an inappropriate assessment of their General’s son, this was nevertheless quite true. The young man’s slight build and soft, shoulder length blond hair made Aranck appear more like a adolescent girl than a young boy on the edge of manhood—especially in a camp filled with muscular soldiers in short, rough haircuts. It was lucky for the brat that he was protected by his father, since more than one man had been eying his youthful beauty and tight little ass.
None of this, of course, was even remotely known to the young man in question, who now had a hand on his hip in a pretty pose reminiscent of a pouting teenage girl.
“His chain,” Aranck ordered impatiently, holding out his hand.
The soldier who had been leading the slave train grudgingly took the keys from his pocket and unhooked the captive from his place in line, handing the boy the chain. The sight would have been humorous, if it hadn’t been so potentially dangerous: the tall, dark-skinned captive being led away by a young man half his size and strength. Aranck’s grip on the chain was negligible, and the men watched and waited for the captive warrior to try and break away to make his escape. He never did.
With Aranck’s personal guards close behind, the pair made their way through the camp to the boy’s tent without incident. Once there, however, yet another issue arose.
“Give me the key to his shackles,” Aranck ordered.
“Sir? You don’t mean to release his bonds?” asked one of his guards.
“He can’t very well serve me with his wrists manacled together!” the boy retorted.
“Of course not, Sir, but at least give us a moment to go to the smithy and get a neck chain for him—”
The young boy snorted. “Don’t bother. It’s not as if he can escape. Where’s he going to go? I’m squarely in the middle of camp!”
The two soldiers could not believe the boy was so blind to the danger of having the captive loose in his tent—escape should have been the least of his worries. One of the guards began to protest, but the other man caught his eye and shook his head. There was no reasoning with the General’s little brat.
The slave’s wrists were released. As a compromise, however, the soldiers decided to stand guard just outside the tent’s entrance. They would be able to hear if there was a struggle inside, and in any case General Machakw would be returning in a few hours and put the boy in his place. They’d enjoy seeing him reprimanded…if he was still alive.
Once Aranck was inside his tent and out of sight of his guards, the boy gave a heavy sigh, ignoring his new slave. The young man’s life had been an isolated one up to the point when his father had dragged him off to this forsaken planet. At least with his own slave he could feel a bit more civilized.
“That was unwise of you, little Master,” came a smooth, dark voice.
Aranck jumped at the unexpected sound. “I didn’t give you permission to speak!” he yelled, settling down comfortably on his bed. The large, ornate piece of furniture was the only one like it in the otherwise sparse camp. He was used to well-trained servants and slaves, and had never broken one in himself. Certainly he had never come in contact with any of his father’s prisoners of war. Aranck expected the man to look repentant after being chastised, as his house servants usually did, but the man merely smirked at him.
“I can see you have a lot to learn about being a proper servant,” Aranck said haughtily, trying to sound as authoritative as his father and falling far short. The captive was a handsome man, and the boy could feel his eyes on him. He was so rattled that he hadn’t even realized they were speaking in Damadhian, rather than in his own native tongue. His aptitude for languages had been the only useful skill he’d been able to provide his father since joining him on campaign a month earlier.
“And you have much to learn about being a proper Master,” the dark man said with a chuckle. He’d been amazed when the boy replied in his own language, but he had recovered quickly.
The young man became indigent at this remark. “T—that’s what I’m talking about! You shouldn’t speak with such disrespect!” he sputtered. Crossing his arms, the boy sat fuming on the edge of the bed.
The dark captive watched Aranck closely, eying the young man as he pouted. The boy had delicate silver-blond hair that gently framed his pretty face. His body was slim and elegant, but it lacked strength. His young frame was clothed in the decorative uniform of someone of high rank, but the boy couldn’t have been old enough to be a soldier. He recalled the discussion earlier, when the boy had stormed up and, looking him over, announced he had chosen him as his new slave. Cajha was hardly fluent in his captor’s strange language, but he knew enough for his purposes. The officers had mentioned something about the boy’s father, but they never stated his rank. Could this possibly be the son of General Machakw? He’d heard rumors that the military leader had a son, and this boy was obviously born from nobility.
As he considered him, the warrior noticed the long, proud arch of the boy’s neck, beautiful, yet delicate. No doubt the windpipe would collapse easily beneath his grip. He could be on top of the young man in two strides, before he even had a chance to cry for help. Evening was coming on. With his skills, he might be able to slip out of the camp undetected, but then what? The young man’s death might have ugly repercussions. Even if the boy wasn’t the General’s son, he evidently held some status—the blond’s quarters were lavish and totally impractical for the military setting. Obviously he was used to being pampered and catered to. A spoiled little rich boy playing at soldier, he thought. Not worth instigating a new crisis over just to save his own hide, however.
“Aren’t you afraid to be alone with me?” he asked, stepping closer to the boy. If killing the boy was out of the question, kidnapping for ransom or parley could still be an option.
Aranck’s pout shifted to a look of wariness. “Why should I be?” he asked, forgetting to reprimand his slave for talking out of turn.
“Don’t you realize why your guards are so worried? With my hands free, I could easily kill you and run off.” Cajha expected to cow the young man with this veiled threat, but the boy surprised him by giving a little laugh.
“As I told my guards—we’re in the middle of camp. You wouldn’t get very far if you tried to escape.”
“You think so?” the captive replied in a way that made the boy’s grin disappear. “I can blend in with the shadows quite easily. No one would know.”
The young man did not like the way the man’s eyes looked at him—like a confident hunter and he the defenseless prey. “If you’re that good,” he retorted, “you wouldn’t have gotten caught in the first place!”
The man’s onyx eyes somehow grew darker, and narrowed to slits. “That was different. My village was attacked in the dead of night. We were unarmed, yet they murdered even the women and children.”
Aranck jumped to his feet. “That’s a lie! My father would never attack in such a cowardly manner!”
“You have a lot to learn, little Master,” the man said softly, almost sadly. What was this child doing here, in the middle of a battle? He was too far too naive. He didn’t belong here.
“No, you are the one who must learn,” Aranck said stubbornly, having collected himself—the man’s dark stare made him feel decided unsettled. “We’ll start with the basics. Whenever I enter, you are to kneel before me and when I sit on the bed, you will remove my boots. Is that understood?”
The young man crossed his legs and waited, wiggling his foot with such comic expectancy that his servant had to stifle a laugh.
If nothing else, Cajha had to admit that the boy amused him. After days of bloody warfare and endless innocent lives stolen, it lifted his spirits to see someone who was still untouched by such terrible nightmares. What harm was there in playing along for a bit? Hiding a smile, he knelt and slipped off the young man’s boots.
“Very good,” Aranck said approvingly. “Next, I missed my afternoon tea. You will serve it to me.”
The warrior’s eyebrows lifted at this request. Was this honestly how the boy conducted his everyday life in the camp? Could he really be General Machakw’s son? Or perhaps the pretty young man was indulged because he provided the soldiers with companionship while they were on campaign? Looking the boy over, Cajha tried to imagine him servicing the rough soldiers in the camp. It was a surprisingly erotic fantasy, but he doubted it was true. Even if it explained the young man’s extravagant surroundings, the way the soldiers treated the young man did not coincide with such a scenario. Moreover, the warrior had a feeling the boy’s innocence extended into the realm of sex as well. His instincts told him the pretty young thing was still a virgin. A tantalizing prospect, he thought.
As Aranck waited impatiently, his slave slowly walked to the kettle warming on a square of hot coals in the dirt floor and came back to fill the teapot. Cajha had never seen an old fashioned Terran teapot before, but his own family had often made herbal infusions, and it appeared to be much the same principle.
The blond boy held his dainty cup and saucer over the small table set next to his bed and watched as his new slave served him. The dark man’s hands were large and callused, and looked odd holding the delicate porcelain pot. Aranck found his heart racing faster at the sight of those strong hands. He let his eyes wander up the man’s sinewy arms, his bare chest, then was suddenly arrested by the warrior’s dark eyes. They were watching him. The large man’s closeness daunted him, and Aranck almost dropped his cup. Hot tea spilled onto his hand and he yelped in pain. He felt stupid and clumsy and lashed out like an awkward child.“You imbecile!” he yelled. “You’ve burned me!” Without thinking, he reacted as he would have with one of his docile house servants, and slapped the man across the face.
Slowly, Cajha turned his eyes to focus on the boy, who immediately recoiled under his threatening gaze. Though the captive didn’t mind playing along, he would not become this child’s simpering servant.
Aranck had never seen such naked power in anyone’s eyes, not even his father’s. Backing away further onto the bed in fear, he whispered, “I—I’m sorry.”
Without uttering a word, Cajha had the boy trembling. He read the fear in every line of the young blond’s body, and the man realized he might be able to make more use of his situation than he’d at first imagined. If the young man was so easily intimidated, he might be able to get vital information from him about his father’s plans.
There were also other, more pleasurable possibilities. The willowy young man looked the picture of innocence waiting to be plundered: chest heaving, face flushed, and body leaning back into the lush bedspread.
With confusion, Aranck saw his slave’s face change from anger to something no less intense, but just as disturbing. The sharp lines of his brow softened, but Cajha’s eyes remained narrowed and determined. His nostrils flared as if catching the scent of vulnerable prey, and he looked ready to devour him.
Strangely, Aranck’s fear had left him, and nervous expectation had replaced it.
A breathless moment passed between them, only to be abruptly broken when a familiar voice rose in wrath just outside the boy’s tent. A second later, the General was striding inside, looking livid. The guards stepped in behind him.
“Get away from him—now!” the General bellowed.
Aranck wasn’t sure if his father was addressing him or his new slave—who was currently leaning over him—but he scrambled off the bed and immediately stood at attention.
“Seize him!” the imposing man said, pointing to the captive.
In an instant, Cajha was knocked onto his hands and knees, his face pressed into the dirt floor and his hands yanked behind his back.
“Stop!” Aranck yelled in alarm. “He’s my servant! I’ll deal with him!”
“Don’t talk back to me!” his father shouted. He slapped Aranck, not brutally, but enough for the boy to feel the sting of humiliation.
“I am gone for one day and you have to cause me trouble! This savage was one step away from throttling you!”
Looking defensive, Aranck replied in a sulky tone, “I had him under control.”
“Hah! Did you now?” the General spat, laughing derisively. “And what did you plan to do after he had snapped your neck?”
Aranck said nothing. His cheeks were red with shame.
“What is this new obsession of yours?” his father asked. “Why must you have a personal slave? Haven’t you been sufficiently pampered enough?”
“But why shouldn’t I have one?”
“I did not bring you across more than a hundred light years just to cater to your whims!” the tall man said as he towered over his son and glared down at him.
They looked like complete opposites when placed face-to-face. The General was a foot taller than his offspring, with coarse brunette hair and a strong square jaw—nothing like his son’s soft features. However, there were a few characteristics that revealed their relation. Despite his height and broad shoulders, Machakw was lean with a surprisingly narrow waist, though he was more muscular than his son and he lacked the boy’s grace. It was their odd green eyes that really marked them as father and son, though. They shared the same rare shade of pale green. Cajha guessed that the boy took his other prominent features from his mother.
The General continued to rant while Cajha assessed him. “I brought you here so you could see what military life was like, so you’d be able to make an informed decision when you come of age next year.” He gripped the boy’s chin. “But you’re still soft as butter! Perhaps I should’ve had you castrated and sent to learn women’s work! It would have saved me the trouble of trying to make a man out of you!”
Aranck took these insults in stoic silence. He’d heard worse before, though by the soft gasps of his guards, they had not.
Sensing that his son’s rebellion was quelled, Machakw’s temper slowly ebbed away.
“Now,” he began with a sigh, “I’m not an unreasonable man. I’m sure we can come to a compromise.”
“Yes, father,” Aranck said in a subdued tone.
The General nodded approvingly at the boy’s respectful attitude. “I will allow you to keep a servant if you start acting more like a man—join the daily target practice with the soldiers.”
“I already do horseback and archery practice,” Aranck ventured.
His father frowned. “Archaic methods! The compression gun is the best weapon in our arsenal and you haven’t even attempted it.”
This was not strictly true, however. The first week Aranck had arrived on the planet, the General had sent him to be trained with the compression gun. The boy had returned with an injured wrist later that day. Although the weapon was incredibly powerful, it recoiled badly after firing and required an immense amount of strength to control—strength Aranck did not have.
“I…” the blond boy began hesitantly, “I’ll try the sniper gun.”
The General’s eyebrows lifted. Evidently this reply pleased him. He nodded. “Very good, very good. You can begin tomorrow.” He snapped his fingers at the guards and they heaved the captive up to his feet.
“What are you doing?” Aranck asked anxiously when he saw his father signal the men to lead his slave out of the tent.
“Getting you a slave more suitable to you needs,” the man replied dryly.
“This is the one I’ve chosen,” Aranck said in a firm voice, one he had never dared use with his father before.
For a brief moment, the young man thought he was about to be slapped again, but his father merely stood looking down at him. The General recognized that his son was facing him like a man, rather than whining or demanding like a child, and he respected it.
“Very well. Then he will need to be properly chained,” his father replied. He nodded to the guards and ordered them to the smithy for a collar and cuffs.
Aranck was immensely relieved, until his father added, “And we will need to be sure he knows his place. It cannot have escaped you that this man is far stronger than you—and quite dangerous.”
“Perhaps, but—”
Before Aranck could say anything further, his father turned to the slave standing behind him and backhanded the man across his face so hard that Cajha fell to the floor with sickening thud!
Squatting down in front of the captive, Machakw yanked the man’s hair back so he could see his face. Cajha’s lip had broken open and was bleeding badly. In crude Damhadian, the General told him, “listen to me, you backwater filth! I know what you’re thinking, and if you touch one hair on the boy’s head, yours will roll as well! But first I’ll let my men violate you in ways even a savage like you will find hard to stomach! And if that’s not enough motivation, I’ll also reward your fellow prisoners for your disobedience by executing them and leaving their bodies to the dogs. Do we understand one another?”
Cajha grimaced in pain and hatred at the man who had slaughtered so many of his people. The ignorant bastard didn’t even know that his fellow prisoners weren’t from his own tribe. Actually, the other captives taken with him were from a tribe his own had been at war with. Not that such things mattered anymore—not when his most of his tribe lay dead and rotting in the fields.
Smiling at the captive’s look of loathing, General Machakw knew the man understood. “Good,” he said. “Now make sure you don’t forget it.” To punctuate his point, the General slammed his foot into the man’s gut, causing the man to spit up blood.
Aranck watched the scene in horror.
My father would never attack in such a cowardly manner! The boy’s face flushed with shame, but this time it was not his own. Aranck felt disgraced by the reprehensible actions of his father. If this was how a man was supposed to act, he wanted none of it.
When the General finally ceased his beating, Cajha was curled on the floor, his face bloody and his arms cradling his torso. Machakw straightened his uniform and turned to his son.
“No need to look so concerned. I avoided the vital organs. He’ll be bruised and sore tomorrow, but it shouldn’t interfere with his duties.”
Aranck could manage no reply. He nodded dumbly.
“I’ll expect you to be at the shooting range at sun-up.” Without further word, General Machakw left the tent.
In a daze, Aranck sat down on the edge of his bed. He could hear his slave’s labored breathing, but didn’t dare face him. He hadn’t the courage. Would the man truly be all right? His heart ached at the other man’s pain, even if he was a servant and an enemy. He had to do something.
Standing, the young man went to a desk in the corner and took out a small box. Avoiding the captive’s eyes, Aranck sat himself at his side and taking cotton and bandages from the box, began to tend to his injuries.
All the while, he could feel those dark eyes upon him. Aranck was certain he would see only contempt in the glittering onyx depths if he looked into them. Gingerly, he dabbed the servant’s split lip, marveling at the way the man never flinched as he cleaned the painful looking wound. Suddenly, the man caught his hand, staying the boy’s movement.
“You don’t have to fret over me, boy,” he said in a hoarse voice. His throat was bruised. “He was right. I might have killed you.”
Unable to help himself, Aranck finally met his slave’s piercing gaze. The rich brown-black eyes were steely and intense, but there was no hatred there, as he’d feared.
“I don’t think you would have,” Aranck said quietly, wiping a stream of blood from the man’s neck.
“You don’t realize what war is, little Master.”
Aranck ignored the appellation, replying, “No, and I don’t wish to.”
They fell into silence as the blond boy finished tending to his new slave, but before he stood, he asked, “what is your name?”
The dark man blinked at him. He hadn’t expected the boy to ask.
“Cajha,” he replied.
The blond young man smiled. “My name is Aranck. It was my grandfather’s name. It means ‘victor.’ It’s supposed to be a very auspicious name. Both my father and grandfather have been great leaders of men, you see.” The boy paused, his smile slipping away like sun behind the clouds. “I don’t think the name really suits me, does it?” He stood and quietly stowed the med kit back in his desk. “Back home, my friends would call me ‘Ara.’”
Cajha watched as his master gently laid a blanket over his naked shoulders. The boy sat down near him, leaning his back against the large bed. Aranck looked small and forlorn and it occurred to the man that this boy had about as many friends among the soldiers as he did.
Keeping his eyes fixed on a point on the floor, the young man placed a hand over the warrior’s own.
“You can call me ‘Ara,’ if you like.”
Spoils of War (Part 2)
Ara blinked his eyes open as the morning light seeped through his tent and wondered why his back was aching. Sitting up, the boy saw that he’d fallen asleep on the floor near Cajha, who still drowsed peacefully. The blond boy smiled, until he saw the brutal evidence of the slave’s injuries in the growing light. Around Cajha’s neck hung a heavy chain placed there by soldiers the previous night. Ara touched the cold steel and shivered. The air was thick with the smell of blood and sweat, and Ara realized the man was in bad need of a bath. He should send for hot water and food for their morning meal. Such tasks were rightly Cajha’s duty, but he was certainly in no shape for it yet.
“Young Sir,” came a voice from outside the tent.
Standing quickly and straightening his wrinkled uniform, Ara poked his head out of the tent. “Oh, Malakai. What is it?” he asked, yawning and stepping outside. Malakai was one of the few soldiers in camp who didn’t treat him like a disease.
“You’re expected on the shooting range this morning, aren’t you? I thought I’d come fetch you before the General decided to do so himself.”
“I’ll expect you to be at the shooting range at sun-up.”
The words echoed in Ara’s head and he cursed. He’d completely forgotten his promise to his father to begin training with the sniper gun.
“Thank you, Malakai! I’ll be right with you,” the young blond replied.
The tall solider nodded, smiling at the sight of Ara’s enticing behind as the boy turned back into the tent. The dark-haired man thought the General’s son just as spoiled and insipid as everyone else did. He also thought that if putting up with him meant he could one day seduce the boy to his bed, it would be worth it. Other soldiers had had similar thoughts, but no one dared act on them, lest they be discovered and have General Machakw throttle them for disgracing his son. Malakai, however, enjoyed his games of deceit and the thrill they brought him–and he was very good at keeping his secrets. The man grinned at the idea that Ara had absolutely no clue as to his ulterior motives, the frivolous little simpleton.
Back in his tent, the boy washed up quickly in the chilled water left in his basin and prepared to leave. Glancing at Cajha, he wondered if the man would be all right. He’d barely stirred.
“Sir Aranck,” came Malakai’s voice, “we need to be leaving.”
“Yes! Coming!” Ara called back as he rushed out the tent to meet th...
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