Deeping Lore - 1. Chapter 1 - The Atlantean Boy

The carriage wheels stopped; the priest gathered his cloak about his shoulders and stepped from the warmth of the interior onto the wet streets of the depraved city of Zanda. He dropped his fingers to the belt pouch which hung about a loop secured in the folds of his gray overcoat and removed a silver coin. The driver, a filthy man of aging middle years, took the single silver piece with a gleam in his eye that soon faded because the priest held out a hand for change. It was obvious that the driver didn’t expect such thriftiness from a man of wealth. He took his time in counting them out, making certain that the priest knew from his gesture that it was hardly worth his trouble to hand him three small copper coins.

An alley black as freshly burned pitch yawned before the priest like a portal to the abyss. There was a slight dusting of snow on the cobblestone streets and he could see trash and rotten leaves clogging the grates of gutters which dripped putrid slush into the sewers of the undercity.

The old man frowned, “If you’re thinking of going in there it shall be the last days of your life. For the remaining coppers good sir, I could take you to a respectable inn in the city. A place where a man of your wealth and standing can take a good meal and rest in the company of young women.”

The thought was tempting. But the priest was also insulted by the man’s indignant approach. He didn’t need to pay for women. He was fit; a man of better than average looks and sharp eyes.

“No,” he said to the driver. “This place...it is here that I must take my leave of you.”

He stepped away from the carriage, closed his fist around the copper coins, and hid them away with the rest of his treasure. He stood in place for a moment, listening to the carriage wheels depart, squeaking, and the horse’s hooves grow to a dim clatter on distant cobblestones. He swallowed stiffly and moved forward, measuring the thick shadows that lay before him with a baleful eye.

Soon, shadows swallowed the light of the street; they flickered around him, and made the path murky. He took heart in his task, walked deeper into the row known by those that dwelt here as massacre alley.

What a sight.

He made out the shapes of people that were huddled together in the dark to stay warm. Homeless people...souls that had drifted away from God’s light. He was a high priest of the God of Thieves, and the money and respect that he’d earned had been through hard work and diligence. It was difficult for him to see the scattered masses of Massacre Alley as anything more than living garbage.

“Don’t touch me,” he whispered under his breath. “Tethyr give me strength.”

He felt fingers brush the hem of his fine cloak. The priest knew he wouldn’t get tithing from these men. Rather, he’d get nothing but work as they were no doubt alcoholics, diseased, or so malnourished as to be useless in a fight. A homeless man to his right, asleep in his own filth, kicked spasmodically as a rat nibbled at garbage close to his face.

The smell of the place was rank in spilt alcohol, a sour smell, and the reek of unwashed bodies. He stopped long enough to withdraw his holy symbol, a beautiful platinum thing with the symbol of the God of Thieves inscribed upon its surface. But deeper than that, there was a flicker of red that ran along the edge of the metal disk. A flicker that was as deep as heart’s blood and which surfaced within the metal like a thick shroud as he moved it to and fro in his palm with only a beam of silver moonlight shining down from the rooftops above. It moved like a deep ocean current, carrying the red from one side to the other like the beautiful thick warmth money can bring to the soul.

The priest’s ears detected the scuffing of boots. He looked around and saw that figures had emerged from the tenebrous confines of massacre alley. Several of the faces he saw were old, with leathery skin that had been weathered to the point of permanent scarring. As if in contrast, quite a few of the faces were young and desperate, regarding him as if he were a stuffed couch or a free ride. But it was the voice to his left that drew his attention. It was strong and brimming with confidence. The priest beheld the eyes of a man that was his height. The speaker was cowled in black...a rogue with a thin muzzle covered in two days of stubble. His eyes were black; hair hung in straggly curls, unlike the head of the priest which had been shaven two weeks ago to rid himself of lice.

“Give us your money,” he demanded.

The priest saw his eyes dart to his side where the weight of the pouch was suspended between his palm and the outside of his robe. “Nice and easy, friend. Anything other than that will cost you a pint of blood.”

The priest’s hand tightened around his holy symbol and his thoughts turned to magic. “Fool,” he hissed.

Instantly the priest saw the words of a powerful incantation in his mind’s eye; he uttered it in the arcane tongue that had been taught to him by the elders of the Church of Thieves. The man’s eyes widened with astonishment and he froze instantly where he stood. Others gaped open- mouthed and the priest dropped his symbol from his hand and withdrew a dagger.

“This,” he said, nodding to the crowd. “Is a lesson to the godless.”

He drew the knife’s edge across the man’s throat and the life left him quickly, his knees buckling. The dead man’s blood was bright crimson; it flowed like thick syrup down his shirt, the power of the spell keeping his legs rigid until even his heart gave out, pushing his life’s blood out of the wound and onto the streets. The priest pushed him callously; he fell to the gutter and was soon swarmed over by rats.

“I have waited long for you, priest,” another voice said.

He looked to the crowd and recognized a brother of the cloth in his approach. He wore the black and gray garments of the church; his face was filled with the lines of hardship.

“I’m Kragar, leader to the Lost ones. You shouldn’t have killed Simon. He was a good lad and apprentice to the guild assassin. This will not please Renfro. Indeed, it isn’t wise to make enemies, you know. Not in this place. Even those aided by the spells of the Gods must rest.”

The priest placed his palms together and bowed respectfully to the elder of the church. “I see your wisdom my brother, but he meant to mug me and perhaps his intentions were even darker. Who can say for sure? It’s better to make an example now, than to waste time and perhaps lives. This flock has been given a second chance and by Tethyr’s good will, they live yet another day. However, sometimes the greatest lessons come with a little loss of life. I beg your forgiveness on this matter, but I must say that I was guided by the wisdom of Tethyr to do what I did.”

Kragar set his jaw but didn’t pursue the matter further.

He joined the visitor on the right and they walked down the alley which was now lit with curious candles. There were hundreds of dirty faces all looking toward the two priests as they made their way into the thieves quarter, that part of the city known as the Hive. They spoke but few words, but the visitor could see that Kragar was apprehensive as to how his arrival would be received. The priest, however, was steeped in the confidence of his power.

They reached the thieve’s guild at the far end of the alley.

It was composed of several buildings which were joined together on the top by a continuous rampart that spiraled over the block. The visitor surmised instantly that the uppermost level of the building was a boon to the thieves. It gave them the access they required to the rooftops to a quarter of the enormous city.

Why travel by road when you could travel by sky?

Once inside the guild house, the visitor smelt ancient odor released from old wooden timbers heated by fire from the hearth. The commons room was filled with many bodies clustered together like a brood of puppies. He saw a myriad of weapons and mismatched armor that had been sewn together from scraps no doubt pilfered a piece at a time from old mail and junk left over from the carnal fights in the gladiator pits.

He followed Markain Kragar to their place in the guild, “Markain” simply being a title of respect afforded to men of power that walked the path of righteousness. It was a holy sanctuary, quiet and serene, out of place for a guild devoted to the city’s castaways. The chapel was small; there were ten benches serving as pews, each one made of fine oak that had been tempered by tools and years of wood polish. He beheld a black marble font at the nave which was filled with the water of his God. The symbol, a bloody dagger, hung point down above an altar made from gray stone and covered in black cloth. On one side, a candle, yellow from age, was burnt to the tallow and wax flowed in rivulets over the base.

There was a lone figure in the hall, a woman. She wore black velvet, possessed a slender and voluptuous figure, and was kneeling before the altar. She held delicate hands to a pale, young face and her hair was neatly combed and fair as yellow gold. The ends of it disappeared beneath the confines of that cloak.

The visitor was about to speak when Kragar motioned for him to follow. “She is deep in prayer, my brother.”

He of course, understood. Kragar put his hand to the visitor’s shoulder and guided him to a door bound in leather and to the inner chambers of the vestry. At his back, he closed the door and then took a seat behind the desk, which was a fine immaculate thing, with gilded lion’s paws on the ends of each of its four legs. The whole of the desk was decorated in bas relief. He saw scenes of jackals feasting on wilderbeast in a jungle under a full moon. Opposite this scene was another that took place within a city. For every jackal in the woodland scene, a similar human figure occupied its corresponding place on the opposite mural. In the place of the wilderbeast was the figure of an overweight man, his throat slit and his bulging pouches being robbed by the thieves around him.

Kragar’s office was luxurious as befitting his station. He had a parlor for greeting guests and a bar covered in fine bottles of brandy and wine from the vineyards of far away Imperial Thularum and Sulasia. He offered the visitor a taste in a crystal goblet and then sat in a chair positioned behind the desk. Kragar, regarded the visitor carefully and then walked over to the fireplace which was stacked with wood. He muttered something under his breath, fingers moved slightly, and the visitor felt the release of the magic. The wood glowed brightly and instantaneous warmth spilled into the room.

“Magic is wonderful, is it not?” Kragar asked. It was a statement veiled as a question.

The visitor took a drink of the brandy. Delicious, he thought. “Yes...yes,” he said, agreeing with him. “Magic is the tool by which the Gods shape our destiny.”

“Then use it carefully. You are powerful Markain Dolmani. You excelled in the studies you took up in the land of the Sun God. However, you’re far from that place now. Zanda is a land where lives can easily end on the tip of a dagger. You must adjust to the different rules here and earn the trust of the congregation. The trust must flow without the exercise of power. Irresponsible use of our magic only brings fear. Use it as a tool to further the work of our God.”

The visitor laughed. “How can you sit there and educate me on the love of God or how to use His power? Wisdom, Markain Kragar, comes only at the price of experience. I am both. You know this, and it’s why you sent for me. It’s my experience which will come in useful when the time comes to move against the wizard Korga. He is here in Zanda, and your band of thieves are sorely outmatched. Even Tethyr knows this. That is why he sends me to do the work that could not be done by those before me!”

Dolmani saw Kragar grimace but he said nothing. He merely watched from his comfortable place behind the desk. He saw his fingers flex and he drew them across the fine varnish. “It will take more than your magic to infiltrate the Librarium Apocalypto. Your hubris knows no bounds. The Israfil of Zanda would destroy you and send you hurtling to the bottomless depths of the Well of Zanda.”

Dolmani drained the rest of the brandy and placed the empty goblet on the left corner of his oak tabletop. “Who are these Israfil of Zanda?”

“I have your interest now,” he stated, leaning back into the leather embrace of the chair. “Good.” He paused staring into the flames. “They are terrifying creations of Zandine, clerics of the God of Chaos who commands them to drink the water from the well. They become infected by worms that form a cyst within their bodies that gives them the unholy power to suck the youth from others that dare to face them in battle. In one conflict, you would emerge an old man, hardly able to stand upright.”

“Impossible.”

“It’s what we face in the first of the rooms of the Librarium. The wizard Korga seeks the mysteries of the ocularum within the House of the Living Books. He must be killed before he uncovers the secret of ‘Deeping Lore’. If we cannot stop him, we’re finished.”

“What do you suggest then? I’ve no proof against aging.”

“We must summon Hunter, Disciple to the God of Thieves.”

I scoffed at him. “He’s a myth. No one in the church has seen him in a hundred years.”

“Not true,” Kragar said. “While traveling in Nykor, I came across a Thaynite priest, one of the Death Angels who claimed to possess a book that contained the ritual to summon the Black Dragon Assassin of the Silver Rose.”

Dolmani gulped, “Tethyr forbids us to keep written documents. Our traditions are oral.”

“I know. This ritual was recorded by the followers of Nahemoth who were going to use it to summon him in order to kill him for slaying Shaligar Kang in the terrible battle of Mon Zemoch. The book was taken by the Death Angels and was transferred to the Holy City of Necrosipor. Somehow, this Death Angel managed to procure a copy of the tome; I took it in exchange for his life. The ritual, Markain Dolmani, I believe will work. I’ve been preparing the girl in the other room as the final ingredient to this spell. I only need your assistance to complete it.”

Though he was tired, Dolmani was also intrigued.

“Come,” he said, standing. “Let’s see if the legend is real.”

Dolmani followed him back into the church; they walked forward to the altar where the girl was still kneeling in deep prayer. He withheld a gasp, the woman’s beauty was magnificent and she raised innocent eyes, orbs of blue that could not have been older than eighteen. Her lips were turned upward and deep red; her eyes were the prettiest he’d ever seen on a woman. But she seemed to look through him, as if she didn’t see Dolmani at all. Instead, the look in her eyes was filled with love for another.

“Father Kragar,” she whispered. She took his hands in hers and kissed them. “He’s finally here.”

“Yes my child. You may rise now.”

She did so and Dolmani determined it a crime that his lustful eyes could not see more, for the black gown covered every bit of exposed skin, leaving the creamy white of her throat as a hint of unveiled and scrumptious flesh. Laughing like a school girl she threw her arms about Kragar. When she held Dolmani, his hands fell to groping her bottom which was hard and athletic, well-developed and round. She frowned with discomfort; recoiled from that touch.

It was an insult to Dolmani’s ego.

But then, Kragar pulled her away. “It’s time, Dominique,” he said.

With a nod and a flip of his hand, he cast another spell and the doors at the far end of the hall closed and bolted of their own accord. Dominique, smiling, undid the cord around her waist and let the gown fall open. Underneath, she was naked and her skin was covered in a fine veil of sweat and perfume. She carefully disrobed and Dolmani found himself admiring her with purile intent. Lastly, she removed her slippers and then stood before the two priests completely nude.

She smelled of spring flowers.

However, Markain Kragar, sensing the other priest’s rising lust restrained him with a hand. “Dominique,” he whispered, taking the girl gently by the hand. “Have you made your prayers to Tethyr? Have you asked for him to come?”

“Yes, Father,” she said. The girl turned and placed her hands on the altar and faced them. She looked at Dolmani briefly with clear blue eyes and, he smiled back at her. He thought the girl was offering herself to him which Dolmani thought was only natural.

Then she turned her head away and regarded Markain Kragar with innocence. Her red lips parted and Kragar touched them with a finger and then wet the tip of his digits with some blessed wine. These he dipped into a basket and retrieved a wafer, one imprinted with the seal of Tethyr and held it to her lips. She took the meal upon her tongue and licked the ends of his fingers. “I’m ready,” she whispered.

Then Dolmani mollested her; the girl moaned.

Father Kragar gripped Dolmani by the wrist. “She is for another! Not for you. This must be understood!”

“I think not,” he said. “The girl clearly desires me.”

Markain Kragar struck the priest across the face. He felt pain and anger race through his blood. No one had laid hands on him like this before and lived. However, when Dolmani looked at him, he could see a power there lurking behind the gaze. Kragar’s temper seemed to smolder and no longer were Dolmani’s thoughts of taking this girl, of satisfying his lust upon her flesh. He wanted to murder Kragar. He wanted to drink his blood for daring to touching him so.

“We must be swift,” he said. “And, I need your help. I’ll ask you only once, and hope that it is given willingly.”

Dolmani paused for a moment and then stared at the girl. She watched them both, with a fine gleam radiating off her nubile body. She’d responded to his brief touch, responded enough for him to know she was a virgin. And she lifted her feet onto the altar obviously hot and sweaty. “I can feel him approaching,” she whispered.

Kragar hastily handed him a bowl of water and some soap and instructed the priest on what needed to be done. Then he handed him a straight razor. Reluctantly, Dolmani prepared the girl as instructed for the touch of another man, a mythical assassin that by all things known should have died of old age almost a century ago. He committed himself that when the ritual failed, when the assassin didn’t appear, that he would take this girl for his own and kill this priest that dared to think he was a superior.

When the deed was done, Dolmani was stricken with throbbing discomfort. Kragar moved away from the girl and took him by the hand. He led the way to the back of the church, pushed him into a side panel that looked out into the worshiper’s hall, and then he entered himself. Kragar closed the door and moved into a place where he could get a good view. Fascinated, Dolmani joined him at his left side and watched, as he did, looking through the hole in the panel and into the church.

The girl known as Dominique, sat up on the altar and then put her feet to the cold stone. All around her burned candles and the air was warm, almost hot. Her eyes showed fear and she looked at the dark recesses of the Church as if she saw someone. Then slowly, her mouth opened slightly.

Who was there?

Dolmani looked into the corner.

He looked for something fantastic.

Instead, he saw a man where none stood before. He looked ordinary enough at first. As he approached, light fell across him. He was fully six feet in height. He wore some kind of armor that looked magnificent in its design. The helmet fit his head perfectly, and was faced with dark glass so that he couldn’t see the eyes hidden beneath the dark surface. The body suit was all black and silver metal, with links so fine they shimmered like new cloth. And the boots had thick cleats that stepped with a grace so fantastic as to not make any sound on the stone floor.

Then more light fell across him.

Hunter, as he was called, was statuesque.

Dolmani could see by the way his armor sat upon broad shoulders that he was muscular and lean. He wondered, with such a body he had to be young, in his twenties maybe. He moved carefully, regarding the priests behind the panel and then in the next instant, full attention on the girl. Strapped to his back and hanging upside down was a sword of oriental design. The hilt was carved to reveal black figures pronounced on a silvery metallic background. Dolmani could see that one of the figures was an imposing hunter taking aim at a stag. Much the same as he was now stalking the fair virgin at the altar. Finally he stepped up to Dominique and stood between her legs.

He turned and afforded Dolmani a better view of his profile. The priest saw the shape of his waist, his legs, and his booted feet with absolute clarity. His legs were so svelte and perfect that they did not touch at the thighs. He could see the muscles of his bubble butt even through the miraculous armor. He was in wonder and slack-mouthed, unable to take his eyes off of him. He stood still; Dominique took his gloved hands to hers. His fingers were long and clothed in the black body suit and she suckled on them. Dolmani drew a ragged breath when he saw the assassin’s gloves shine with the wet of her mouth.

The man seemed to regard her carefully, looking her up and down.

He removed the armored plate of his helm and the two priests saw him for the first time. He was platinum blond and unravaged by age. He was wet, there was no other way to describe it. Water that Dolmani knew was his sweat dripped from his helm. His skin was the finest he’d ever seen; he was handsome—so beautiful indeed that he felt envious that the Gods had made this creature. His nose was perfect and chiseled, his chin delicate and he possessed lips of fair pink. His eyes were deepset and serious, lined with blond lashes that were long and eyebrows of Atlantean gold.

“What’s your name?” he asked the girl.

“Dominique,” she answered.

He nodded. “You’re beautiful and I appreciate the hard work that you’ve done to prepare yourself this way so that I’d find you attractive. However, I’ve a favor to ask that will determine whether or not I’ll give my services to the priests behind that wall that are watching us. But I want you to answer truthfully and to not be coerced. It’s imperative that I know how you feel about what I’m going to tell you, so please, put aside your love of the church and hear me out now as if I were just a boy standing before you.”

“Okay,” she said, eyes softened by how lovely Hunter truly was as he stood motionless between her thighs.

“I was cursed a long time ago by the Disciple of Sulas when I killed her in the city of Than Jarat. I was hired to do it; I’d nothing against her personally. It was my first assignment as a Black Dragon Assassin, and the curse left me infertile. But, I want a son desperately.”

“What must I do?”

“Allow me to breed you. I’ll do so when I’ve completed the task that the two priests have for me, but there are conditions that must be met for this to be successful.”

“What are the conditions?”

“A witch has been helping me. I drink a potion every day and have done so for almost a century. The potion fights the magic of the curse that left me infertile. However, the curse is so strong that it takes a long time for the potion to work its power on my body. Every ten years I’m allowed a single night with a woman who has been blessed by my God, is untouched by other men, and has for one month, eaten one petal from a flower that grows on the slopes of Mount Saramet that overlooks the Bay of Seven Dragons. Furthermore, the girl must do so of her own heart; I have to have her consent to breed her like this. And she must know that at the conclusion of the pregnancy, when the child is born, she will die.”

She reached up and pulled his head down and kissed him on the lips, shared tongues with him, and as he pulled away, she looked him up and down. “May I see you—see all of you? I wish to view for my consideration what my child would inherit from his father?”

He nodded and removed his armor. It took several minutes, but what was revealed was well worth the wait.

The blond boy possessed a tight muscular body. The pectoral muscles under flawless, creamy white skin were flat thick trapezoidal forms fitted out with standard man-sized nipples set right at the outer lower corners pointing slightly down and out. He possessed a strong Adam's apple equipped neck, an obvious six-pac; muscles of the serratus anterior flared and stood out like breadsticks lying side-by-side directly under the gentle slope of his chest. Even his feet were perfect, with athletic arches and long unmarred toes. His whole body glistened as if he were covered in clear oil. His penis was uncut and swollen slightly with blood but for the most part still flaccid. The glans was nestled comfortably in clean foreskin; his pubic hairs were platinum blond.

That was when Dolmani realized that Hunter was a true Atlantean; a race thought to be extinct.

“Yes,” she said, tears welling into her eyes. “I will have your child if it’s meant to be so. However, if I don’t get pregnant, will I still need to die?”

“Thank you and of course not,” he said, gently kissing her. Then he handed her the robe so that she could cover herself. Slowly, he got dressed again. When he was completely suited up, save for his helmet, he handed her a bag. “Inside that is the flower I told you about.”

She opened it up, pulled out a box made of crystal; inside she found a pot of dirt and several flowers that had purple blooms.

“Water them every day,” he said. “It doesn’t need much light but it does need some. It does best in the shade; I’ve several around my home.”

“Where do you live?”

“In the Wolfskill Mountains.”

“I don’t know of that place.”

He shrugged. “It’s far from here and I’ve a nursery and trusted staff that work for me. I promise, our child will want for nothing; I’ve made a lot of money in my career and I’ll love him like a father should. I’ll teach him the things I’d have wanted to know and keep him safe from all predators until he can defend himself.”

“So you haven’t taken physical pleasure in ten years?”

“I’ve given others pleasure,” he said. “Black Dragon Assassins must attain Golconda to become appointed by Tethyr. A Black Dragon Assassin is a Disciple to the God of Thieves; we each have three God-given gifts that are our blessings alone. To receive these, we need to attain physical perfection because our one unfailing responsibility is that we belong to the church. There is no retirement; only life-long servitude. Golconda allows us to mentally control our physical bodies. I’m able to control my orgasm so that I don’t prematurely cum and stop before it’s impossible.”

“What happens if your lover won’t let you stop?”

“That’s never happened before, but, if someone were try to force me to go on for a few seconds more so that I’d no choice, I’d kill them before that happened.”

“You would slay them?”

“I’ve killed thousands Dominique. I want a child. I’m not going to let someone’s lust for me endanger that; they should know better. I always tell those that I lie with that I cannot cum inside them.”

“That’s because you’ve always had a choice. Women don’t always have that option.”

Hunter looked saddened by what she said. “Dominique, if you know of someone that has been raped, let me know and I’ll make sure they’re never harmed again; I’ll make sure that they’re avenged.”

“You’d do this for me?”

He nodded, “What you’re doing for me is greater than that. It’s the least I could do for the mother of my child.”

She hugged him, took in the smell of him which was seductive and made her lick her lips with pleasure. “You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Come,” Kragar motioned. “It is time to meet Hunter.”

Hunter was the most deadly man alive; his real name according to legend was Kian Lightfoot. He was the first disciple to the God of Thieves. Dolmani had heard many stories of the most feared man on Wynwrayth. But none had prepared him for his disarming beauty.

Dolmani followed the priest into the room. Hunter watched both of them carefully. As they drew closer, Dolmani could smell the aroma of the teenager’s clean sweat. Kian’s eyes were everywhere, taking in the two of them. He could see in his focus the desire for murder. It was the desire to do evil things. How could a face captured in such youth be so powerfully unmerciful? Who was this assassin really? And why did Kragar bring him here at the cost of the beautiful Dominique who Dolmani insisted was meant for his touch and not this boy’s. It was ludicrous that a boy with such athletic gifts would dream of stupid things such as having rugrats when there was sex, money, and power to be seized.

“Good evening your eminence,” the boy said. His voice was like wind rustling through silk. His moist lips parted delicately and even the appearance of the pink inside his mouth made Dolmani’s cock leap uncomfortably in his robes. “I have answered your summons.”

“That you have...yes...that you have,” Kragar said. He took a step toward the assassin and held his hands up carefully and slowly so that the boy could see his intentions. Then he laid one carefully on his shoulder and patted him like a father would a son. “It is good that you’ve come, Hunter, very good. Might I get you a little something to drink...? You look thirsty.”

He smiled, and his eyes looked directly at him. “Yes. Yes, thank you. Good for you to notice, your eminence.”

Kragar beamed and stepped away to pour the assassin a glass of wine. Unexpectedly, the sweaty blond boy looked at Dolmani; he trembled at the meeting of eyes. By the Gods, Dolmani thought; he was breathtaking to behold. “Did you get a good view?” he asked.

“What?”

“Did you get a good view?” He paused and Dolmani didn’t answer. Slowly, he rephrased his own words. “Did you like watching me..? Most men do. Did you like seeing my cock?”

Markain Dolmani didn’t want to respond but hastily, uncontrollably, he nodded yes. It’s like he could read his thoughts, pierce the transparent veil of faux heterosexuality that he projected, as if he could see into Dolmani’s very soul. The assassin grinned and took the wine from Father Kragar. He drank some, and then put the goblet on the altar, hopping to his feet.

Then Kian turned back to Dolmani and the priest known as Father Kragar. “But come your eminence for I was summoned for more than just to have a discussion about my cock, was I not?”

“Indeed,” Kragar intoned. “This is true, my child. I’m sorry we have abused your time. Please, let us adjourn to my waiting room.”

Wordlessly, Dolmani stumbled in behind him.

The blond boy regarded the visiting priest with a chipper smile.

Kragar held the door open for the boy, admitted him; and, Dolmani shook off his spellbinding image once he disappeared into the quiet dark of the study. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Nor had they ever so clearly read his desire!

Dolmani clenched his fist tightly and wiped the sweat from his brow. Cooly, he settled his burning angry mind. Now that he had steeled himself, his erection relaxed underneath the robes. Thus prepared, Dolmani entered and joined Kragar in the room to talk to this assassin who called himself Hunter.

The smell inside the little office quickly filled with a mixture of the boy’s sweaty body and the oil that polished his alien armor. There was no other scent...no other aroma.

But it was intoxicating.

Aroused and aching, Dolmani sat down in a chair next to Kragar and behind the protection of the elder priest’s ominous desk. There he waited in silence... monitoring. Kragar poured some water in a glass and handed it to the golden boy who deftly took it from him and drained the contents rapidly.

The boy Kian was six feet from Dolmani. He was slumped in a chair that looked big for his slender frame. The fair skin of his face was quickly drying and his feet were propped up on the desk. The soles of his boots faced the visiting priest directly. Never before had he been a foot lover, but just seeing them this close to him made him contemplate it, if only to see more of the assassin unclothed again.

“Thank you, Hunter, for hearing our prayers. I wanted you to know that your presence here is nothing but a blessing to us,” Kragar began.

The golden-haired boy dropped the empty glass on the carpet and regarded his gloves carefully. It seemed there was a bit of blood there on the fabric... it was a red stain on the material. He licked it with his tongue and looked up, nodding, motioning for Kragar to continue speaking.

“The spell we cast, the summon contract, it was absolutely necessary-- for the guild assassin, Renfro, is unable to accomplish the task at hand. The Night of Dance, is tomorrow. Dreaded Irtemara (as is her title), High Disciple of Zandine, will have a parade through the streets of the city. It’s the time of the year when the Librarium Apocalypto is most vulnerable. The festivities will last for five hours and are uninterrupted. Renfro lacks the necessary skills; however, to deal with the Guardians of the Living Books. I want you to help us with that and then kill the wizard Korga. You’re a rank one Black Dragon Assassin. Please...by Tethyr’s word I swear to you that anything in this temple shall be made yours if you so desire.”

The golden-haired teen regarded Dolmani. His face was unreadable.

So fine was his jawline that it was as if sculpted of alabaster. He wanted to hold him, to hug him in his arms and smell his skin. He wanted to lick the flesh of his face and tongue his delicate ears. He wanted to see him as no other man had seen him before. And he wanted to satisfy his lust on his body and force him to love him and then kill him for the things that he’d said to him earlier. Yes, he wanted to break his spirit. There was a beast inside Dolmani that had awakened.

Shhhhhh...he told the beast. Now is not the time.

Kian cleared his throat. “Tell me a little more about Korga please.”

“He’s leader of the mages of Harjan, the black necromancers of the underworld. In his arcane studies, Korga discovered a text that supposedly reveals the final resting place of ‘Deeping Lore’. However, it can only be read by someone that possesses the Ocularis of Zanda.”

“First of all weapons,” Kian mumbled. “The sword is a myth.”

“Until a few minutes ago, we thought you a myth.”

Kian swallowed, brown eyes darting about the room. “Has he found the Ocularis?”

“He’s been in the library for almost a week as a guest of Dreaded Irtemara. We assume he is going to steal it from its hiding place once festivities begin at noon tomorrow. Then he will leave the city with it.”

“Do you have proof that Korga is inside?”

“Yes, of course.” He sat up in his chair and hastily pulled forth several weathered papers and handed them to the boy. Dolmani glanced at them, saw that they were written accounts from spies that had seen Korga in and around Zanda a few days ago.

Kian removed the glove on his right hand, revealing perfect white skin and long fingers. Each fingernail on this hand was perfectly manicured and his touch was dextrous and light as if he caressed piano keys. He took the parchment from Kragar and shifted through their contents; he glanced indifferently at the scrawlings. Dolmani couldn’t take his eyes off of him and this time, his staring paid off. He discerned a nervous tick from the boy; and, one that Kragar did not notice. He had seen this before from young men that couldn’t read and his thoughts began to race.

Could it be that this boy as beautiful and powerful as he was could not read a simple word or even spell his own name? He could use this to his advantage.

After a long moment, Kian looked up and handed him back the papers. He settled back in his chair and nodded. “You’ve my aid, your eminence. It would be my pleasure.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Kragar intoned. He came from around the desk and fell to his knees before the young man. Carefully and slowly, so that he did not alarm Kian, he took up the youth’s right hand and kissed it. “Our prayers have been answered.”

The youth smiled and tousled the old priest’s hair with his hand. Then he stood and regarded Dolmani. “Where shall I be staying for the night?”

Kragar interjected. Brother Markain is also new. You two will be staying in the hall just behind the temple. It’s reserved for only the most important guests.”

“I don’t need much,” Kian remarked. “Just a bed and a place to clean up. I’ll want to speak with Renfro. You said he was the guild assassin. I’d like to pick his brain and maybe head off any notion of his that I’m here to replace him. I don’t have time to be guild assassin for this city. I want to make sure that he knows that I’m only here to help and not stepping on his toes. Maybe we can work together...it’s always better that way.”

“Then let me show you to your room,” Kragar said. “We can begin with our preparations at dawn. Don’t you agree Markain Dolmani?”

“Yes,” the lascivious priest answered. His eyes narrowed, regarding the back of Hunter’s golden head. “Yes indeed.”

Kragar stood and walked, robes swishing about his ankles, to the oak door at the far side of the room. He opened the door and motioned for them to follow him out into the quiet solitude of the church of thieves. Dominique was long gone. Kragar unlatched the main doors to the church and they walked with him into the hall next to the sitting room of the thieve’s guild.

Kian and Kragar stopped in front of another pair of doors, these were bound in strips of silver with the holy symbol of the church burned within the center of the two fine oak panels. The two of them talked quietly to each other and Dolmani was enraptured at the softness of Kian’s voice. Kragar opened the door for him and the three walked into the hall beyond.

The room on the other side of the doors was luxurious, with thick black carpeting that was embroidered in bright silver jackals, much the same as the color of the golden boy’s armor. The panels on the walls were hung with tapestries of red. Gold thread illustrated the stories of Tethyr and Inzilbeth, sister to the Queen of Demons.

“Do you know the story of the tapestries, Kian?” Dolmani asked him.

The golden boy turned away from Kragar and his bold brown eyes looked amongst the embroidered threads. He could not read, but for this, he didn’t have to.

“It’s the tale of‘Deeping Lore’ which is the first of all weapons,” he said softly. “It’s a tragic story of love lost, in which the fair Taleta ascended the high mountains at the dawn of time to speak with her twin sister, the lovely Inzilbeth. However, what she found there horrified her to the very core. For her sister's naked body lay slain at the feet of Tethyr who’d just bred her. You can see that portion of the story here,” he said, motioning with a slender finger. “It’s faded with time, but nevertheless, it still warms me to see her thus. You see, it was Tethyr that had defended himself against Xeylynn, who’d drawn ‘Deeping Lore’ on Tethyr and who’d killed Inzilbeth for the adulterous treachery she’d created in seeking out the love of another's arms. The Thread came down and admonished them and decreed that the death of Inzilbeth would be played out forever on the fields of the humans below, who even now emerged from the sea at the base of the Grove of Unicorns.”

“You like the story?”

He nodded, his youthful teen face looking smooth, his hair messy. Dolmani felt like kissing him and running his hands over the fine features of his face, much the same as he felt the first time he saw a statue of Tethyr, the God who commanded his soul.

“You have an enchanting way of telling it. What else does the tapestry say to you?”

He laughed like a harpsichord of gentle silver strings, flicked once by the fingers of a fine musician.

“Here,” he indicated with his right hand. “Patriarch Kragar, is this not where the Queen of Demons speaks?”

“It is my child,” Kragar said patiently.

Kian’s lips parted. “I remember being told this part. Taleta says, ‘But what of my sister?’ Is she to lie still and cold, with death, and these two to go unpunished?’

And the Thread spoke. ‘Nay, for as her blood is spilt, I will do nothing. But lo, there is life there still.’

‘You see, Taleta looked down at the body of Inzilbeth and discovered the seed that Tethyr had just planted in her body and focused her powers upon it and the babe was born, a fine young boy with bright blue eyes and the sandy hair of his father. But before Tethyr could take him joyously into his arms, she snatched the babe up. ‘You,my hated brother,’ she declared, ‘Shall never know his touch. I will destroy you myself for what you have done this day! And I shall take this babe with me and he shall be learned of the ways of WAR so that in the last days I shalt have a worthy adversary! All the world shall be my dominion for I choose now and forever to walk the path of darkness! And know this, that I shall make all of the cosmos to be a reflection of my everlasting loneliness! Hail to thee, God of War,’ she declared, holding the newborn aloft. ‘Hail to thee and fairwell.’

Tethyr stepped forward, his naked body still covered in sweat and blood. ‘Don't do this, my sister,’ he implored. You can see him here on this tapestry doing exactly this.”

‘I shall drink your blood and the blood of those that follow you,’ she declared. ‘Mark well this day, for it is the day that I, Taleta, lay claim to the host of Hell and the day that I spit vengeance upon thee for the rest of thy days.’

‘With that, the Goddess transported herself to the plains of Wynwrayth and gave the babe to a She-Wolf to be cared for. She gave the child a loving kiss and in that kiss and her tears she imparted to him her strength. Then she whispered in his ear and passed on the knowledge of all that had ever come to pass, and the immensity of Her knowledge was made his. And she touched his hair, giving to him her own lustrous silver and turning hers a deep black. And she brushed his eyes, giving to him her own beautiful silver pupils. And lastly, Taleta slapped the child so that the last memory he would have of her, would be filled with pain. Then she took the dark path to Hell itself.’

As Kian stopped his tale, Dolmani found myself staring at the walls of red and gold with a renewed interest. He already knew the tale of Inzilbeth a thousand times. He’d even taught it to others. But the way the handsome youth said the words of the tale had fired his imagination. It had almost been as if he had been present at the dawn of time to see the act of treachery played out before him. He even caught a glimpse of the brilliant sword, “Deeping Lore”, first of all weapons in his imagination. He wondered how it would feel within his grasp, and if the color of blood would shine more darkly on a blade that had known to taste a God’s blood.

Kragar stopped at a door bound in deep rich leather. Gold studs decorated the outside of the door, and the handle was of curved brass and formed into the shape of a jackal with its tale extended outward as the shaft of the doorknob. Kragar grasped it and showed Kian his room. It was large, well-appointed with a lit fireplace that spilled heat into the room. A wolf at the foot of the bed stirred its head and sat up onto its haunches. It had silver fur and its eyes were keen, hunter’s eyes. The room itself had no other light save that cast by the fireplace. It looked comfortable and warm with a thick coverlet over the feather mattress and a ceramic basin at bedside.

“I shall remove the wolf for you,” Kragar said to the golden boy. “He’s a pet of mine and sometimes the serving girl lets him into the room to sleep. I often read here when I want to escape the rigors of my religious office...it is a place of quiet reflectiveness. I think you’ll like it quite well.”

Kian nodded. The wolf padded over to him and viewed him with eyes that seemed to share something. Dolmani realized instantly, both of them were killers by nature. It was like a joining of the pack. Unexpectedly, the wolf lowered its head before Kian; a sign of respect. The golden boy had the smell of blood about him, and he’d obviously killed more in his life than the wolf had done. What the wolf contained was natural—an instinct to butcher for survival. What the teenager possessed inside him was a demon that butchered (of this Dolmani was certain) for his own pleasure.

Kian knelt and stroke the wolf gently. “What’s his name?”

“I call him Icedale.”

“He can stay,” Kian said. “If he wants to.” The wolf licked his face and Kian giggled in pleasure. He stood up, smiling; the wolf walked back over to its spot at the edge of the bed and lowered itself in the glow of the flames.

Kian looked at Dolmani. “I shall see you at dawn, your eminence,” he said. Then he turned to Kragar. “Good night holy one. I seek your blessing for the night’s rest.”

“You have it,” Kragar said. “I’ll have a serving girl draw you a bath.”

The golden boy nodded and then retired, closing the door softly behind him. Kragar showed Dolmani to his quarters, not nearly as opulent but adequate. However, it left the priest feeling put out; he didn’t vocalize his displeasure.

Dolmani took leave of Kragar to clear his thoughts in the dark solitude of the room. Outside the window pane, snow was beginning to fall in drifts of white. The frost made his breath form steam circles against the glass. He removed his robes and stood naked in the room looking at himself carefully. Something whispered inside of him but did he want to give into the beast?

He decided that Hunter must suffer for thinking he was better than him. It was ludicrous that he was given a better room, lavished with preferential treatment, and the youth couldn’t even read! His plan was simple, and it involved breaking the boy physically and spiritually. He’d destroy his dreams of fathering a child and somewhere in his plan, he’d sodomize him as often as he was able. He’d do all of this through manipulations of his religious love. Then, when he had the boy hopelessly lost and confused, he would counsel him in honorable suicide. He relished in his dark plan that he was going to set into motion by becoming the boy’s most trusted confidant.