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Chapter 7 |
It was nothing in comparison with the pain in his temple. A flash, a sharp pain and the unmistakable feel of blood dripping from his eyebrow, closing one eye. He ducked but not in time to dodge a second missile that hit the bridge of his nose, bringing involuntary tears. He was on his knees when a third hit him squarely in the chest. Aza shook his head, dazed. Wiping away the blood, he tried to locate his attackers.
Sandren. Burnoose fluttering in the early morning breeze. Furious. Arm cocked with another river rock readied for flight. "Did you touch me?" The rock glanced off Aza's shoulder. "Did you lay your filthy heathen hands on me?" A barrage of rocks and words, each a weapon, sharp and hurtful. In the pause whilst Sandren reached for another missile, Aza stood up, swaying, to take command of the situation. He quickly closed the space between them and grabbed Sandren's arms. In return, he got a solid kick in the thigh. For a naïve little scholar, some small part of Aza's mind noted, Sandren was a surprisingly effective fighter. Or maybe it was desperation that made him so. "Do not touch me, take your hands off me," Sandren shouted, voice raspy with rage. "You are not worthy to touch a Sakhari. I am the emir's chosen!" Sandren tried to wrench free, throwing Aza off balance. He refused to release his grip on Sandren and they both fell to the ground. Though Sandren twisted and rolled, Aza was bigger, stronger, heavier and a more experienced fighter. Sandren was hampered by the long burnoose that entangled his legs, but still it took Aza several tries to successfully pin Sandren's flailing limbs to the ground. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said through gritted teeth. "Will you just listen to me?" Sandren nodded sulkily and his muscles relaxed slightly. Mollified, Aza released Sandren's wrists. For that courtesy, he earned a hard blow to the jaw that split his lip. "Stop it, stop!" Aza commanded. Sandren spit at him and bucked up hard one last time, but Aza was ready and shifted his weight. He was leaning heavily over Sandren, straining to hold him to the ground. Aza slid a muscular thigh between Sandren's legs and spread them to deny Sandren further leverage. Hadiz fought like this. Aza's body was accustomed to it. And was anticipating the accustomed result, he realized. He was ready, hard against Sandren, rocking gently. Sandren froze. Fear replaced arrogance. His eyes locked onto Aza's face. "Did you touch me?" he whispered. Ah, there it was. The reason for Sandren's ungrateful, ferocious behavior. "No, emir's chosen," Aza soothed. "No, I did not." He loosened his hold on Sandren, rolled off him. With one arm beneath Sandren's shoulders and the other smoothing out the burnoose, Aza was once again ambushed. Sandren's fist connected solidly with his nose, just where the rock had, amplifying the pain. Dripping blood and sweat, Aza grabbed Sandren's arms again and pressed them hard into the ground. A wrenching cry from Sandren, but Aza was beyond sympathy. With a struggle, he held both wrists with one hand, keeping his solid weight on Sandren's stomach and holding him tightly between his thighs. Aza pulled a length of leather from his belt. Sandren began writhing in desperation. He could gain no leverage with the Khannem's heavy body holding him down, so he resumed spitting and insulting Aza. With Sandren's hands tied, Aza with some effort bound his ankles, as well. Sandren thrashed like a landed fish, rage fueling his energy. Aza staggered back to the river to splash cool water on his abused face. He scrubbed at the blood, ashamed that the boy -- a scholar -- got the best of him -- a Khannem. After all that Aza had done to help him, too. Anger flooded his body. Sandren's ingratitude and unfounded accusations were suddenly more than he could bear. Sandren considered him no better than a Macouni. He rose to his full height and strode over to where Sandren lay on the ground. For a moment, the boy had sense to look frightened as Aza loomed over him, face dark as thunder, then he began again, commanding Aza untie him. Aza roughly tore a strip from the hem of Sandren's burnoose and quickly gagged him, finally stopping the flow of invective. "If you were the scholar you claim," Aza began, rubbing his head, "you would know of Khannem ways. I did not touch you, not in the way you think. You were unwell, you were cold, you were sick. I took care of you. I washed you, gave you healing herbs, kept you warm. I did not abandon you and I did not dishonor you." Sandren looked away. "If I had known how you would thank me, I would have just left you for the Macouni. Might still." Aza let him think on that whilst he rolled the furs, packed the food, loaded up the horse. When he was ready to travel, Aza came back and stood over Sandren. "I will take you back to Dharzin. You are inexperienced in the ways of the world, else wise I would send you along on your own. But that is not the Khannem way, to abandon the defenseless. I will get you home safely, but in return, you will obey me in every way until the day we arrive at your temple." No reaction, so he nudged Sandren with his foot. "I am a good man, emir's chosen, as good as you. I will not harm you, nor will I allow harm to come to you. You are safe with me. If you will agree, we leave now." If his head didn't hurt so much, Aza would have found it amusing that Sandren appeared to be thinking it over. He did admire the boy's courage, foolhardy as it was. He untied Sandren's gag. "Tell me your name." Sandren took a deep breath as though to shout, but then thought better of it. "Sandren," he said softly. "And may I drink?" "Sandren," Aza repeated. "Yes, Sandren, you may drink." He held his water skin to Sandren's lips, tilting his head back. "Now, let's begin again." Aza lifted Sandren up and undid the ties around his ankles. Sandren held out his bound wrists, but Aza just shook his head. "You'll need to earn that". Aza hoisted himself up onto the horse and reached for Sandren, surprised to feel tremors. "Have you ridden a horse?" he asked. "Are you frightened of them?" He hid his smile as Sandren quickly straightened his shoulders and stepped forward. It was fear that made the boy so defensive, so abrasive. Aza hooked a hand under his arm and lifted him up. Sandren sat stiffly, bound hands clutching the horse's mane, unwilling to lean back against Aza. He would soon grow tired of that, so Aza did not insist, willing to pick his battles. Aza chose open paths near the river. He stopped frequently to feed Sandren and have him drink. Sandren was sullen, barely grateful. Aza let it pass, taking into account what the boy had suffered in the past few days. That night, however, Sandren made some poor choices. He refused the water Aza put in front of him, kicked away the bowl of stew, accused Aza again of touching him. "I would rather be naked than touch that vermin-infested pelt," he said, spitting on the fur Aza offered him for the night. "You would have to beat me senseless to get me there again." "That can be arranged," Aza said, pushing Sandren down across his lap and spanking him with a dozen hard slaps. Sandren kept his buttocks tightly clenched, which only added to his pain. As soon as he was done, Aza was sorry it had come to this, that he had allowed Sandren to provoke him. He kept his hand on the boy, rubbing soothing circles on his back. "You can keep this up and be most uncomfortable tomorrow. It won't stop me, as I will ride with you laying across my lap," he said, pulling Sandren to his feet, "or you can apologize and go to sleep on your fur, warm and safe, and ride like a man tomorrow." Sandren wouldn't look at him. He shrugged his burnoose back into place and mumbled a minimal apology. Aza spread out one fur and motioned for Sandren to lay down. He spread the other nearby and waited for Sandren to fall asleep before he closed his eyes. The next day, Sandren was sullen and stiff, barely courteous and cooperative. That night was a replay of the previous one. "Don't you dare," Sandren shouted, "don't you dare touch me. Filthy barbaric animal. I don't need you to take me home. I am not a child." Aza ignored him and pushed the burnoose over Sandren's head. "Stop acting like a child and you will no longer be treated as a child." His buttocks were still pink from last night, Aza noted sadly and held back both in force and duration. "Why does it come to this?" he asked himself. He thought of how Sandren looked asleep in the furs, how warm he felt as he lay close. He tried not to think about holding Sandren down, spreading his legs, feeling his slender body writhing. How much anger resembled passion. What could replace the fear in Sandren's eyes. ~*~ On the fifth day, they were nearing the desert. The horse would not survive, Aza knew. He would sell it, use the money to buy a berth in a merchant's caravan and supplies enough to see them safely to Dharzin. With a reward, he could purchase another horse for his journey home. That meant a day in a trading center, but negotiations were delicate in the rough desert-edge settlements. Aza laid awake long after dark plotting. Sandren would surely attract attention. His naiveté and surly attitude were a dangerous combination; whether deliberate or not, Sandren could offend the wrong people. Perhaps he should be a prisoner. Aza considered that for a moment, but dismissed it. A prisoner meant a reward for the captor. Aza envisioned a band of hunters or even the local constabulary thinking themselves more deserving of the reward than a single ranger. Not a free man, not a prisoner. A slave, then. Yes, a slave. Even amongst the lowest ranks, a man's slave was respected. They would ride into town, sell the horse, conduct their business, look for a caravan, then be on their way without mishap. All of that, he concluded, would be easier than convincing Sandren to pass as Aza's possession, even for one day. If reason wouldn't work with the boy, and it rarely did, Aza would use force. After all, it was just for one day and it was for Sandren's own benefit. Surely he would recognize that.
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