This is a fictional story. The characters and events described herein are fictitious. The story and its contents are the sole property of the author. It has been posted on the Nifty Story Archives page with the permission of the author. If you are offended by sex or sexual acts between two consenting males, or by a relationship between an older man and a significantly younger one please do not read any further. For the rest of you who don't need this read on and enjoy. Let me know what you think.
Copyright 2006
Chapter VI
The sun was nearly below the horizon when Kreshtar finally pulled the horses to a stop. He dismounted and led the horses into the forest on the side of the road, not stopping till they were well within the trees, the road almost a full mile from where he had decided to make camp for the night.
Tristan dismounted when they stopped and mechanically went about setting up a small fire. Kreshtar cleared a spot for them to lay down and sleep.
While they set about their tasks there was no exchange between them. No looks, no smiles, no laughter, no a word.
Tristan's mind was divided. On the one hand his thoughts kept returning to his first night with Kreshtar. He had resolved then that this man would be his, he would allow the mistresses of blade and death but no other. Tristan had known exactly who this man was from the beginning. A warrior, a man to whom violence and bloodshed had been bread and butter. Warriors killed, pure and simple, that was there nature, striped of all it's pride, nobility and esoteric trappings, that was the base function of a warrior, to live by the blade or fall by it.
Yet, on the other hand, what Kreshtar had done to that man, Brutus, was monstrous. Tristan's mind kept reeling back to it, unable to stay focused on anything else for very long. That man's death had be gruesome. Even knowing what him and his fellows had intended to do, Tristan had a hard time wishing that kind of a fate on anyone.
Tristan's thoughts and mind argued against each other, producing yet another side to the debate going on inside his own head. For it occurred to him that, what would he do, if given the chance, if the man who had raped his mother so brutally and razed his village were set before him and he was given his liberty to do as he saw fit? To what lengths would he go to make those men suffer? What would be justified to pay them back in kind? What would be the price of his revenge?
Tristan stopped what he was doing and looked at Kreshtar for the first time since they had ridden away from the evidence of his unspeakable act. There was something about looking at Kreshtar that took Tristan's breath away, and more and more it had little to do with the way he looked, though that was certainly part of it. It was more in the little things. The way Kreshtar moved was deceptive, there was a subtle grace to his motions. It was quiet and subdued and you could really only see it after a period of observation, but it was there. Unbidden the image of Kreshtar gutting Brutus and pulling out the man's innards came into Tristan's mind. The horror of the act was made so much more so with the added knowledge that it had been because of him that Kreshtar had given the man as grizzly a fate as possible. Tristan shuddered again involuntarily and went back to what he was doing without comment.
Kreshtar went about the task of clearing away brush and debris as best he could while carefully avoiding Tristan. Kreshtar stole furtive glances at the boy and watched Tristan out of the corners of his eyes but it seemed that Tristan was not yet ready to talk.
Kreshtar knew at least what part of the problem was. The manner in which Brutus had been killed seemed like it was too much for Tristan. There was a bitter taste in the back of Kreshtar's throat and a small spark of anger began flaring to life in his breast. Perhaps the boy was just like all the rest of them after all. Ready and glad to let him help defend their homes and everything they held precious, yet unwilling to welcome him, unwilling to accept who and what he was. Kreshtar felt a stab of pain and indignation as real as any knife's blade. And yet, the thought of losing Tristan tore at him, sent him reeling backwards into a pit of despair. He could not bear to lose Tristan, Kreshtar did not think that he could ever recover from the loss.
At length the two finished. Tristan started at Kreshtar and Kreshtar gave Tristan as blank a look as he could manage, he might as well have been an open book. Kreshtar broke off and sat next to the fire, loosing himself in the depths of the dancing flames.
Tristan sat down heavily beside him, a foot or two away. The distance was like a slap across the face to Kreshtar and only embittered him further. Tristan could see the line of Kreshtar's jaw clench and saw the big man's knuckles going white as he gripped his knees. Tristan gulped involuntarily and felt himself tense, as though a blow were forthcoming.
"I..." Tristan tried to speak but his voice caught and he could not seem to say anything past the lump in his throat. His eyes stung and he could feel tears welling up, but he refused to let them fall, not yet.
"Say something to me," Tristan whispered, "please."
"And what shall I say, boy?" Kreshtar answered, his tone harsh but his voice quite. "Do you wish me to apologize for my actions? Do you wish me to feel remorse for killing a man who has shown little mercy for those who have crossed his path, who would have shown you even less had I not put an end to him? Do you wish me to swear that I shall never commit such an atrocity again? So the next time we find ourselves in a similar situation I will bow my head, back away and let the pieces fall where they shall? After hearing everything that you have been through how could I possibly leave you to suffer the same fate as you witnessed your mother suffer first hand?
"Say something?" Kreshtar retorted bitterly, " It is not I who has been administering the silent treatment for the better portion of the day." Kreshtar clenched his jaw and shut his mouth before he said something he truly regretted. He had no meant to be so harsh, but he had not spoken untruly or out of turn.
"I'm sorry," Tristan whispered, the tears at last beginning to fall, he he refused to give himself over to the pain that he felt would consume him, but he could not help the tears, "but I cannot help the fact that I feel repulsed by the act that you committed. Killing him would have been one thing, I have no problems with death. I've seen it grin at me before and walked away from it. This was far beyond killing."
"And yet it seems that it was still not enough," Kreshtar countered. "Would that this Brutus could suffer the same death ten times, nay twenty. Even now I pray that the Gods have seen fit to condemn him to Hele's embrace in the deepest depths of the Underworld and may he rot there with the traitors and cowards of all the lands till Ragnarok and the end of all things. Yet still that would be to kind and gentle a fate for that pig."
"Then what do you want from me?" Tristan vented in frustration, standing up abruptly and stalking away a few paces. He turned back on Kreshtar and there was both anger and hurt in his eyes, "Do you want me to be happy with what you did? Do you wish me to delight in the wake of carnage you hath wrought? Shall I cover myself in gore and we can dance naked on the tops of the broken bodies?? Or, more rather, perhaps you would enjoy rutting with me amongst the lifeless and bloody corpses??
Tristan took a breath to calm himself. This was not helpful, it gained him nothing to berate and belittle. Kreshtar watched him with eyes that were truly impassive, it was a look that Tristan recalled being given to Marcus with a subtle difference. There was a barely discernible undertone of pain in Kreshtar's face, just around the eyes. Tristan tried to reign in his anger for the moment.
"I'm sorry," he reiterated, "but I can't help the fact that what I saw you do turns my stomach."
"I do not wish for you to enjoy what I did," Kreshtar began after a long pause. "I did not enjoy what I did. You should think it deplorable, you should find it horrific. The reason I did it was because I had sworn to that man that if he came against us again I would give him a death that would turn even my stomach in disgust, and believe me it does. My threat is only as good as my commitment to carry it out. I don't make idle threats. Ever.
"What I do expect though is not to be punished for being what I am. You knew who I was when you heard my name. Did you think it all boyhood stories of glorious battles? I..." Kreshtar never got to finish his sentence. At that moment five mounted and armored men on horse back burst out of the woods into their camp. They immediately formed a semi-circle around them and one of the mounted men had his short sword leveled at Kreshtar and Tristan and was talking rapidly in Latin.
Kreshtar stood after his initial surprise, moving in front of Tristan and his hand instantly went to his sword hilt above his shoulder. The other mounted men reacted similarly, beginning to bare their blades.
"Tristan," Kreshtar spoke without taking his eyes off of the threat in front of him, "I want you to get on the horses and ride away as fast as you can while I hold them here. Now."
"Do as I tell you. NOW?" Kreshtar yelled at Tristan behind him, still without breaking eye contact. "These are not common street thugs. These men know how to use the weapons they hold. Get out of here while I hold their attention. I'll catch up with you." Kreshtar stood rigid with tension.
"You had better keep your word," Tristan was almost yelling back at Kreshtar, "or so help me goddess, you will find no rest in death?" With that Tristan turned on his heel, ran to the horses, hastily mounted the stallion and sped off with both of them.
Kreshtar thanked the gods that the boy had finally gone. There was little time to argue. This was probably an advanced scouting party, well ahead of a much larger force. It seemed his pursuers had finally caught up with him.
"By my sword," Kreshtar breathed, "I will come after you Tristan. Come Ragnarok and the End of Days I will come back to you."
Kreshtar pulled his sword free in one fluid and graceful motion. He leveled it at the man who looked like the leader, the one with the blade already pointed at him, though the others were leveling their blades now.
"It seems my Lady Steel and Mistress Death are as yet unsatisfied," Kreshtar spoke loudly with an air of challenge. He knew the soldiers probably could not understand what he said, but in some cases it mattered not. "They have no taste for the blood of filth, vermin and swine. They wish to gorge themselves on the blood of warriors, to bath in it till their bodies glisten red.
"Come then?" Kreshtar screamed at the soldiers definitely, "Face me and see if any of you can yet subdue The Beast??"
his battle cry echoed through the forest and he drove at the mounted men as they surged forward to meet him.
Tristan rode as though the entire Imperial army were on his heels. For all he knew, they might very well be. The same men that fostered such as those who raped his mother as he had watched from hiding. The same men who allowed those like Brutus and all his ilk to do as they wished, the same men that had razed his village and destroyed everything that he had ever known and loved.
Adding to his anxiety was the argument he had been having with Kreshtar before the soldiers had come upon them. On the one hand Tristan knew that, on some level and to some degree, what Kreshtar had done was necessary. But on the other hand Tristan could not shake the image of what Kreshtar had done. It was horrific to say the least. No wonder they call us barbarians, Tristan thought in his anxiety.
He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he was not paying attention to which direction the horse was running. He simply let the stallion have its head, he and the mare were just along for the ride. Tristan realized his mistake too late.
The stallion burst from the woods into a clearing. On the other side of it a group of five more armored men on horse back were heading his direction. Tristan had been spotted the moment the stallion emerged from the woods.
Tristan panicked, pulling the reigns up short, making the stallion rear back and almost throwing him from its back. He jerked hard on the stallion's reigns to change his direction, trying to kick the horse back into a flat run.
The stallion took on a fresh burst of speed, but it was already too late to escape his pursuers. Their horses were carrying less weight, while the stallion he was on was almost dragging the mare at this point. The soldiers caught up with Tristan's horse and wrested the reigns from his grip and pulled all the horses up short.
Tristan jumped off and tried to make a run for it but the soldiers were just too quick. They pinned him to the ground even as he was struggling to get away. Tristan kept struggling but to no avail. One of the soldiers knocked him in the back of the head, hard. Tristan's vision swam, he saw stars and stopped struggling.
The soldiers bound him, hand and foot, tossed him unceremoniously over the back of the stallion, and galloped away with Tristan in tow.
Tears stung his eyes as Tristan was carried away like just so much baggage. Tristan let the tears fall freely, he felt he could not stop them right now, even if he wanted. But he made one promise to himself, he would not scream, he would not yell, he would not beg for his life. Tristan swore, then and there, that he would give these dogs nothing to give them any satisfaction.
"Mmph..." Baraethius gave a muffled grunt as he lay face down on his stomach.
"Sorry," the man changing his bandages mumbled as he removed the strips of cloth covering the lines criss-crossing Baraethius' back. Some of the welts going across and running up the length of his back had gotten so bad they had broken open and started bleeding.
He was almost delicate looking, lying face down on the cot as he was. Gods knew that, next to some of the other men in the company, he looked no better than a boy just fresh from boyhood, despite his twenty-seven summers. His limbs were still somewhat lanky and he supposed they always would be. But looking at the length of his back, scares and welts and open wounds aside, any man would hard pressed to call him dainty. His back was nearly a marble relief, lines flowing into one another and sinews rippling beneath the skin when he moved, even if it was only him tensing in pain.
Baraethius distracted himself from the pain, as he often had to do these days, by studying his surroundings in meticulous and excruciating detail.
They were inside his ten, an officer's tent, made of heavy canvas and large enough to give the illusion of a private room. The cot was just large enough to accommodate two men, if both were not too large, took up one wall of the tent. Against the other wall was a small table with an equally small and unadorned mirror sitting atop it. A few other objects sat on the table as well, including a small sigil of Mars, in a neat and orderly array. On the ground next to the table sat his burnished breastplate and shield, his short sword in its sheath leaned up against the table next to them. On the other side of the table sat another set of arms, thought the craftsmanship was not as fine.
At length the man standing next to Baraethius finished removing the bandages and began washing the wounds with fresh water boiled from the fire. Baraethius unconsciously flinched from the heat of the water.
"Sorry," the man mumbled again, sounding sincere but quiet all the same.
"You know," the slightly younger man began, "if you would just give him what he wanted then he wouldn't be so fixated on you. You've been to his tent at least ten times in the last month. That's more than twice as much as any other given man in this company, even the ones he likes, and they him in return. If you would just yell for him a bit then he wouldn't be so fixated on you."
Baraethius heaved a big sigh and then winced again as the wounds in his back stretched with his intake of air. This was a long standing argument between them which Baraethius thought, or at least had hoped, would have been buried a little longer.
"It's the only way I feel that I can defy him," Baraethius asserted, wincing again as his wounds were washed and cleaned. "Besides, the fact that I have held his attentions for so long is probably one of the reasons for my recent elevation to the status of lieutenant."
"And the fact that you're an absolutely brilliant soldier and a natural born leader," the other man said in a mocking tone that, Baraethius new from experience, was anything but, "those had absolutely nothing to do with you getting a position that you more than deserve."
The other man finished washing Baraethius' back and began spreading a salve over the cuts. Their was an initial sting from the poultice but after it faded he began to feel a pleasant and welcome numbing sensations in his back.
"Sorry," the man said again when Baraethius did not answer, "I just detest what he does to you every time you spend the night in his tent. I attend to every man in this company after their nights with him and none of them look so bad as you do afterwards. It seems like he is particularly vicious with you."
"It certainly does," Baraethius heaved another sigh, the pain in his back quickly fading as the man attending to his wounds began to lay the fresh bandages on.
"You know," the other man began hesitantly after a long pause, "we could always put in for a transfer to another unit. With your status and record I'm certain there are any number of superior officers that would be more than happy to have you working under them."
"That's true," Baraethius conceded then rolled over on his side to look up at the man standing next to the cot, "but I could not guaranty that you would be transferred as well, or if we would be transferred to the same unit. And if you did not get a transfer?" he reached up and cupped the other man's cheek in his hand. Days old stubble whispered against his palm and the man pressed Baraethius' hand firmly against his face with his own hands and turned his head into the caress, kissing the calloused palm.
"I'd be alright," the man said looking down with both heat and adoration in his eyes, "I mean, I've had to put my time in at his tent as well. I just give him what he wants, a good yell or two, and it's over before I know it. It's not that bad for me."
"Ithukas," Baraethius rose and sat upright on the cot, feet on the ground, he pulled Ithukas in between his legs, draping his arms around the other man's hips and looking up into those crystal blue eyes like the color of a clear winter sky, "if I were to transfer and your's did not get approved then things would suddenly be so much worse for you. He would no longer be satisfied with your screams, he would take a grim pleasure in tormenting you, because it would be something he could hold over me and torment me with. He would do it simply because it would infuriate him that he never got to conquer me. Everyone in the camp knows that we are more that just `pillow comrades' it would fill him with a kind of demented delight to have his revenge against me in such a manner, and you know it's true."
"Yes," whispered Ithukas, "I know it is." He looked down into eyes the color of a calm sea after a storm, green and blue in the same instant.
"Good," said Baraethius with an air of finality, hoping the matter was settled once and for all. "Now, there is the small matter of payment for services rendered. And I'll not allow you to give me any discounts, I expect to pay you the full charge."
"If you insist," Ithukas sighed in mock disinterest which did not match the face splitting grin on his visage.
Ithukas leaned down, draping his arms over Baraethius' shoulders, and met Baraethius' lips with his own. Baraethius reveled in the taste and texture of Ithukas' lips, like fresh spring rain or a clean draught from a mountain stream, probing his tongue deeply into Ithukas' mouth. Ithukas moaned against the other man's tongue, delighting in the sensation.
Baraethius' hands began roving and kneading the expanse of Ithukas' back. Neither man was nearly as large as some of the other men in their company, but that fact did not seem to diminish either man's prowess. Both men were lithe and limber, and their limbs, while lacking the thick ness of some of the other men, were taught with sinew and cords that, indeed, a good number of the men lacked.
Baraethius felt his ardor begin to pique, his manhood stirring. He undid the cord that held Ithukas' shirt in place pulled the cloth over his comrade's head. Baraethius took a few moment to visually take in the length of Ithukas' torso. The ripples of muscle under the other man's skin reminded Baraethius of ripple on the surface of running water, clean lines flowing smoothly and symmetrically into one another, cascading up and down the other man's upper body. The effect was incredibly alluring, at least to Baraethius' eye at least. And the eyes, crystalline orbs of cerulean blue, a rarity this far south, much like his own blue-green.
Ithukas gazed at his lieutenant's face, the face of his lover, and watched as Baraethius' eyes drank their fill of him. By the gods, Ithukas thought, this must be something akin to what it would be like to look upon the great sea god Poseidon. Baraethius' form and personality reminded him acutely of the sea. Deceptively calm one moment and a raging torrent the next, hiding a great many secrets in its depths.
Baraethius resumed the exploration of Ithukas' back with his hands, reveling in the warmth of the flesh underneath his fingers, caressing up to the other man's shoulders down to the small of his back to the linen small clothes wrapped around his pelvis, Baraethius being in a similar state of dress. Ithukas leaned down and kissed Baraethius, this time in earnest. He feed at the other man's mouth making small, almost helpless noises against Baraethius' lips.
"Ahem," a voice cut into their intimacy. A soldier stood at the tent, obviously a little embarrassed at having interrupted the display, but confident that, his orders being urgent, the intrusion was necessary.
"Yes?" said Baraethius expectantly. He had become used to such disturbances of his privacy as hey happened with a fair degree of regularity, such were the burdens of responsibility and command.
"Forgive the intrusion lieutenant," the soldier said hastily, Baraethius smiled inwardly, he must be one of the newer soldiers. "Commander Remeaus requires you immediate presence. One of the scouting parties has returned and they have taken a captive."
"Understood," Baraethius tried not to sigh too audibly, "inform the commander that I will be there immediately." The soldier saluted and dismissed himself.
Ithukas moved out of the way as Baraethius rose and began to pull on his cloths and armor.
"I guess this means that we won't be finishing anytime soon." There was almost a pout in Ithukas' face that, despite everything, Baraethius couldn't help but find irresistible.
"I'll be back as soon as I am able," the promise was empty sounding even to Baraethius.
"So who do you think the scouts have capture?" asked Ithukas as he idly helped strap Baraethius' breastplate in place.
"I'm not sure," Barathius admitted. "If any of the reports we've gotten aren't grossly over exaggerated then there is no possible way that it could be this `Beast' we've been sent after. We did learn back in the city that there was a young man traveling with a man who fits the description of this Kreshtar."
"Hmm...," Ithukas pondered, "do you believe anything we've heard about the man?"
"I don't know," Baraethius admitted again, this time uneasily. "By all accounts this `man' we hunt is no man at all. Any supposed eye witnesses we've questioned emphatically stated that he is unconquerable. Depending on who you talk to, either someone from the empire or someone outside of it, they either say he is truly the Beast as he is called, or that he is one of the last surviving sons of long dead Sparta. But when you come down to it he can only be a man, no more and no less."
At length Baraethius was clothed in armor and cape as befit his rank. He turned and kissed Ithukas passionately.
"I shall return."
"And I shall await you."
With that Baraethius strode from his tent into the bustle of the camp. It was a small encampment, with a total of forty soldiers, himself, the commander and a few other men to help with the upkeep of armor, weapons, horses and supplies not included. In total it was closer to about fifty-two. Fifteen of the men had been sent to scout ahead. They had reached the city earlier that morning, abouit tow or three hours after sunrise. There had been commotion about the soldiers of the city's watch. They had apprehended three men who had apparently had tried to rob a man on the road earlier that morning.
Their story had seemed implausible at best. Twelve or thirteen men against two, one of which was barely able to be called a man, according to the thieves. Even if they were only untrained thugs and cut throats, it seemed impossible to believe. They had sent out a small party of men to investigate the area where the fight had taken place. Only one man came back, stating that the rest of the party was on the road ahead and that Baraethius and the Commander should come and see for themselves.
The scene had been sobering to say the least. Bodies ere scattered hither and thither like leaves blown on the wind. Files were already buzzing greedily about the corpses feasting on the carcasses, and it would not be too long till the crows came to have a turn at the abundance spread before them as well. There were seven total that they could find. Yet that seemed to be the least of it. The sight that had greeted them after that was grizzly. The man had been hung by his own entrails. By the pale looks on some of the faces of the scouts it was obvious who had already vomited, who was more than likely too soon, and who, like Baraethius, had held down their morning meal by sheer stubbornness alone.
The commander had taken a great deal of time studying that particular corpse, muttering to himself. Some of the words reached Baraethius' ears like interesting', inventive', and `exciting'. Certainly not word choices that Baraethius himself would have used to say the least. He had, however, long ago learned to deal with his commander's... eccentricities.
They ha marched on mercilessly that day, the commander obsessed with gaining as much ground as possible. When it had become time to break camp the commander had sent out three scouting parties, five men each, to try to pick up the trail. One had already come back empty-handed.
At the far side of the camp, the most removed from the other tents, was the commander's tent. Baraethius recognized a few of the scouts standing outside and hurriedly made his way over. Baraethius entered the tent and was greeted by surroundings that he was intimately familiar with, though by no choice of his own.
The tent itself was large, not so big as to be over sized and pompous, that would never befit the commander. But it was large enough to fit ten or twelve men comfortably. A few feet in and to one side was a desk on which lay a few reports and a small stack of blank parchment which responses and requests could be written upon. The desk, while highly polished, was utilitarian, not giving much thought to aesthetics and putting a higher emphasis on functionality. To the other side of the tent were three iron bound wooden chests, large enough that they required two strong men to lift, filled with clothes and various other items that were needed for the commander. The far wall was dominatedby a sizable four post bed, it was one of the few things that the commander would not travel without. To one side sat a stand with wash basin and a mirror. On the other side was another chest, though much smaller was another item that the commander never left behind. It was out of site at the moment but Baraethius knew it was there all the same. Any soldier that had traveled for any length of time under Remeaus' command was intimately familiar with its contents, though certainly not willingly in Baraethius' case and more than just a few others.
There were four other men in the tent, three of them the rest of the scouts and the other the commander himself. The commander nodded curtly and motioned the lieutenant to his side, the man leading the scouts was giving a a detailed report to the commander of the capture of the prisoner.
From what Baraethius gathered the prisoner was a northerner, a young man, traveling alone apparently but matched the description of the 'Beast's' companion. The young man put up a brief struggle but was quickly and easily subdued.
"Bring him here," the commander ordered. The soldier left to comply.
"So," the commander said to no one it seemed, but Baraethius knew he was being addressed, "what do you think lieutenant?"
"I think that, more than likely, this young man is indeed our quarry's companion. Though why he was traveling alone, so close to dark, I cannot say."
"Well," said the commander in a tone that seemed bored but did not match the voracious look in his eyes, though that look was somewhat ever present, " we shall just have to wait and see." And with that the commander gave a small smile.