Page 122 of Dragon Slayer

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THE CAMPAIGN

All that winter, Vlad spent his days running drills with his new cavalry, poring over maps, talking of strategy, honing his already-strong body into something beastly. The few glimpses Val caught of him on the palace grounds were shocking. His legs were still long, but no one could call him “lanky” now. Broad shoulders, thick arms, a trimly muscled waist: Vlad looked every inch the young warrior, his countenance ferocious; the sort of thing grown men would stagger back from.

Val grew as well. The sleeves of his kaftans became too short and his entire wardrobe was replaced. In the mirror, he could see the changes, the way baby softness was slowly fading into the long lines and sharp angles of adolescence. His face narrowed; he looked almost elfin. And he looked nothing like a warrior – which was what he needed to be if he had any hope of being sent back home with his brother.

When winter broke, and the mountain passes were clear, Vlad would head for Tîrgoviste with Murat’s blessing and manpower. Val meant to go with him.

Thus began his slow, careful campaign to win Mehmet over to the idea.

~*~

Val sat back on his heels, catching his breath, his hands still braced on the sultan’s open thighs.

Mehmet slumped back against the wall, hands twitching weakly where they lay on the cushions of the bench where he was sitting. His chest heaved, flushed where it was visible beneath his unlaced shirt. He breathed through an open mouth, lips still shaped around his last, deep groan, his eyes shut, his lashes dark fans on pinkened cheeks. If pressed at knifepoint, Val would admit that ecstasy was very becoming on the sultan.

“Your Majesty.” His voice sounded as raw as his throat felt. “I have a request.” He’d planned this carefully, waiting until Mehmet was well-satisfied; that was when he was at his most generous. He moved his fingertips in little circles, a delicate massage.

Mehmet cracked one eye open. “A request?” Curious, but still languid. Malleable. He cupped Val’s chin in one weak hand, traced a thumb over his shiny lower lip. “Ask and ye shall receive, beautiful one.”

My freedom, Val thought, wildly. But that was folly. He had to start small, and build up to it.

He forced a smile, lowered his lashes to a discreet angle, and said, “I was only thinking that it’s been a very long time since I’ve had any training like I used to. I haven’t sparred insucha long time.”

Mehmet seemed to return to himself a little, lifting his head up from the wall, gaze clearing. He flicked a lazy, though disbelieving smile. “You want tospar?”

“I should like to, yes,” he said, demure and hesitant. “I was in training to become a knight at one time. Before…”

Mehmet stilled; he held his breath and his thumb froze a moment, before pressing into the center of Val’s lower lip. When Val lifted a pleading gaze to him, he exhaled on a quiet laugh. “A knight?That’swhat you want?” He fingered a lock of golden hair. “Why would you waste such beauty on a battlefield when you can be comfortable here?”

Will I not ever be allowed to be a man?Val wanted to scream.Can I have not one scrap of honor? Only your whore, and whores don’t wield swords.

He took a measured breath and fought to keep his voice low and soft. “You flatter me. It’s only…”

Mehmet sat forward, one elbow braced on his knee, the other hand winding into Val’s hair. Their faces were very close together now, close enough to kiss if Mehmet hadn’t minded the taste of his own come. “Only what?” Sultry, almost sweet, but Val had to tread so, so carefully.

Val wet his lips, and Mehmet’s gaze followed the quick pass of his tongue. “It’s only that I want to be…useful.” A muscle leaped in Mehmet’s jaw. “All the other boys at court are being groomed for leadership and I…want to do my part. For your empire.”

Mehmet held his gaze a long, tense moment. Then he laughed and sat back, petting lazily over Val’s head. “You do your part plenty, Radu. Don’t worry over that.”

~*~

Well, that was that, Val thought bitterly. So much for trying.

But a few days later, Arslan toted in a hamper that threatened to buckle his knees, setting it down gratefully with a sound of shifting metal from inside.

“What is this?” Val asked, climbing off the divan where he’d been reading.

“A gift for you. The sultan had it all specially made.”

Val settled on his knees on the carpet, folded back the lid and found–

Armor. Lightweight, beautifully crafted steel, padded with red leather.

And beneath that, a sword.

Val sucked in a breath. He stared at it a long moment, resting there on a bed of silk, drinking in its long, clean lines and its elegant cross-guard and hilt, worked with gold and tiny sapphires. It was too fine a weapon for a common soldier; the sort of thing a king – or a sultan – carried both during battle, and ceremonies. Deadly, functional, but a beautiful showpiece, too, designed to project an image of power and opulence. No one wanted to be subjugated by a pauper; they wanted the jewels and the flashing of gold.

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