Page 125 of Dragon Slayer

Mehmet swung high, and Val blocked it – only for Mehmet to kick him in the stomach and send him sprawling back across the ground. His head smacked against the gravel, and stars pinwheeled across his field of vision.

Damn it! No matter how strong he felt now, Mehmet was still stronger, and by far the more experienced fighter. He’d let his emotions get the best of him, all his pent-up rage and grief. And he couldn’t stem it now, not even to save his own life.

He tried to scramble to his feet, but Mehmet was on top of him, his knee pinning him at the sternum, free hand grabbing his wrist and slamming it to the ground. His other hand held his sword aloft, ready to strike. The sultan was all fangs and snarls, his face contorted into something inhuman. A long string of saliva slid down one fang, dangling into the air between him.

Valhatedhim.

He roared. He’d never conjured that sound up out of his chest before; it emptied his lungs and left him breathless, gasping.

Mehmet roared back, and brought his sword down.

~*~

Val opened his eyes sometime later. Not a killing blow, then. A hard smack with the flat of the blade. His head ached, dull and insistent across his forehead, temples, and behind his eyes.

His vision cleared slowly, and proved what he already knew from scent: he lay on a couch in the antechamber of Mehmet’s suite. Sun hung in fat, slanted beams from the windows: late afternoon. Hours had passed.

A pitcher of pale white wine and a cup rested on the table beside him, and when he was able, he rolled over and reached for it. That was when he saw it.

A narrow silver band around his wrist. Narrow, yes, but solid. And trailing from it, a length of silver chain. It slid across the tile with a sound like a hiss as he pulled his hand to his face and squinted blearily at the cuff. There was no clasp, no way for him to unlatch it. He flicked it with the tip of his tongue – yes, solid silver.

His stomach lurched, and suddenly he was wide awake.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the couch, so his bare feet hit the cool tiles. His other wrist bore a matching cuff, trailing chain, and when he looked down to identify the cool weight puddled in his lap, he found another chain…one that led up to the collar around his throat. When he swallowed, his Adam’s apple rubbed against it. The chains were hooked to rings set in the wall, brand new, the plaster around them chipped.

Val took a series of deep breaths. The important thing was not to panic.

“I thought you were dead,” a timid voice whispered, and Val looked across the room with a start.

Arslan sat tucked in a corner, knees to his chest, arms wrapped around them. Shivers wracked his thin frame, so the hems of his loose pants fluttered against the tiles.

“I’m not dead,” Val said, and slumped back against the wall. He felt drained, and that was only partially because of the fight earlier, and the subsequent concussion. “But I wish that I was.”

Arslan peeked out from between his knees, face drawn and pale. “You shouldn’t wish for such a thing.”

“No?” A laugh escaped him, humorless and dark. His voice sounded wrong, deeper, maybe, but also hopeless. “I am a prince who’s become a whore. Your sultan sodomizes me nightly. Even if I managed to make it home, my family would disown me – what little family remains, that is. Father is dead. Mircea is dead. Vlad hates me. And now this.” He lifted both hands and let them flop back, the chains rattling. “Who wouldn’t wish for death in my place, Arslan?”

The boy stared at him a long moment. And then he got to his feet andstompedover, slipper heels striking the tiles with sharppat-pat-patnoises. He came to stand right in front of Val, hands on his hips, shaking now not with fear, but with anger. Little thunderstorms burst in his eyes.

Val wanted to laugh, but he knew it wouldn’t be appreciated.

“You don’t get to wish for death,” the slave snapped at him. “You – you’re still a man. They didn’t take your manhood like they did mine. I can never have children. I will never be strong and powerful like you will. I’m not even a woman – a woman could be useful! I’m just – just – just a thing!”

“Arslan–”

“I know what you are.” And here the boy looked apprehensive again. “I know that it’s blood in the cup I bring you, same as the sultan, and your brother. I know that you…” He swallowed and leaned back, remembering himself.

“Does that mean you’re afraid of me?”

“N-no.”

Val sighed. “Forgive me, Arslan. None of this is your fault.”

Arslan studied him a moment. “He’ll set you free eventually, you know. No one ever keeps princes. Not forever.”

“My brother is on his way to take Wallachia back.”

“Still.”

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