Page 182 of Dragon Slayer

31

HEADSMAN

“My scouts have sketched it for me,” Constantine said, tone aiming for disinterested, but ending up grim instead. “It’s…impressive.”

Val bit back a sigh. He loved these visits – really he did – but he didn’t have much time, and pacing along the wall top while the waves crashed below with a dull roar, pennants snapping in the breeze, wasn’t the best use of these few stolen minutes. “Yes. I told you about the plans,” he reminded, as gently as possible. “We’re marching there now.”

“We?” the emperor asked, tilting his head Val’s direction.

He did sigh this time. “I’m a part of his retinue, remember? Advisor. Ally.” He left offlover. “I’m closer to him than anyone.” In more ways than one. “I listen to his obsessive rhetoric on the topic near-constantly. Constantine.” He halted, which forced his friend to do the same, and turned to face him. “He’s coming here. He’s having cannons cast from bronze. He’s…” His breath hitched as his anxiety swelled. “I’ve tried to discourage him the best I know how, but I can’t stop him.”

Constantine smiled at him. Softly, sadly. “I know you’re trying. That’s kind of you.”

No!he wanted to scream. He wasn’t being kind! He was helpless, and stupid, and without scruples. He sucked cock to stay alive, and he had to watch his captor march steadily westward, unchecked, nothing but a spectator to his conquest. He wasn’t trying. He wasterrified, and he couldn’t seem to impress the emperor with the seriousness of the situation.

He opened his mouth to respond–

And opened his eyes back in his body. Damn it.

Val sat up, fighting the usual post-walking wave of dizziness. A moment later, the tent flap opened, and Mehmet stalked in, brow crimped and gaze indrawn with thought. He let the flap fall shut and headed toward the war table at the center of the tent, but paused, finally noticing Val.

He blinked, and his frown deepened. “Sleeping in the middle of the day? How industrious of you.”

Val scrubbed a hand across his eyes, working the grit from between his lashes. He could only have been unconscious for a half hour or so, but dream-walking left him as disoriented and groggy as a full night’s sleep. He’d first slipped out of his body while sitting cross-legged in the center of the rug, not wanting to truly stretch out in bed, instead ready to leap back to full awareness. But he’d obviously fallen over, and had awakened on his side.

He got unsteadily to his feet, stifling a yawn. His limbs felt heavy, and his heart raced, as if he’d just awakened from a nightmare. He was getting bolder and bolder, doing this during the day, in stolen snatches of time. Arslan had been sent to carry a message, and there hadn’t even been anyone to warn him of Mehmet’s return.

One day, the sultan would catch him at it, hear him mumbling, lift a lid and see that his eyes had rolled back. He didn’t like to think about the punishment that would follow.

“You keep me awake most nights, so I have to steal rest when I can,” Val quipped as he joined the sultan at the table. He passed a finger along the delicate collar at his throat, and suppressed another, nastier comment about the silver he was forced to wear. “What’s got you so pensive?” He sidled up close, shifted his weight so their hips bumped together. Usually, he liked to do that when there were viziers and generals around, enjoying the way it made them all squirm and divert their gazes. But mostly he did it because it was important that Mehmet think him smitten.

“Scouts encountered an engineer this morning,” Mehmet said, distracted, as he pulled out a roll of parchment and smoothed it across the table, over a map. It was a sequence of drawings, notes made in messy Greek beside each. “He said the emperor, the fool, declined to use his talents. We have guns…buttheseguns…” He laughed, low and delighted.

With a chill, Val realized what he was looking at – read the numbers for what they were: measurements. Impossibly huge measurements.

“This is a cannon,” he said, voice flat with shock…and horror.

Mehmet chuckled. “It’s the largest cannon ever cast. And it’s going to be mine.”

“Greedy,” Val said, teasing. But inside he was numb. His eyes traced the plans. God, it was massive. The kind that could penetrate walls. “You want everything.”

“As well you know,” Mehmet said, leaning into the pressure of Val’s hip, brushing their shoulders together. “Care to help me celebrate?” He turned his head, so his warm breath gusted across Val’s ear. “Where’s your insufferable little slave? Are we alone?”

“Oh, Arslan!” Val whirled away, a different kind of fear coursing through him. “He should have been back by now. My mare lost a shoe, and I sent him to ask the blacksmith–”

The tent flap opened, and the bottom fell out of Val’s stomach. He knew his mistake right away.

Nestor-Iskander held Arslan around the waist with one arm, keeping him upright, supporting most of the boy’s weight. Arslan limped on one leg, expression dazed, his face mottled with bruises that were still red and new, but which would darken over the next few hours. A split lip, a drop of blood on his chin. Ripped, dirt-smudged clothes.

But the worst was the smell: the scent of sweat, and fear, and sex.

Val choked on a whimper, and rushed to them.

“Arslan! Oh, sweetheart. Here. My God. Oh, what happened to you? Who did this?” He cupped the boy’s chin in the gentlest of touches, mirroring Arslan’s wince. He ghosted his hands over his shoulders, his arms, tears burning his eyes.

He looked to Nestor. Firmer, teeth clenched: “Who did this?”

Arslan coughed weakly, and clutched at his ribs. “It’s…it’s alright, your grace. It’s…my fault. I shouldn’t have–”

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