Chapter 32 Scythro
Instinctively, I lurch forward, but the collar catches my throat, and the chain to which it is connected holds me fast. I have no choice but to watch helplessly as Venim strides off into the distance, carrying Jean with him.
My heart sinks at the sight.
I have failed her. I wanted to protect her, and I have failed. First with the ashmaws. Then with the scuttlers. And finally, with Venim himself.
It is not the first time I have failed a woman in such a manner.
As they disappear behind a cluster of boulders, the question the human female asked me a few short kethars ago echoes through my mind…
Is that why you were sent here to Ul? For being a sex worker?
And my cowardly reply: Yes. No. It’s… complicated.
But it isn’t really all that complicated, is it? I am cursed. Cursed to bring pain and death to those I care for.
I let my chain go slack, and I lean back into Ghorak with a sigh.
“My fault,” I murmur. “This is all my fault.”
When the Grangorian speaks, I can feel his words rumbling straight out of his body and into mine.
“Oh, shut up,” he says. “You did your best.”
His words inject me with something. Not quite optimism, perhaps, but a desire not to give up. Not just yet.
I turn and give my chain another sharp tug, using only my neck. It’s no use. Even if I had both my hands, I wouldn’t be able to break free. My muscles simply don’t have the strength to shatter my bonds.
But Ghorak’s muscles are bigger than mine.
Much bigger.
I turn around and stare at the bound giant for a moment. He’s lying on his side, curled into a ball. His body is wrapped in chains. Taut chains.
“Ghorak, can you move at all?” I ask.
He thinks for a moment, then starts rocking slightly from side to side. The motion is negligible.
“Not like that,” I say. “Can you move your arms and legs?”
He shakes his horned head, the only part of him that isn’t held captive by the rusty links.
“Nope,” he says. “Damn chains are too tight.”
“Too tight…” I murmur.
The Grangorian nods for a moment, then he cuts me a querying look.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“Ghorak, what if you flex? I mean, just flex every muscle in your body as hard as you can, and make your body as big as possible.”
He thinks about this for a moment, then nods.
“Worth a shot…”
There’s an encouraging note in his voice, and his eyes look clearer than they did yesterday. As far as I know, he’s only smoked one weedstalk this morning. That gives me hope he might actually be able to pull this off. More hope than if he were in his usual, burned-out state.
He begins to flex. His muscles ripple with tension. Rusty chains bite into green flesh.
“Come on, Ghorak,” I whisper. “You can do this.”
He struggles a moment longer, then his whole body relaxes with a gasp. He drinks the air in big, gulping breaths, replenishing the oxygen he expended.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
“Like I’m going to shit out my reticulum. You sure this is gonna work?”
“You almost had it,” I tell him, pinching the air between my forefinger and thumb. “You were this close.”
“I’ll try again.”
The Grangorian swallows another giant breath and flexes a second time, even harder than before. His face darkens. Veins pop along his throat. Green flesh bulges through the eyelets of the chains.
I can hear the metal starting to groan. He’s doing it. The big bastard is actually—
“Oy! What’re you two gits up to over ’ere?”
I am so focused on Ghorak’s efforts, I don’t feel the approach of the guard until it’s already too late. A bearded Thruk clad in well-worn leather armor and carrying a long spear. He points the steel tip of it right at Ghorak’s throat, and Ghorak ceases his exertion with a sigh.
The Thruk just tuts and shakes his head.
“Yer not gonna bust them chains like that,” he says. “Don’t give a grat’s ass how strong you are.”
“In that case, you won’t mind if we continue trying.”
The spear tip shifts from Ghorak’s throat to my face. My eyes go crossed looking at it.
“Don’t be cute,” the Thruk says.
“Can’t help it,” I reply.
The spear tip prods my cheek. Luckily, it has been some time since the steel was last acquainted with a whetstone. It fails to break the skin.
“I know you,” the Thruk says. “Yer that blue whore, what hangs ’round the depot.”
“Are you a former client?” I ask. “Forgive me. So many faces, I can’t remember them all.”
Another sharper prod.
“I said don’t be cute. I ain’t no buggerer.”
“Of course not,” I reply, keeping my tone light. “What a shame, then, that your boss is monopolizing the only female in the vicinity. It really doesn’t seem fair.”
I caught snatches of the argument by the entrance of the cave. My words seem to strike a nerve. The Thruk’s face darkens, but the spear tip drops away from my face.
“What, Venim?” he says. “He ain’t gonna breed her.”
I desperately want to believe that.
“He’s not?”
“Didn’t you hear? He’s gonna seal her, so’s the rest of us can’t get after her.”
“Ah.”
I am familiar with Znthian physiology. Intimately familiar. Following the conquest of Flayrn, their soldiers made up the better part of my clientele. I have been sealed many times myself. I cannot say I care for it.
I doubt the female will care for it either, though it’s certainly preferable to breeding.
“He claims he’s not going to breed her,” I muse, doing my best to sound casual about it. “But what’s to stop him from breeding her first, then sealing her?”
The Thruk chuckles at that, a harsh, gravelly sound.
“You don’t know Venim. Pharod gives an order, and Venim follows it. He’s nothing if not loyal, spite of what his brand says. Rumor has it he owes Pharod a debt for saving his hide one time.”
Of course. A life debt. Znthian warriors are ever so enamored with their code. And Pharod is certainly one to take advantage of honor.
I settle back with a sigh.
“It still seems unfair,” I say casually. “A bunch of hardworking men such as yourselves. You deserve a chance to relax in a feminine embrace. When was the last time you had a female?”
“None of your business, whore.”
The ire has returned to the Thruk’s voice. As expected. It is all part of the push-pull game. Skill between the sheets is only a small fraction of my trade. The art of the sale is far more important.
“A long time, then. Shame. This is likely your last chance to taste the pleasures of a female.”
“You talk too much, whore.”
I pretend not to hear.
“If I were you,” I muse, “I would organize a mutiny. Take Venim out of the picture. Then take the female for myself.”
This time it’s not a chuckle. The Thruk laughs outright.
“You really don’t know Venim, then. He ain’t one to be trifled with.”
“But there are almost ten of you, and only one of him.”
“Still.”
I pretend to think for a moment. Once a sufficient period of time has passed, I say, “Perhaps if we were to organize some sort of diversion.”
“We?” the Thruk grunts. “You got a vink in your pocket?”
He was not supposed to notice the shift from second person to first. I must be getting rusty.
“Listen,” I say, leaning forward and lowering my voice to a conspiratorial hush. “If you were to set me and my companion here free, Venim would have to come running. We could distract him long enough for the rest of you to attack him from behind. Then we could share the female between us.”
My suggestion is met with a narrowing of the eyes.
“Sounds to me like you just want to get free.”
“Naturally,” I shrug. “And you wish to get laid. I see no reason why we can’t work out a mutually beneficial agreement.”
A further narrowing.
“I’ve tasted her cunt,” I whisper. “Heaven, brother. Pure heaven.”
For a sareth, I think I have him. Then the tension bleeds from his face, and a sly smile curves his lips.
“I’ll think on it,” he says.
Then he turns and strides away, his spear resting lazily against his shoulder, his bushy tail swinging with each stride. Once he’s out of earshot, Ghorak speaks in a voice that’s halfway between a grunt and a whisper.
“Well,” he says, “good effort.”
“Not good enough. Keep trying with the chains. Deep breath now, and… flex!”