Airie
Chapter 8

If I held your hand for a minute—in my special way—it would have brought you more pleasure than any woman or man ever could.

Dusan knew he was asleep, and he tried not to think, least his thoughts would wake him. In his dream, Reijo held something other than Dusan’s hand, kneeling in front of him, looking up with those big eyes of his, his lips slowly parting. Then came the feeling of heat, and wetness, a pleasure that Dusan had never experienced, but knew existed, and could imagine all too well. He gave himself in to the sensation, the intensity of it growing with every moment. It didn’t matter that they were men—in fact, Reijo wasn’t even that. He was an airie. Dusan was fucking an airie’s mouth. He slipped his fingers into Reijo’s hair, soft and silky, and he wondered if it felt like that in real life, too.

That was a mistake, a conscious thought disrupting the fabric of his dream, and the illusion began to fade. Dusan stubbornly kept his eyes closed, but the image of Reijo kneeling in front of him was gone. His dick still throbbed with desire, but that was all that remained of the dream.

He wasn’t alone, though. Remembering that forced his eyes wide open. He was lying on the grass, the dark sky above him mostly concealed by the even darker trees.

He rolled onto his stomach, ignoring his rapidly dwindling erection. Tonight was his turn to watch over the pirates’ ships, and he had fallen asleep on his shift.

Through an opening in the bushes and the trees in front of him, he saw the three ships bobbing on the waves, far away from the shore. They looked as dark and lifeless as they had done before he’d dozed off. Far behind them, the edge of the sky was beginning to brighten. The night would be over soon, and Borwin would send new men to replace Dusan and Mirche on their post.

Dusan let out a long breath, his brief bout of panic subsiding. How irresponsible was he, falling asleep on his watch, and having such dreams, too! It must have been Reijo’s talking about that ‘pleasure touch’ that Dusan’s mind had transformed into that perverse dream. He didn’t even want to think where it could have progressed had he not woken up in time. He could have awakened to a wet stain on his pants, something that hadn’t happened in years. That would have been bad. Mirche could have noticed and poked fun at him for months.

He glanced under the thick oak tree a dozen steps away. The bed of leaves and moss Mirche had made for himself was still there, but his friend wasn’t. That didn’t particularly bother Dusan—Mirche must have just gone into the trees to relieve himself—so he returned his attention to the ships. There had been some activity before the sunset, but eventually, the crew had left the deck, retiring for the night. The ships looked even more sinister like that, an unseen enemy feeling more dangerous.

Dusan shifted on his own bed of moss and leaves. It protected him from some of the cold emanating from the earth, but it was still a far cry from his bed at home. His whole body hurt. It was a wonder he had even managed to fall asleep.

He heard a twig snap behind the trees to his right, and glanced there, waiting for Mirche to appear. The light from the approaching sunset hadn’t reached here yet, and all he could see was the uneven rows of black trunks. He waited, but no more sounds came.

“Mirche,” he whispered. With the forest silent, the whisper carried far, yet no answer came.

Dusan slowly drew himself into a sitting position. The feeling of being alone, even temporarily, in a dark forest, was unnerving. Reijo had been right, humans felt more secure in groups. Wild animals weren’t a likely threat around here, yet Dusan had felt better with his friend within his eyesight.

“Mirche,” he whispered again.

At first, there was no reply. Then, came a sound Dusan hadn’t expected, making his blood go cold.

From behind the trees, he heard a long, muffled moan.

In one swift movement, he grabbed his knife and sprang to his feet. He had no time to do anything else before something hit his back, sending him stumbling forward. The impact kicked the knife out of his fingers. He grabbed for it blindly. Someone jumped on him from behind, strong hands wrapping around his neck.

Under the weight of the attacker, Dusan stumbled backwards. He tried at least to run into a tree, to smash the attacker off him, but then, someone jumped at him from the side, altering his path, sending him crushing to the ground. Struggling to free himself from the grip of two men, Dusan saw more figures approach. The forest that had seemed deserted just moments ago, now seemed full of dark, faceless figures.

As Dusan continued to struggle against the men pinning him to the ground, a third one came over and pulled a bag over his head, and then the darkness was complete.

###

Dusan had never been to a ship before. He found the sensation of the deck moving under his feet sickening. With the bag on his head, he couldn’t see anything, but the voices and the pushing hands made it clear he was constantly surrounded by people. A weak light filtered in through the fabric. The sun must have risen during the time it had taken his captors to tie him up and transport him on an equally unsteady-feeling boat to the ship. He hadn’t attempted talking to them, nor had they addressed him. They would, eventually, he knew, and he wasn’t in a hurry to get to that part. He intended to tell them as little as possible. These were pirates, looking for a settlement to ransack, and for people to sell on foreign slave markets. If they found Dusan’s village, that would be the end of it.

He was forced to climb a rope ladder, a feat particularly tricky while blindfolded, and then ushered along the constantly shifting deck. His captors hadn’t been particularly violent after the original fight in the forest. They pushed and pulled to direct him but hadn’t hit him unnecessarily—yet. That didn’t say anything about the amount of violence that possibly awaited him.

Having been told to stop, he stood still for a while, listening to a few separate conversations going on around him. Some were in languages he didn’t know, some included familiar words, others he could understand, but they carried no useful information. Dusan stood there, the rising sun warming his skin, and waited.

He wondered where Mirche was. Had he been captured before Dusan, or had he heard the enemy approach and escaped? Dusan wished he could believe in the second scenario, but it seemed unlikely that his friend would have left him. Also, he had heard someone moan before he’d been attacked. Surely, the attackers wouldn’t have killed Mirche, though? He must have been captured, too.

He felt someone move behind him, and then the black sack was abruptly removed from his head. The sun, still hanging low over the horizon, seemed too bright, and the air felt strikingly fresh. He squeezed his eyes, then forced them open. The sky was pale blue, not a cloud in sight. It was going to be a beautiful summer day, yet nothing good awaited Dusan in it.

Groups of men stood around him, eyeing him. Right in front of him was a tall man dressed in a vest, a jacket and short baggy pants. For people spending most of their time in the forests, hunting and foraging, short pants were impractical, but here, almost all the men wore them, with gaily colored shorts and wests and stockings—a colorful crowd, but not a particularly cheerful one.

“Hello,” said the man in front of Dusan.

“Hello,” said Dusan. His voice came out as a croak.

“Give him something to drink,” the man said, and, almost immediately, a flask was pushed into Dusan’s tied up hands. Grabbing it awkwardly, he brought it to his lips and took a sip. A cool, burning liquid ran down his throat. The brew was stronger than what he was used to, and he coughed, spitting some of the drink and drawing a few laughs from the audience.

“Take your time,” said the man.

Dusan took another sip, slower this time. It burned his throat again, but he managed to stifle his cough and keep the drink down. He did need it.

“I’m Captain Quillen,” said the man. “What’s your name?”

Dusan considered giving a fake name, then decided not to bother.

“Dusan,” he said.

“Welcome onboard,” said Quillen. His face was dark and his eyes sharp, his skin so tanned and hard that it almost seemed made of stone. “Do you live around here?”

Dusan pondered on the possible answers. Any of them was better than the truth, but the real question was how well he could lie.

“No,” he said. “I travel and hunt and live where I can.”

Quillen raised an eyebrow. “Alone?”

“With friends.”

“Is this one of them?” Quillen pointed behind Dusan.

Dusan turned and, with a sinking feeling, saw Mirche. His friend stood a few steps away, his hands tied in front of him like Dusan’s, his dark hair mussed. There was a bruise on the left side of his face, a swelling around his left eye, and his clothes were torn in a few places. Their eyes met, and Dusan saw in Mirche’s expression the same heavy hopelessness he himself was feeling.

“Yes,” Dusan said. “He’s one of them.”

“How many are you?”

“Just one more.” The opportunity to capture one more man wasn’t likely to cause these people to linger on this shore any longer.

“I see,” said Quillen. “And while you were hunting around here, have you by any chance come across three people who looked like us?” He gestured around. “Three of my men left about eight days ago, and still haven’t come back. We expected them earlier.”

“We haven’t seen anyone.”

“What I’m really asking is,” said Quillen, “haven’t you, by any chance, killed them?”

“Killed? No!” That came out quite well, for that was the truth—Dusan hadn’t lay a finger on any of the scouts. “I haven’t even seen them!” That sounded less convincing.

“He’s lying,” said a man next to Quillen.

“Of course, he is,” said Quillen. “Just tell us the truth, Dusan, and we will not hurt you. You’re not a hunter. We found no hunting gear where you were captured, save for a few knives. You live in a settlement, don’t you?”

“No.”

“You should lead us there.”

“I can’t lead you anywhere. There’s no settlement.”

“There is, and you will. The real question is how much pain you can endure before you do that.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Dusan said. “There’s no settlement, we’re just a bunch of people living in the woods. They’re not worth your time.”

“Is that a bunch now? Not just three men?”

“There’s also a woman, and a child,” Dusan said, letting his imagination run wild. “I’m sure you understand why I didn’t mention them to you. We’re a small group, not worthy of your interest.”

“Allow me to decide on that,” Quillen said. “A small group of people wouldn’t have been able to dispose of my men. They’re too good for that. Or maybe I should say—theyweregood?” He tilted his head, watching Dusan.

“I didn’t see anyone.”

“Too bad,” said Quillen. “I wanted to do it the easy way, but it looks like we’ll have to force the truth out of you.”

“You can do whatever you want. I have nothing to tell you.”

“Really?” Quillen smirked, then glanced at Mirche. “How about him?”

Quillen walked past Dusan and stopped next to Mirche who looked at him with one eye, the other by now swollen completely shut. Quillen pulled a long, gleaming dagger out of the sheath on his belt. “Will you still have nothing to say if we hurt him in front of you?”

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