Dark Moon (W&W Chapter Thirty-One)

The guy finally knew he was a monster, and the knowledge killed him. It was a horror movie. Ironic, ain't it? Of course shit like that don't happen in real life, because the monsters always think they're cool. And I gotta admit----with a movie, I always root for the monster.

Until the elf did the unthinkable---the unforgivable---Asher was actually in a good mood. And not in the usual way of things; it was a light and airy feeling, far different from the warm, dark glow he felt after a kill, or when he had pleased the Lady in a way he knew would be well-rewarded.

In truth, he could pinpoint no one reason for this feeling of mellow contentment. Killing Southerners? That pleasure was present, but it was a very separate satisfaction. Fooling the Northmen as to his intentions? Well---he hadn't really made any effort to do so, and thus he couldn't congratulate himself on his own cleverness this time. The Riders were suspicious folk but also very trusting once their own strange rules had been satisfied. Asher's previous acquaintance with their Warchief had been more than enough for most. Do'nar, amazingly, had been willing to vouch for him also. Over and above the respect he got being an old friend of the high king, Asher had the war Captain's backing.

Friend. Did that define his connection to the Wolf? He hardly thought so. In his more sane moments, Asher realized that what he felt for Nightwolf was all on his side only. He woke up often, shaking with pleasure, slowly coming to realize that although Wolf had been THERE in his mind, in body he had not been anywhere near.

He'd volunteered his services to Do'nar partly to keep up the charade of helping the Tribes, at least until he himself knew where his plans would take him. For he was still unsure. The Lady's betrayal, her attempt to drive her alliance with the Southerners past him as if he were an ignorant child! That had infuriated him.

Do'nar's presence, his silly jokes and almost-affectionate if heavy-handed teasing? Was that what made him so uncharacteristically pleased with life? Surely not. And yet, it was the only thing he could put a finger on, that was different enough from the usual run of things. Do'nar, of all people, trying to be friends with him.

One sure thing though, killing those bastard Southerners was a good thing! Do'nar had eyed him strangely when he let that opinion out, then the big man had smiled in a wolfish fashion. "Allow me to show you what I think of Southerners," he'd growled, and more or less dragged Asher to his tent, which was built close to a stone building that served as a forge and a shop for these people.

He'd expected the huge rough bastard to show him weapons, and crude ones at that. Instead, beaming, the big fool had revealed a collection of Southern skulls, all cleverly worked into drinking cups. There was one mug, a sparkling blood-red glass gripped in the victims' spread jaws, that actually made him laugh out loud. Southern skulls in various degrees of yelling, all made into cups. Some of them had glass eyeballs in their staring sockets. The finest workmanship he'd ever seen, and he'd said so. It was also one of the funniest sights in his life, Do'nar standing there with a grin on his open friendly face, clutching what remained of his last opponent in one big fist as if preparing to go to a party with it.

Do'nar had beamed. "Of course, I'd never serve a drink in them. The damn Southern bone would poison the brew. But you see, Southerners can be used for decoration if nothing else. Not much brain to scoop out, either!"

They'd shared a laugh at the gruesome image, neither one at all weak of stomach at the concept of brain-scooping. And despite all odds, Asher found himself liking the seemingly stupid warrior he'd brushed off in his first visit to the tribes.

Stupid, Do'nar was not. His talents and thoughts were just well-hidden, brought out only when he decided to reveal them privately. It was not so much different from being a spy, except in intent. Asher found himself a little miffed at Do'nar for being different than he appeared, and said so. Do'nar had guffawed hugely, pleased all to hell at having tricked Asher so thoroughly. And though his usual response to being fooled would be anger, Asher found himself laughing along with the disrespectful bastard.

Well, so Do'nar was quicker of wit than he chose to reveal. It didn't make the elf less of a slut, nor Nightwolf less of an innocent dupe needing to be free of him!

Asher hadn't had a friend, someone to talk to and share laughter with, since the Rangers. And their "friendship" had been conditional in the extreme as was proven when he broke their rules and even his so-called mentor abandoned him. There was Merron, but as master and slave they were not really on the same level. And he admittedly hadn't tried to show any friendship to the boy---perhaps, because he feared friendship would change to something else, whether he fancied young boys or not. Merron was a sweet innocent, and better he remain so.

And he must admit, he enjoyed that moose far more than he'd ever expected to. Although of course they weren't "best friends!" And certainly not companions in the way of some of these Northern sex-fiends including the Wolf and his sex toy.

He'd had several reasons, vague but compelling, when he offered to accompany the small group of Riders who eagerly decided to take off and assist some other one of their misbegotten tribes that had been attacked. Killing Southerners was always pleasant, and he saw no need to hold back merely because he'd discovered his ruling Lady had allied with those scum. In fact, a taste of their dripping entrails would be even better in this case-----he could pretend it was the Lady herself he slaughtered. And how could she blame him? She'd never told him to his face of this bargain she had struck. Oh, yes, he would kill himself some Southerners and do it for free!

And so he had; he'd swooped down on them like a raging storm, and earned himself a fair amount of respect thereby. Even the Riders had been impressed with his skill and cruelty in slaying the enemy. The crazy, cannibalistic Black Moon chief had made him a battle-brother, and he'd drunk Southern blood with the leering, paint-faced bastard in a midnight ceremony that Do'nar later said made his toenails curl.

Do'nar too had received this honor, but he hadn't really reveled in it as Asher did, and later the big man drank tubs of that disgusting ale the Moon tribe brewed, trying to get the taste of blood out of his mouth. Asher had teased him unmercifully for that.

Someone to tease. It was a new thing to him; even with the Rangers, he'd been too determined to please and be perfect to really relax enough to laugh with them. And they were a sour crew anyway! he now thought a little arrogantly. But somehow, Do'nar had managed to tickle the sense of humor Asher hadn't even known he possessed.

Also, Do'nar's liking for him certainly seemed to hold no conditions. The man had seen him, if not at his worst, at least in some awkward situations, or in ugliness such as that of his mistreated horse. He would swear, he'd never thought of himself as cruel until Do'nar had curtly pointed it out. And in some way, that frightened him. That such callousness had seemed perfectly normal to him, that it had taken another viewpoint to open his eyes.

They'd held an impromptu competition as to which of them could off the most Southern bastards, which Do'nar had won by two in the body count. But the odds were stacked, Do'nar graciously admitted, because he swung an axe like a grown man, whereas Asher used a pair of puny daggers, and a sling with which he missed more often than not. "Untrue!" Asher had argued, but then he was told that enemies shot from a distance didn't really count in the tally anyway, and if he continued to bicker he'd be behind by a dozen.

Strangely. Asher had been amused not insulted. They had laughed and argued all through the competition, and Do'nar had in his saddlebags a couple of heads bouncing around whose shape pleased him. He'd skin and polish them up back at home camp, fit 'em with handles, and then Asher could have them as a memento of their glorious battle.

Once again, the thought of the big, bluff warrior being cold-blooded enough to make cups out of his enemies' skulls had gotten Asher laughing so hard his alarmed companion had nearly beaten him to death, pounding him on the back when the inevitable coughing fit followed the laughter. He couldn't help it; the very idea tickled him almost to hysteria for some reason every time he thought of it. And Asher was the opposite of a playful soul in general.

Do'nar had come to him, three days into the Black Moon party. Instead of the loin-cloth and finger-painted body that the Moon tribe sported and insisted visitors copy, Do'nar had been in his Rider leathers, and looking mighty sneaky. "I'm for home," he'd stated bluntly. "These Black Moon boys can be entertaining, by Thor, but too much of them makes me start to question my own sanity. I thought you might agree."

"Mad to party, and I don't blame 'em. Let 'em stay. But I want to go home, see what new tasks face us. Spending two days killing Southerners and two weeks congratulating yourself about it strikes me as inefficient." Do'nar grinned, a somewhat horrifying sight, since he hadn't washed his face and the Black Moon war markings, daubed on in gouts of blood and filth, were a messy framework to his sharp smile. "You strike me as a man of sense---how about it?"

"All right," Asher had agreed slowly. Truth to tell, he was not bored with killing yet, but he deeply missed a sight of Nightwolf. His obsession with the Warchief had been fueled by absence, not cured. He saw the man in his dreams---and his dreams had always been desperate, razor-sharp, more real than his waking world usually.

Another reason for leaving the Riders' camp---the skinny Witchwoman deciding that Nightwolf and his new Bonded would after all have their time alone, even though the marriage was an obvious sham.

How would he exist, looking at that closed tent, hearing the sounds of pleasure that would surely fill the air around it? He was no fool, he knew the Wolf was besotted by the elf-boy, and he knew what the Wolf would be doing inside that off-limits tent. Fucking the scrawny elf brainless!

And he knew his own self-control would snap on the first day; he would be forcing his way in with magic, to kill his rival and bathe in his blood. And his triumph would be short-lived, because the Wolf would surely kill him in turn. He was under no illusions about THAT.

It was a scene so complete in his mind that he almost felt it had already happened. Alarmed, he'd known then he had to get away, at least until his mind strengthened enough that he didn't contemplate such things.

The thought of Nightwolf killing him in a frenzy of despair was somewhat blackly exciting, truthfully. There were people in the East who actually were into such play, to kill or be killed by their mates after a sex act. Spidering, they called it, though usually the mate would escape through some trickery or guile. But in a few cases death had truly resulted, and he could see the appeal, the final gift and acknowledgment of mastery.

Gods! Why couldn't the Wolf have loved him instead? What the hell did the elf have, in either looks, brains or talent, that Asher didn't have and better? Granted he was lovely, but it was an arrogant, flashy beauty that Asher honestly felt was bested by his own elegant looks. Brains---ha! No contest; the elf was flighty, light-minded, and prone to run off at the mouth in a way that was totally disgusting. Yet Wolf seemed to be charmed by his dribble, proof that the elf must be spelling him. And half the tribe too, perhaps; the remarks he'd heard about the little rat amongst the warriors he'd ridden with were admiring, in the main.

Asher knew himself, know his own power. He was strong. His talent in black magic had made him first among the Lady's servants, not his looks or charisma though he knew she appreciated both. He was no weakling himself, in magic!

In some strange portion of his mind, before it broke, he knew damn well that the elf was only doing what the Nightwolf desired. And in some lost part of himself, he even wished them well before blackness as thick as poisoned blood possessed him.

"By the gods," Do'nar observed in a whisper, sounding more admiring than anything. "That damned wizard has the Lord of the Twelve Tribes well and truly tamed! It's a lovely sight indeed, but maybe not one we should be watching. Dammitall, it's a shame!"

A lovely sight? He stared at the elf. The creature's head was thrown back as he gasped to completion, the fire of his long hair drifting like burning smoke in the chill morning air. The bastard reached for Nightwolf's head, held it still as he pushed in one final time. His cry was soft, but very clear in the silent morning,

Then Do'nar was tugging at his horse's bridle, a big fool both aroused and embarrassed at having seen his Warchief in such a position. Asher let the man pull him away. He almost blurted out his own anguish of jealousy and rage, because he trusted Do'nar as he did few people. Then he remembered that the man's remark had been admiring! The damn elf had bespelled his friend as well!

A lovely sight. It was. He couldn't deny it. The slim gorgeous elf, naked to his knees, moaning with pleasure against a sky of soft violet. His silky toned body wantonly revealed. The dark creature at his feet, swathed in black---fully dressed as he was forced to do what that bastard wanted---

He closed his eyes, not wanting them to return to where they desperately wanted to go. To that soft and succulent mouth, which had betrayed him as surely as ever the Lady had done.

That mouth, on the wizard's sex. Almost an act of worship, which proved bespellment! Asher's brain processed the strange, definitely idiotic thought that it was really the elf who had seemed to be worshipping---something.

The damn elf----he even managed to get a man like Do'nar in his corner, a man whose basic common sense was mind-boggling. Of course, this picture before him meant what he thought it meant. The Tribal Lord, ensnared by an elf. They must have armies, be ready to swoop in for the kill.

In the intensity of his pain and loss, he used magic he didn't even know he was capable of, and pulled the Lady's mind to him without effort. And also, without any of the dragon-toys she was used to. The same as the elf, on his dragon-made steed! The pair of them were contemptible. The elf more so, since he used such worthless things even with his powers of magic.

"I will bring him shortly, the Nightwolf," he said, coldly. Ramming over all the days of non-communication with an addict's selfish fixation. And she matched him in that, leaping at once to the now, the focus. "Nightwolf?"

"Not a problem for you, since you have no idea how to do it!" he snarled. "And the next time you call me that, you will lose your chance. Other powers in the East would love my assistance." He waited long enough for her snap of temper, as well as her uncertainty, to come forth. And then he smiled, when only troubled silence was his answer.

"You bitch. You barely understand, how strong this creature is you pit me against." He laughed, very softly. "It's lucky for you, what a thief I am. No, I won't guarantee success, whore! You better grant me all the power you have and then some. I'll take that elf, I'll destroy the North---within the week. But tomorrow----

He smiled faintly. The knife that even he feared, stolen from Do'nar, rested in his saddlebag. He'd pilfered other things from both Do'nar and the Black Moon people, for no other reason except to stay in practice. He'd intended to replace everything he'd rifled from Do'nar at least, but now he would keep this blade he feared, just in case.

The naga-metal. That which killed magic. It rested in his pack, safely sheathed in lead and leather. To steal something he feared so much---that had been a challenge.

It might injure him badly, to use it. But now, he no longer cared. Because he was certain it would hurt the elf far more. These blades injured a mage in direct proportion to how powerful his magic was. And the elf was frighteningly strong of magic.



	Dark Moon Silk and silver in his arms Madness in his rage Death before, behind and sideways Beyond the compass gauge. The guy finally knew he was a monster, and the knowledge killed him. It was a horror movie. Ironic, ain't it? Of course shit like that don't happen in real life, because the monsters always think they're cool. And I gotta admit----with a movie, I always root for the monster. Firehawk NC-17 Sex is implied, but Asher sees it and his reactions might be NC-17. Big thanks for everyone's patience with updates. I repeat, I will finish this no matter what. ------------------------------------ Until the elf did the unthinkable---the unforgivable---Asher was actually in a good mood. And not in the usual way of things; it was a light and airy feeling, far different from the warm, dark glow he felt after a kill, or when he had pleased the Lady in a way he knew would be well-rewarded. In truth, he could pinpoint no one reason for this feeling of mellow contentment. Killing Southerners? That pleasure was present, but it was a very separate satisfaction. Fooling the Northmen as to his intentions? Well---he hadn't really made any effort to do so, and thus he couldn't congratulate himself on his own cleverness this time. The Riders were suspicious folk but also very trusting once their own strange rules had been satisfied. Asher's previous acquaintance with their Warchief had been more than enough for most. Do'nar, amazingly, had been willing to vouch for him also. Over and above the respect he got being an old friend of the high king, Asher had the war Captain's backing. Friend. Did that define his connection to the Wolf? He hardly thought so. In his more sane moments, Asher realized that what he felt for Nightwolf was all on his side only. He woke up often, shaking with pleasure, slowly coming to realize that although Wolf had been THERE in his mind, in body he had not been anywhere near. Sometimes, the slow return to sanity would take a day or more. And then---then! he'd think about killing the elf. He'd volunteered his services to Do'nar partly to keep up the charade of helping the Tribes, at least until he himself knew where his plans would take him. For he was still unsure. The Lady's betrayal, her attempt to drive her alliance with the Southerners past him as if he were an ignorant child! That had infuriated him. He was no longer sure whose side he was on. It somewhat made his head hurt. Do'nar's presence, his silly jokes and almost-affectionate if heavy-handed teasing? Was that what made him so uncharacteristically pleased with life? Surely not. And yet, it was the only thing he could put a finger on, that was different enough from the usual run of things. Do'nar, of all people, trying to be friends with him. One sure thing though, killing those bastard Southerners was a good thing! Do'nar had eyed him strangely when he let that opinion out, then the big man had smiled in a wolfish fashion. "Allow me to show you what I think of Southerners," he'd growled, and more or less dragged Asher to his tent, which was built close to a stone building that served as a forge and a shop for these people. He'd expected the huge rough bastard to show him weapons, and crude ones at that. Instead, beaming, the big fool had revealed a collection of Southern skulls, all cleverly worked into drinking cups. There was one mug, a sparkling blood-red glass gripped in the victims' spread jaws, that actually made him laugh out loud. Southern skulls in various degrees of yelling, all made into cups. Some of them had glass eyeballs in their staring sockets. The finest workmanship he'd ever seen, and he'd said so. It was also one of the funniest sights in his life, Do'nar standing there with a grin on his open friendly face, clutching what remained of his last opponent in one big fist as if preparing to go to a party with it. Do'nar had beamed. "Of course, I'd never serve a drink in them. The damn Southern bone would poison the brew. But you see, Southerners can be used for decoration if nothing else. Not much brain to scoop out, either!" They'd shared a laugh at the gruesome image, neither one at all weak of stomach at the concept of brain-scooping. And despite all odds, Asher found himself liking the seemingly stupid warrior he'd brushed off in his first visit to the tribes. Stupid, Do'nar was not. His talents and thoughts were just well-hidden, brought out only when he decided to reveal them privately. It was not so much different from being a spy, except in intent. Asher found himself a little miffed at Do'nar for being different than he appeared, and said so. Do'nar had guffawed hugely, pleased all to hell at having tricked Asher so thoroughly. And though his usual response to being fooled would be anger, Asher found himself laughing along with the disrespectful bastard. The idea that maybe he had misjudged others in this Tribe made Asher think hard, before he uneasily backed away from more thinking. Well, so Do'nar was quicker of wit than he chose to reveal. It didn't make the elf less of a slut, nor Nightwolf less of an innocent dupe needing to be free of him! Asher hadn't had a friend, someone to talk to and share laughter with, since the Rangers. And their "friendship" had been conditional in the extreme as was proven when he broke their rules and even his so-called mentor abandoned him. There was Merron, but as master and slave they were not really on the same level. And he admittedly hadn't tried to show any friendship to the boy---perhaps, because he feared friendship would change to something else, whether he fancied young boys or not. Merron was a sweet innocent, and better he remain so. But Do'nar he hadn't even thought he liked, until he suddenly found himself enjoying the big fool's company. And he must admit, he enjoyed that moose far more than he'd ever expected to. Although of course they weren't "best friends!" And certainly not companions in the way of some of these Northern sex-fiends including the Wolf and his sex toy. But they definitely were "something". He wasn't quite sure how it all had happened. He'd had several reasons, vague but compelling, when he offered to accompany the small group of Riders who eagerly decided to take off and assist some other one of their misbegotten tribes that had been attacked. Killing Southerners was always pleasant, and he saw no need to hold back merely because he'd discovered his ruling Lady had allied with those scum. In fact, a taste of their dripping entrails would be even better in this case-----he could pretend it was the Lady herself he slaughtered. And how could she blame him? She'd never told him to his face of this bargain she had struck. Oh, yes, he would kill himself some Southerners and do it for free! And so he had; he'd swooped down on them like a raging storm, and earned himself a fair amount of respect thereby. Even the Riders had been impressed with his skill and cruelty in slaying the enemy. The crazy, cannibalistic Black Moon chief had made him a battle-brother, and he'd drunk Southern blood with the leering, paint-faced bastard in a midnight ceremony that Do'nar later said made his toenails curl. Do'nar too had received this honor, but he hadn't really reveled in it as Asher did, and later the big man drank tubs of that disgusting ale the Moon tribe brewed, trying to get the taste of blood out of his mouth. Asher had teased him unmercifully for that. Someone to tease. It was a new thing to him; even with the Rangers, he'd been too determined to please and be perfect to really relax enough to laugh with them. And they were a sour crew anyway! he now thought a little arrogantly. But somehow, Do'nar had managed to tickle the sense of humor Asher hadn't even known he possessed. Also, Do'nar's liking for him certainly seemed to hold no conditions. The man had seen him, if not at his worst, at least in some awkward situations, or in ugliness such as that of his mistreated horse. He would swear, he'd never thought of himself as cruel until Do'nar had curtly pointed it out. And in some way, that frightened him. That such callousness had seemed perfectly normal to him, that it had taken another viewpoint to open his eyes. Do'nar. He hadn't expected to like the man, but there it was. I like him. Respect him, even. They'd held an impromptu competition as to which of them could off the most Southern bastards, which Do'nar had won by two in the body count. But the odds were stacked, Do'nar graciously admitted, because he swung an axe like a grown man, whereas Asher used a pair of puny daggers, and a sling with which he missed more often than not. "Untrue!" Asher had argued, but then he was told that enemies shot from a distance didn't really count in the tally anyway, and if he continued to bicker he'd be behind by a dozen. Strangely. Asher had been amused not insulted. They had laughed and argued all through the competition, and Do'nar had in his saddlebags a couple of heads bouncing around whose shape pleased him. He'd skin and polish them up back at home camp, fit 'em with handles, and then Asher could have them as a memento of their glorious battle. Once again, the thought of the big, bluff warrior being cold-blooded enough to make cups out of his enemies' skulls had gotten Asher laughing so hard his alarmed companion had nearly beaten him to death, pounding him on the back when the inevitable coughing fit followed the laughter. He couldn't help it; the very idea tickled him almost to hysteria for some reason every time he thought of it. And Asher was the opposite of a playful soul in general. Do'nar, for some reason, made him laugh. It was a new thing for him, strange enough to be almost frightening. Do'nar had come to him, three days into the Black Moon party. Instead of the loin-cloth and finger-painted body that the Moon tribe sported and insisted visitors copy, Do'nar had been in his Rider leathers, and looking mighty sneaky. "I'm for home," he'd stated bluntly. "These Black Moon boys can be entertaining, by Thor, but too much of them makes me start to question my own sanity. I thought you might agree." Actually, Asher did agree, but he protested just for form's sake. "The other Riders?" "Mad to party, and I don't blame 'em. Let 'em stay. But I want to go home, see what new tasks face us. Spending two days killing Southerners and two weeks congratulating yourself about it strikes me as inefficient." Do'nar grinned, a somewhat horrifying sight, since he hadn't washed his face and the Black Moon war markings, daubed on in gouts of blood and filth, were a messy framework to his sharp smile. "You strike me as a man of sense---how about it?" "All right," Asher had agreed slowly. Truth to tell, he was not bored with killing yet, but he deeply missed a sight of Nightwolf. His obsession with the Warchief had been fueled by absence, not cured. He saw the man in his dreams---and his dreams had always been desperate, razor-sharp, more real than his waking world usually. He saw the man dead, betrayed by the bastard of a wizard-elf. And he had come to believe these nightmares must contain a seed of truth. Another reason for leaving the Riders' camp---the skinny Witchwoman deciding that Nightwolf and his new Bonded would after all have their time alone, even though the marriage was an obvious sham. How would he exist, looking at that closed tent, hearing the sounds of pleasure that would surely fill the air around it? He was no fool, he knew the Wolf was besotted by the elf-boy, and he knew what the Wolf would be doing inside that off-limits tent. Fucking the scrawny elf brainless! And he knew his own self-control would snap on the first day; he would be forcing his way in with magic, to kill his rival and bathe in his blood. And his triumph would be short-lived, because the Wolf would surely kill him in turn. He was under no illusions about THAT. It was a scene so complete in his mind that he almost felt it had already happened. Alarmed, he'd known then he had to get away, at least until his mind strengthened enough that he didn't contemplate such things. The thought of Nightwolf killing him in a frenzy of despair was somewhat blackly exciting, truthfully. There were people in the East who actually were into such play, to kill or be killed by their mates after a sex act. Spidering, they called it, though usually the mate would escape through some trickery or guile. But in a few cases death had truly resulted, and he could see the appeal, the final gift and acknowledgment of mastery. But he didn't WANT the Wolf to despair, or die. And he certainly didn't want to die himself because of that interfering, stupid elf. Gods! Why couldn't the Wolf have loved him instead? What the hell did the elf have, in either looks, brains or talent, that Asher didn't have and better? Granted he was lovely, but it was an arrogant, flashy beauty that Asher honestly felt was bested by his own elegant looks. Brains---ha! No contest; the elf was flighty, light-minded, and prone to run off at the mouth in a way that was totally disgusting. Yet Wolf seemed to be charmed by his dribble, proof that the elf must be spelling him. And half the tribe too, perhaps; the remarks he'd heard about the little rat amongst the warriors he'd ridden with were admiring, in the main. Talent? Oh, gods! Asher knew himself, know his own power. He was strong. His talent in black magic had made him first among the Lady's servants, not his looks or charisma though he knew she appreciated both. He was no weakling himself, in magic! He remembered that flame of green mana as the elf-boy had taken care of the Wolf's battle wound. Fuck! He would be honest, if only to himself, and die of it. I can't compare to him, he thought in horrid, knifelike pain. On any level, in any way. Looks, or talent, or---- Courage. He gripped the horse with his knees. Stared down, at the sight of the stupid elf being pleasured by the man he had dreamed of pleasing. In some strange portion of his mind, before it broke, he knew damn well that the elf was only doing what the Nightwolf desired. And in some lost part of himself, he even wished them well before blackness as thick as poisoned blood possessed him. "By the gods," Do'nar observed in a whisper, sounding more admiring than anything. "That damned wizard has the Lord of the Twelve Tribes well and truly tamed! It's a lovely sight indeed, but maybe not one we should be watching. Dammitall, it's a shame!" A lovely sight? He stared at the elf. The creature's head was thrown back as he gasped to completion, the fire of his long hair drifting like burning smoke in the chill morning air. The bastard reached for Nightwolf's head, held it still as he pushed in one final time. His cry was soft, but very clear in the silent morning, "Carson, you rock----" Whatever THAT meant. "A shame." Although Asher vaguely realized that Do'nar had meant something else, his mind seized on the word. Shameful, it certainly was. Then Do'nar was tugging at his horse's bridle, a big fool both aroused and embarrassed at having seen his Warchief in such a position. Asher let the man pull him away. He almost blurted out his own anguish of jealousy and rage, because he trusted Do'nar as he did few people. Then he remembered that the man's remark had been admiring! The damn elf had bespelled his friend as well! A lovely sight. It was. He couldn't deny it. The slim gorgeous elf, naked to his knees, moaning with pleasure against a sky of soft violet. His silky toned body wantonly revealed. The dark creature at his feet, swathed in black---fully dressed as he was forced to do what that bastard wanted--- He closed his eyes, not wanting them to return to where they desperately wanted to go. To that soft and succulent mouth, which had betrayed him as surely as ever the Lady had done. That mouth, on the wizard's sex. Almost an act of worship, which proved bespellment! Asher's brain processed the strange, definitely idiotic thought that it was really the elf who had seemed to be worshipping---something. His head thrown back. Exultant. Glorious. And his touch on the Wolf's head---had that been force, or a kind of caress? No!!! Not Nightwolf's fault! The damn elf----he even managed to get a man like Do'nar in his corner, a man whose basic common sense was mind-boggling. Of course, this picture before him meant what he thought it meant. The Tribal Lord, ensnared by an elf. They must have armies, be ready to swoop in for the kill. The elves were alive, and Firehawk was their spy, their assassin. In the intensity of his pain and loss, he used magic he didn't even know he was capable of, and pulled the Lady's mind to him without effort. And also, without any of the dragon-toys she was used to. The same as the elf, on his dragon-made steed! The pair of them were contemptible. The elf more so, since he used such worthless things even with his powers of magic. His mind opened to the Lady, after weeks of denying her. "Asher!!! You bastard!!! What have you-----" She was rattled at how easily he'd broken into her brain. Good. If he had been less infuriated, it would have frightened him, too. Shut up, he told her softly. And she obeyed, feeling the leashed danger in him. Her mind went still, from its raving. And then, very slowly and gently, she touched him. "Beloved?" "Never call me that again," he whispered, and she was almost silent, knowing she had come within a knifeblade of going too far. That for this instant he frightened even her, was enough. "I will bring him shortly, the Nightwolf," he said, coldly. Ramming over all the days of non-communication with an addict's selfish fixation. And she matched him in that, leaping at once to the now, the focus. "Nightwolf?" "Is yours," he whispered. "But to get to him, I must kill the elf." "Not a problem, my beloved." "Not a problem for you, since you have no idea how to do it!" he snarled. "And the next time you call me that, you will lose your chance. Other powers in the East would love my assistance." He waited long enough for her snap of temper, as well as her uncertainty, to come forth. And then he smiled, when only troubled silence was his answer. "You bitch. You barely understand, how strong this creature is you pit me against." He laughed, very softly. "It's lucky for you, what a thief I am. No, I won't guarantee success, whore! You better grant me all the power you have and then some. I'll take that elf, I'll destroy the North---within the week. But tomorrow---- He smiled faintly. The knife that even he feared, stolen from Do'nar, rested in his saddlebag. He'd pilfered other things from both Do'nar and the Black Moon people, for no other reason except to stay in practice. He'd intended to replace everything he'd rifled from Do'nar at least, but now he would keep this blade he feared, just in case. The naga-metal. That which killed magic. It rested in his pack, safely sheathed in lead and leather. To steal something he feared so much---that had been a challenge. It might injure him badly, to use it. But now, he no longer cared. Because he was certain it would hurt the elf far more. These blades injured a mage in direct proportion to how powerful his magic was. And the elf was frighteningly strong of magic. It might even kill him, if stabbed in a vital spot. But he didn't want the elf dead, not yet, and not so quickly. He wanted him controlled, shamed, broken enough to take his own life. That would be much---tastier. TBC ~Feed The Kat~ ~Home~