Chapter 1

In hindsight, Tom had plenty of clues that should have tipped him off to the stranger’s identity. At the time, though, he was too focused on his imminent departure for the capitol city…and a night on the town with the whores. After all, it wasn’t everyday that the bastard son of a minor lord was invited to join an elite army guard unit. From the time he was old enough to hold a sword, he’d put everything he had into mastering the weapon and he was now reveling in the fruit of his labors. He was going to join the imperial guard for fuck’s sake! You could forgive him for being a little oblivious.

Sword practice was winding down for the day and the boys were growing restless on the practice grounds. The sun was slanting toward the newly leafed-out trees and the afternoon air had turned sultry with impending summer. Even Tom was fidgeting as he sat, legs spread wide, hands on the hilt of his sword planted squarely in the dirt before him. He was counting down the minutes until he could leave for the brothel. He was already packed and everything was in order. Now it was time for him and the guys to head into town for a little fun. His big cock twitched in his codpiece at the thought. He was finally going to bed the famous Scarlett of the honey-scented cunnie…

“A challenge, boys! We have a challenger on the premises!”

Tom looked up in surprise at the elderly master-at-arm’s voice. A challenge? What the fuck? He stared at the man, convinced that this was some sort of joke, but the old man’s face was serious as he beckoned forth a mysterious stranger clothed in a rose-colored cloak. (Clue Number One, Tom would remember later.) Tom squinted. He couldn’t see the man’s face under the cloak but he could see that the stranger walked with the confident swagger of an expert swordsman.

“A challenge?” Tom yelled. “What sort of challenge?”

The stranger remained silent as he settled his weight casually on his left leg and reached under the hood of his cloak to scratch his chin. It was the master-at-arms who answered for him.

“This fair knight offers his sword to the first man to draw his blood in combat.”

This was the second and biggest clue yet. By this point, Tom’s intuition should have been pricking him, urging him to get the fuck out of there as soon as possible…but the day was late and Tom was distracted. His intuition was taking a nap.

The stranger held out his sword, a gleaming weapon of the finest steel. It was inlaid with rose quartz (another clue) and the hilt was filigreed with rose gold. There was a collective gasp on the practice grounds. A sword like this was worth a king’s ransom and everyone present coveted it immediately.

Everyone except for Tom, that is.

Tom had many failings but envy was not one of them. This lack of envy and a vainglorious confidence in his ability as a swordsman combined to yield a hefty sense of derision. Tom knew from experience that the finest sword in the world was no match for a man’s skill. He could–and had!–taken down many a knight armed with a superior weapon during practice tourneys. His sword was old but it was battle-tested and its blade was sharp as glass.

“Go on, you cunnies,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Count me out.”

If only he had left then! Things would have turned out very differently for our hero. Alas, Tom’s pride led to his downfall that afternoon and it was the mysterious stranger who orchestrated it.

Unlike Tom, the rest of the men on the practice field were overcome with desire to win the stranger’s fine blade and they lined up, jostling and shouting like ill-mannered curs. The stranger remained silent and took up position in the center of the arena, sword drawn and feet in position. He did not deign to remove his cloak. Tom noted this and thought it odd (‘Who the fuck fights while wearing a cloak?’) but chalked it up to the man being a total idiot. (‘Clearly, he wants to lose that blade!’)

Tom watched the men vying to be the first challenger with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms. He thought seriously about leaving but was curious to see how the young toughs handled themselves against the swordsman. In the end, he got up and moved into the stands where he lounged and soaked up the early summer sun…while keeping an eyelid cracked on the activity below.

The men drew lots to see who would fight first and Percifal, the lord’s second oldest, legitimate son (and Tom’s half-brother), drew the shortest straw. A tall, gangling youth with skinny legs and arms who was physically the exact antithesis of Tom, Percifal nonetheless fancied himself a fine swordsman. This was not due to his skill but to the fact that almost no one dared beat him for fear of incurring his wrath. The exception to this was Tom, of course. Tom wasn’t afraid of anyone and didn’t give a fuck if beating Percifal marked him for later abuse at the hands of Lord Erlewine’s heirs. He had dealt the kid any number of humiliating defeats and wore the boy’s undying hatred as a badge of honor.

No one defeated Tom in combat.

No. One.

Sword fighting was Tom’s entire existence, his ticket out of that shithole backwater of an estate, and the way he leveled the uphill playing field that life had handed him when he was born a bastard. In the arena, it was skill and not station that mattered. And no one could deny that Tom possessed that skill. They couldn’t deny it mostly because Tom never let them forget it. His skill and arrogance had earned him the grudging respect of the men on the estate but had done little for his likability. If you had asked Tom, though, he would have told you that he didn’t care about being popular; he only cared about being the best.

Unfortunately, his infamous arrogance and pride came back to bite him in the ass in a big way even as he appeared to pull off a stunning upset. It was brutally ironic that his pinnacle achievement as a master of the sword was actually his most stinging defeat. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves…

Tom broke out of his feigned disinterest and leaned forward on the stands when Percifal entered the ring. The boy circled the stranger, strategically getting him to move until the sun shone directly in his face. The man simply pulled the hood of his cloak down further to shield his eyes…and thereby restricted his field of vision drastically.

Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. Tom thought, reaching down to scratch his balls. This stranger really was a fucking idiot!

When Percifal lunged, the man didn’t even bother to parry. Only when Percifal’s blade was swinging perilously close to the stranger’s left arm did he step aside. To everyone watching, it was clear that he was too late and he would soon lose a chunk of his arm. The crowd tensed and Tom sat up straighter, thinking that this was going to be a very short match.

Incredibly, Percifal’s blade missed and the boy ended up overextending and nearly lost his balance. He went hurtling past the stranger who regarded his passage with apparent apathy.

Tom was prepared to write off Percifal’s miss as a fluke but it happened again. And again. And again. Every time that Percifal swung his blade at the man, he missed. It didn’t so much as mar the fabric of the stranger’s cloak. Finally, the boy wore himself out (or got tired of making a fool out of himself) and stalked off the field.

The stranger had never swung his blade.

Tom shook his head. How the fuck could the boy be so bad with his sword? It was like he’d forgotten everything the master-at-arms had drilled into his head. Like he had just picked up a blade and was swinging it haphazardly around like a toddler. It didn’t make sense.

The second ‘fight’ ended in much the same way with the young man, a cousin of Lady Erlewine’s, slinking off the field in humiliation. Like Percifal, he had worn himself out swinging at the stranger who easily dodged his attacks. The crowd of onlookers grew restless. They had come to see a fight and the stranger was not cooperating! Their unrest showed up in the growing aggressiveness of each successive combatant. Tom, who was now standing and yelling out instructions from the sidelines, couldn’t believe how quickly the men lost themselves in the desire to inflict damage. They grew progressively sloppier and more violent but only succeeded in wearing themselves out faster.

No one could touch the stranger.

After the tenth man fled the field in defeat, Tom was beside himself with irritation. (Fucking bunch of dolts! Moronic idiots! Stupid pissants! What the fuck are they doing out there?) His exasperation finally built to the point where he couldn’t stand it any longer. Launching himself from the stands, he landed with his feet squarely in the dirt. He swore loudly at the boy who was next in line to get the fuck off the field and drew his sword menacingly as he approached the mysterious swordsman.

“Alright, arsehole,” he spat. “Prepare to get your fucking arse split in two!”

The man paused and examined him. From beneath the hood, Tom thought he could see the flicker of a smile but he couldn’t be certain. He gave a small bow and lowered his blade politely before resuming guard position.

Tom sprang.

If his attack appeared just as senseless and out of control as the others, it was by design. Tom was, as he was fond of reminding everyone, an expert swordsman. And, for a swordsman, a devious mind is just as essential as a well-honed body and blade. Outwardly, he appeared to be a man overcome with frustration. Inwardly, he was calm and calculating. His roar and viciously swinging blade was pure theater. He had figured out the stranger’s strategy and knew precisely how to overcome it.

He lunged at the man, throwing his momentum and body weight into the slash only to pivot at the very last instant, recovering his balance and rotating his blade.

He pierced through the man’s cloak and would have inflicted a serious wound if the man hadn’t dodged away at the last second. Tom was undeterred. With an almost superhuman fluidity, he dropped and rolled, striking out at the man’s unprotected hamstrings. The crowd gasped, expecting blood, but again the stranger dodged and–incredibly–parried Tom’s thrust.

The cold ring of steel on steel echoed like poetry through the arena and everyone cheered.

That parry marked the turning of the fight. From that point forward, the stranger was forced with increasing desperation to defend himself against Tom’s onslaught. Tom was relentless. He was a big man who weighed more than fifteen stones and possessed a stocky frame with burgeoning muscles. His size and muscles usually worked to his advantage because his opponents wrote him off as too large to move quickly and too blocky to be graceful. This almost always proved to be their undoing.

The man must have made the same calculation because Tom could tell that he was taken aback by his speed and lithe grace with the sword. He worked the man ever backward, forcing him to cede inch after inch of ground until he was up against the wall and fighting for his life. Tom held back then, feigning fatigue, and the man took the opportunity to shed his cloak.

This was exactly what Tom hoped he would do and he sprang at him, raising his sword high and putting everything he had into the swing. Too late, the man realized his mistake and he scrambled to pull his sword free of his cloak in time meet Tom’s blade. Their eyes locked and time seemed to slow down…

Tom’s eyes widened when, too late, he beheld the man beneath in the cloak. A strangled yelp escaped his mouth as he took in the man’s rose-colored harness and breeches, shaved forehead, pink tattoos, piercings, and the single, long ponytail swinging off the back of his head.

A Mazzarine.

A fucking Mazzarine!

Here on Lord Erlewine’s estate!

Abort! Abort! Abort! a voice screamed in his head and he desperately tried to reign in his sword. The problem was that his body was in midair and he was descending rapidly toward the pink-tattooed freak. Tom fought with everything he had to change his trajectory, to fall to the side, to miss the man. He could not–COULD NOT!–be the first to draw blood or his dream of being a member of the emperor’s elite guard unit would be over.

Tom’s eyes met the stranger’s. A spark of something…sinister…flared in his gaze as he deduced Tom’s tactic and slyly moved an inch to the side.

It was enough.

Just enough for the tip of Tom’s blade to nick his forearm and draw a tiny rivulet of blood.

Tom fell to the earth in defeat, not even bothering to drop and roll with his signature battlefield flare. He collapsed in a heap, banging his head and his sword arm against the wall of the arena and trying to blot out the collective gasp coming from his peers as they registered the stranger’s identity.

The stranger was a Mazzarine monk, a member of the so-called Order of the Rosy Club whose brothers guarded the emperor’s harem and who were deployed on unsavory missions that usually involved assassination.

Centuries ago, the brotherhood had a reputation for moral purity and unparalleled swordsmanship. After the pope granted them dispensation to commit crimes in the name of the emperor, however, the order had devolved into a licentious band of perverts. They still retained their reputation for outstanding swordsmanship but nothing else. The order had become infamous and tales of their sick exploits were the talk of every alehouse across the continent. They were almost universally reviled.

Reviled…but tolerated on pain of death. Their papal dispensation rendered them immune from reprisal or persecution. So long as they served the emperor with undying loyalty, they could do whatever the fuck they wanted.

And they did.

It was Tom’s ill fortune to have fallen victim to one of their favorite methods of recruitment: The Challenge of First Blood. A disguised brother would travel the empire, challenging ignorant louts to a duel. The first man to draw Mazzarine blood was conscripted into the order and forced to serve the brothers in the most debased ways.

Every boy learned of the Challenge from an early age and it had become increasingly difficult for the Mazzarines to recruit this way. Only in the farthest reaches of the empire could they still find stupid yokels who would fall for their ploy.

Stupid yokels like Tom.

Tom groveled on the ground, holding his hands over his ears as the monk stood above him. With exaggerated flare, he lifted his bleeding arm for all to see. His voice rang cold and clear over the crowd, “Let all men here witness that, by the order of Emperor Hadrian XI, I conscript this man into the Order of the Rosy Club.”

Everyone in the arena fell silent with shock. Tom stopped writhing long enough to look up at the wicked monk, his stomach clenching as the man lowered his sword and, taking it by the blade, handed it hilt-first to him.

Tom looked at the proffered blade for a moment before setting his jaw and clambering to his feet. He stared at the monk for a long time, taking his measure even as his mind worked furiously to figure a way out of this mess. The man appeared to be about twenty years old and had probably once been handsome but his face and body were so marred by obscene pink tattoos that he was now quite ugly. He was nearly as tall as Tom and his body was lithe and muscular, though not as beefy as Tom’s. His pink leather harness accentuated his big pecs, drawing attention especially to his distended nipples which were pierced with inserts of pink jade.

Tom’s lip curled and the man shook his head, spraying sweat from his blond ponytail across his face. Perspiration beaded his shaved scalp and his blue eyes glittered with the amusement of one who knows he has the upper hand. Slowly, his lips curved in a suggestive smile that Tom would have found offensive if he hadn’t been momentarily taken aback by the fact the monk still had all of his teeth, even his front ones. Tom had lost his on the practice field before he’d turned seven.

“Your sword, Brother,” the monk said, taking obvious delight from Tom’s predicament. “I offer you the sword of the Mazzarines.”

Tom didn’t move. He was still trying frantically to come up with something–anything!–to get him off the hook. The words “I refuse I refuse I refuse” kept going around and around in his head until a light went on. I refuse! he thought then, remembering something obscure he’d learned from Lord Erlewine’s sage years ago. That’s it! I refuse!  

Drawing himself up with sudden confidence, he crossed his arms and spat, “I decline. I invoke the Rite of Refusal.”

The monk’s eyes went round and the men behind them called out in confusion. “The Rite…of Refusal?” he sputtered. “But you can’t–”

He never finished. With lightning reflexes, Tom pulled back his fist and clocked him square in the mouth, shattering those perfect front teeth. The monk toppled to the ground, spitting out blood (and teeth) and staring up at Tom in disbelief.

“The Rite of Refusal,” Tom repeated coldly. “I invoke it, you damned arsehole. Now get up and come with me to see Lord Erlewine. He will set the terms of the rite.”

***

Chapter 2

Lord and Lady Erlewine were seated in the solar of the old keep when the castellan ushered in Tom and the monk. The old man tried to keep out the retinue of gawking youths who were following along behind the pair but they quickly overwhelmed him and soon the room was crammed full of restless (and smelly) men. Tom tensed when he was forced to stand shoulder to shoulder with the monk. The man was holding a bloody rag to his mouth and moaning in pain. He’d periodically stop moaning to cast a hateful stare in Tom’s direction to which Tom would respond with a smug smile.

Ha! he thought. Got my money’s worth with the first blood. Serves the bastard right!

“Tom!” Lord Erlewine called out, his round, bearded face full of bewilderment as he took in the sight of the wounded Mazzarine. Clearly, he was as surprised as everyone else at the appearance of one of the brotherhood on the estate. “What is the meaning of this interruption?”

The lady pursed her lips and looked away. She had never liked Tom because she perceived his mother, one of the scullery maids in the kitchen, as a rival for her husband’s affections. Indeed, there was truth behind this perception; the lord still preferred the company of Tom’s mother on most evenings. And Tom’s mother had a host of bastard children to prove it, Tom being the oldest of the lot.

“I bested this arsehole in combat,” Tom began, ignoring Lady Erlewine’s sharp intake of breath at his crude language, “without realizing that he was a Mazzarine and now I’m invoking the Rite of Refusal to void my conscription.”

A trickle of sweat ran down the small of Tom’s back and he shifted uncomfortably. He usually bathed in the river after practice and he regretted not doing so before asking for an audience. When even he could smell his ripe man scent, he knew that he was too stinky to be in the company of a lady. The monk’s body odor wasn’t much better and Tom wrinkled his nose even as he saw Lady Erlewine lift a scented cloth to her nostrils.

Lord Erlewine’s eyebrows lifted at Tom’s words and he exhaled, sinking down in his chair. “Ah, yes,” he groaned. “The Challenge. The good monk issued a Challenge and you drew first blood. Why, Tom? Why did you do it? You were to leave on the morrow for the capitol!”

“The bastard tricked me!” Tom protested. “I’d never of done it if I knew who he was!”

Beside him, the monk gurgled something unintelligible but Lord Erlewine ignored him as he regarded Tom sadly for a long moment. Out of all of his children–even his legitimate ones–it was no secret that he liked Tom the best. Tom took after him with his broad shoulders, sparkling green eyes, and deep russet hair. He often told Tom that he reminded him of himself as a lad…before his waistline had expanded and he’d become half lame with gout. Furthermore, the maids on the estate confirmed that Tom took after his father in other ways; bestowing the sobriquet ‘Tom Cat’ upon him before he’d turned forteen. Since that age, he’d kept Lord Erlewine busy defending him as a string of young women came forth to accuse Tom of fathering their babes. There were at least a half dozen little Toms running around underfoot…yet another source of the displeasure that Lady Erlewine felt toward him.

“Tom,” the lord said sadly, “you have to go. You lost fair and square according to the rules of the Challenge. You’re now a Mazzarine. There is nothing I can do for you.”

“But I am invoking the Rite of Refusal!” Tom shouted, feeling the crowd of lads around him shift with his father’s pronouncement. “He can’t take me if I win the Rite!”

“What is this Rite of Refusal?” Lord Erlewine queried. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Nor have I,” chimed the monk.

Tom shot him a poisonous look before taking a deep breath to calm himself. When he spoke, his voice was deadly calm. “I am not making this up. Send for Sage Robert. He told me of the Rite years ago.”

“Tom, I–” the lord began but Tom interrupted him.

“Sage Robert, my lord,” Tom said evenly. “Please send for him.”

His interruption elicited a murmur of surprise from the assemblage. No one interrupted Lord Erlewine! Except for Tom, apparently. Rather than bridling, though, the lord held up his hand and beckoned to the castellan. “Horace, do as he says. Send for the sage.”

Word of the events on the practice grounds had spread quickly through the keep because barely two minutes elapsed before the bent and wizened old man entered the room. The lads moved aside deferentially as he shuffled past them, leaning heavily on a staff. He was by far the oldest man on the estate, well past sixty winters, and had been steadily losing his eyesight. It was therefore a bit of a surprise when Tom noticed he was a clutching an enormous tome under his arm. Stopping before the lord and lady, he placed the book on the table before them and called out to a nearby page.

“Open to the page marked by the ribbon, lad,” he commanded in a shaking voice. “The Rite is laid out there.”

“Hold, Sage,” Lord Erlewine called out. “What book is this that you have brought us?”

“The Mazzarine Codex,” Sage Robert answered evenly before adding, “My lord.”

“Mazzarine Codex?” the monk repeated. “There is no such book!”

Sage Robert was hard of hearing and the page had to repeat the monk’s words for him. When he did, the old man stiffened and turned to confront the doubter. “Step forward, young monk, and see for yourself. Assuming, that is, that you know your letters.”

He swept his arm back toward the book and beckoned the monk forward. After a brief hesitation, the man did so. Still holding the bloody rag to his mouth, he peered down curiously at the tome. It was a huge book with pages of illuminated vellum. Tom couldn’t read but he was impressed by the intricate pictures in the margins. He’d only seen a handful of books in his life and always found them awe-inspiring.

As the monk traced a finger over the words on the page and mouthed the sounds to himself, Sage Robert explained that the codex dated back to the year of the papal decree granting the Mazzarine monks freedom from the laws of the empire so long as they executed the emperor’s orders without hesitation. The Challenge of First Blood was recorded in it along with the Rite of Refusal.

Under the Rite, a man could have his bond to the brotherhood severed by competing in–and winning–a challenge set forth by a vassal lord of the emperor. If, in the course of the competition, he bested the monk whose blood he had drawn, he would go free. However, if the monk completed the challenge first, then the man’s conscription stood and he must enter into the Mazzarine Order.

“Therefore,” Sage Robert concluded in a hoarse voice that was barely more than a whisper, “Lord Erlewine must issue a challenge to Tom and the brother. If Tom wins, he is free from the order.”

Lord Erlewine’s lips curled into a smile with this news and he looked to the monk, asking, “Are you in agreement with this, brother?”

The man looked up from the book, an unhappy expression on his face. His lips were swollen and bloody and his bedraggled ponytail hung limply over his shoulder. The garish and obscene tattoos covering his face exaggerated the ugliness of his visage. Tom couldn’t look at him without feeling a shudder of revulsion.

“Well?” Lord Erlewine prompted when the man hesitated.

“Aye, my lord, under one condition.”

“Condition?” Lord Erlewine queried, holding up a hand to forestall Tom’s impending tirade. “What condition?”

“That he be initiated into the Order first.”

“What?!” Tom demanded. “That’s–”

“That is permitted,” Sage Robert said, interrupting him. “The codex says that the man may be inducted as a novitiate before competing in the Rite. If he wins, then he is released from service.”

Blood rushing to his face, Tom raised his fists at the monk and would have lunged if several of the lads hadn’t restrained him. “You fucking arsehole!” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. “I will not be made a fucking catamite!”

“ENOUGH, TOM!” Lord Erlewine’s voice boomed, drowning him out. “You will submit to the initiation. That is an order.”

Tom tried to throw off his assailants but they held him down firmly as the monk produced the sword he’d fought with in the arena. He lifted the blade provocatively before Tom’s enraged face for a moment before he dipped it, touching each shoulder lightly and saying, “Tom of Erlewine, you are hereby and forevermore a brother of the Holy Order of the Rosy Club.”

“Not forevermore!” Tom spat. “Only until I fucking win the Rite!”

The monk shrugged and, ignoring Tom’s ominous growl, removed his trusty iron sword from his belt and replaced it in the hilt with the hateful Mazzarine blade. He then turned back to Lord Erlewine and Sage Robert and asked in a polite voice, “Now might I enquire as to the nature of this competition?”

Erlewine exchanged a glance with his sage before answering in a loud voice so that Robert could hear, “As Tom’s father, I must exempt myself from issuing the challenge. Sage Robert, will you do the honor in my stead?”

The sage seemed taken aback by this request but recovered quickly enough. “Aye, my lord,” he agreed. He pondered for a long time as the room fell silent apart from the sound of Tom’s labored breath. Finally, Robert’s rheumy eyes brightened and he exclaimed, “Aha! I know of perfect challenge!”

“Do tell, Sage,” Erlewine prompted, clearly looking forward to this interruption being over. Beside him, the lady sighed and reached over to take up her needlepoint only to set it aside again with a frown. The room was growing dim as the sun lowered toward the horizon and the torches guttering on the walls provided only meager light.

Sage Robert took a deep breath before holding forth in a stilted, stentorian tone, “One hundred leagues to the north off the coast of Albany lies a island with a cursed castle. The castle is guarded by a beast most foul that slays all who attempt to enter. Inside is trapped a virgin most fair who lies in a state of magical slumber. The task I lay upon you both is to slay the beast and wake the virgin. The first man to return here with the head of the beast will be judged the winner.”

***

The sun was close to setting by the time Tom made it down to his favorite, secluded spot on the river to bathe. He had stripped out of his clothes and was preparing to wade into the cool water when a familiar voice called out behind him.

“Why did you hit me? Your violence was uncalled for.”

It was the monk, Tristan of Eisenholt, or so the man had introduced himself to Lord Erlewine before Tom had stalked out of the keep. Startled, Tom spun around and nearly fell off his perch on a slippery rock. He flailed his arms and would have fallen if the monk hadn’t reached out and steadied him. 

Tom shot him an angry look before yanking his arm out of the man’s grasp, spitting, “Go fuck yourself, pervert!”

The monk was undeterred by his attitude and, laughing, let his gaze slide over Tom’s body before landing provocatively on his crotch.

Tom flinched, remembering too late that he was quite naked. He skittered away and started to drop his hands over his crotch when he stopped himself and let his cock flop free. Why should he hide himself? He was stupendously hung and proud of it. (This was yet another way he took after his father. The size of Lord Erlewine’s endowment was legendary.)

“Go away,” he growled. “There are plenty of other places to bathe besides here.”

“We are brothers now,” Tristan replied, shrugging his slim shoulders out of the pink leather harness strapped about his chest. “Or did you forget that already?”

“We will never be brothers!” Tom hissed. “You tricked me. That does not make me your brother.”

“You won the Challenge fair and square, Brother,” Tristan rejoined, a slight, teasing edge to his voice. “Besides, if I hadn’t worn my cloak to conceal my identity, no one would have accepted.” He spread his arms wide to indicate his obscenely tattooed arms and chest, adding, “We Mazzarines don’t exactly blend in and our order’s reputation has been unjustly impugned.”

“Unjustly?” Tom challenged. “Look at you! You’re fucking disgusting!”

Bruised lips quirking in a smile, the monk replied, “Am I? Do I need to remind you that you are a Mazzarine now, Tom? Once you don the Mazzarine robes and armor and other insignias of our order, the world will think the same of you.”

The thought of having dress up like one of brotherhood made Tom’s blood run cold. He momentarily panicked before realizing that no one could force him to wear the ridiculous getup. He might have been initiated against his will but that was the end of it. He would never–never!–be a fucking Mazzarine.

A wry look passed across the Tristan’s decorated face as he watched Tom’s reaction to his words. Tom felt his face and shoulders growing hot and was about to utter a sharp rebuke when the monk unlaced his rose-colored breeches and shimmied them down his narrow hips. A second later, his nub and hairless ball sac popped out and Tom guffawed. Tristan’s boy-sized cock was tattooed pink and obscene designs were likewise tattooed all over his pubes. In spite of his revulsion, he found himself squinting in confusion at that bizarrely adorned crotch. The fact that Tristan had shaved himself smooth and then tattooed himself down there was bad enough but there was something else. Something even worse: A thick ring of rose gold was thrust through his cockhead.

A piercing! Tristan had pierced his fucking penis!

And that wasn’t all.

Tom’s scrutiny revealed something else: The monk was circumcised! No one besides Jews and Infidels were circumcised!

“Rosy Club, my arse,” Tom muttered disgustedly under his breath as he stared at the man’s shrunken and snipped penis. “More like the Order of the Rosy Toothpick!”

Tristan scowled as Tom wagged his hefty, man-sized cock and hairy, low-hanging balls teasingly at him. Unlike the unnaturally shaved, pierced, and tattooed boy-man, Tom sported a thick beard and un-inked skin. Hair was the only thing covering his muscular body–and plenty of it!  And, instead of a tiny prick, he had the biggest, fattest cock on the estate, complete with a long and drooping foreskin. The contrast between him and the monk could not have been starker. There was no disputing who the real man was and Tom couldn’t help puffing up in pride.

Tristan rolled his eyes at Tom’s display, turning his back on him to squat down in the shallows and douse himself with water. Tom was about to the do the same when he froze.

What the…?

His gaze was inadvertently drawn down to the monk’s backside and he swallowed, his revulsion growing even deeper. The man’s smooth, pert buttocks were emblazoned with more tattoos, pink swirls and less savory designs covered every square inch of his bare skin.

He was disgusting! Men should not be allowed to do that to their bodies! It wasn’t right! It wasn’t…

The monk leaned forward as he squatted, cupping his hands in the river water. His legs spread open and his ass cheeks parted and….

Tom gagged.

No way!

No fucking way!

His mouth fell open and he blinked. It wasn’t a trick of the evening light. No, it was real.

The freak had a fucking tattoo around his arsehole!

Nauseated, he closed his eyes and tried to forget the sight of the tattoo–a pink, petaled flower encircling Tristan’s clenched pucker–but it was burned into his mind. He gurgled and staggered backward, almost losing his balance again, and had to open his eyes to catch his bearings. Unwillingly, his attention was snagged once again by the man’s ass tattoo.

He tried to look away and couldn’t. He blinked and tried again. No luck. This is weird, he thought with increasing confusion, it’s almost like I’m stuck.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

Why couldn’t he look away?

He tried again, fighting to move away or at least close his eyes.

He couldn’t.

His body remained frozen and his eyes were glued to Tristan’s repulsive arse.

Groaning in frustration and applying everything he had, he tried–and failed–to look away. He balled up his hands into fists, telling himself sternly to walk away. Get out of there. Leave. Who cared about bathing? He could go to bed smelling like a horse. It didn’t matter.

Just.

Get.

Moving.

It was no use.

He stayed where he was, feet planted on the rocks, his eyes glued to the obscenity squatting before him.

Tristan was engrossed in his ablutions and seemed to have forgotten all about Tom. He cupped his hands and dipped them into the current, splashing himself. A shiver ran through his body as the bracingly cold water made contact with his naked flesh and Tom traced its progress over every sinew and muscle, helpless and gape-mouthed, held prisoner by his eyes.

Shit.

Shit!

It was a geas!

That was the only explanation.

Somehow, Tristan had placed a geas upon him!

Tom’s throat clenched as he understood too late that the initiation had been more than a simple ritual. It must have given the monk some sort of power over him. His heart pounded in his chest as a blind fear took hold of him. If the monk could control him, what chance did he have of winning the Rite?

Whimpering pitifully, he sat back on his haunches and shook his head. He took some solace from the fact that he could move a little, although his eyes were still riveted to Tristan’s bare ass and tattooed hole. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths. If he panicked, he would never figure out how to free himself. He had to be calm.

Calm.

Breathing deeply helped at first but then he became aware of something even more disturbing than being unable to look away. He shuddered, feeling cold fear grip his chest again as a sick realization flooded over him. Even though he was disgusted by the sight of him, he was also captivated by every lurid detail of Tristan’s body.

For instance, he noticed that, when the monk was naked, he seemed even slimmer than when clothed in armor. His waist was reed thin and the bones of his spinal column protruded noticeably down the center of his back. Everything about him–his slim frame, his tapered waist, his ungodly tattoos–seemed designed to draw Tom’s attention down to one thing: His pink, tight arsehole. Tom shivered, feeling revulsion at himself for his interest and at the monk’s freakish appearance.

Once again, he steeled himself and tried to look away.

And failed.

The voice inside his head tried to reassure him: It’s a geas, Tom. Don’t worry! It doesn’t mean anything. He’s got you trapped. Just hang on! You’ll figure something out. You’ll get free somehow!

It didn’t help much.

As he stood there staring, Tristan unbound his blond ponytail and flipped it forward over his face. In the style of his Mazzarine brothers, he’d shaved most of his head but had been careful to leave a square patch on the back of his skull where the hair had grown out very long. Tom watched entranced as water flowed over his back…

…running in rivulets down the cleft of his buttocks…

…trickling over his tattooed hole…

Tom’s stomach clenched. He was queasy but he was quite helpless to move.

The essence of nonchalance, Tristan continued rinsing himself. Finally, apparently satisfied that he was clean, he twisted his hair back into a ponytail and squeezed it dry. Only when he was preparing to stand did he become aware of Tom’s eyes on him. He stopped, still bent over, a small smile playing across his bruised face. His lips were swollen from Tom’s punch and the gap of his missing teeth was clearly visible as his smile broadened.

Tom’s face grew hot and he took a step backward but was powerless to do more than that.

Slowly and slyly, the man lifted his hand and held out his index finger. Tom stared at it. It was curled downward.

The skin on his back prickled with premonition as he watched Tristan open his mouth and stick out his pink tongue.

Alarm bells were going off in Tom’s head and he panicked again, fighting against the unnatural force that held him captive but he couldn’t even close his eyes. The sight of the monk–his ugly face tattoos, pink tourmaline earrings, distended nipples pierced with thick jade inserts, flowered arehole, and inked buttocks–was burned into his brain. Sweat was pouring off of his body. He wanted desperately to get away, to go anywhere but there, to…

The monk raised his curved finger to his mouth and licked it gently.

Paralyzed, Tom felt time slow down and a pit formed in his stomach. He felt a disorienting inward lurch as if the world was shifting beneath his feet. Tristan’s blue eyes sparkled with mischief as his delicate tongue lapped ever so slowly up the length of his forefinger.

Tom’s eyes widened and he gurgled in horror as the impossible happened.

No!

What sorcery was this?

What sort of foul magic was this execrable Mazzarine using on him?

It could not be.

It could not!

This. Was. Not. Happening.

!!!

He felt that tongue!

He felt it on his own body!

He felt it on his…

Tom moaned pitifully, pleading with his eyes for Tristan to stop. It was no use. The monk’s tongue continued its excruciatingly slow advance up and over and around his forefinger. Tom cried out in confusion and alarm and…twisted ecstasy as he felt his body respond. The sheer impossibility of it boggled his poor mind but he could feel that tongue as it were licking him on his…

On his…

On his…

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!”

The sound of his voice startled both Tom and Tristan. The monk stopped briefly, his moist tongue poised over his fingertip. Tom’s gaze was briefly freed and it dropped down to his crotch. In horror, he realized that is wasn’t all in his mind.

His cock was starting to stand up.

His huge pole was filling up, lifting perceptibly off of the nest of his swinging, heavy balls.

“Sssssssstop!” he begged, locking eyes with the evil monk as he struggled futilely to break the mysterious hold on his body and mind. “Pleassssse!”

In answer, Tristan popped his finger in his mouth and slurped noisily.

Tom screamed at the top of his lungs as his huge cock sprang instantly erect, the most debased sensations overloading his mind. As impossible as it was to believe, he felt Tristan’s mouth and tongue intimately touching him, caressing him, massaging him.

Down there.

Down on his cock.

It was as if his cock was being swallowed by the man’s hot, wet mouth and his tongue was lapping over his pole, teasing back his foreskin and licking his glans and piss slit. He whined, clenching his buttocks, and fell back on his hands. His huge, erect cock sprang up and pointed at the evening sky, pulsing and on fire with obscene pleasure. When he saw it, he gaped.

His cockhead was slick and moist as if were covered with spit.

Tristan’s spit.

He cried out again, a howl that was as mixture of horror and ecstasy. Sweat was pouring off him and his body was rigid, every muscle taut and screaming as he fought against the unholy hold over him.

When he exploded in orgasm, thicks jets of his cum spouted up into the air, landing with a splat over his chest, neck, face, and hair. A big gob of it landed in his open mouth and he retched.

Only when he was spent and quivering, his balls aching and pelvic muscles twitching, did Tristan remove his finger from his mouth. Tom sagged down in relief only to cry out again as Tristan stuck his tongue out and delicately licked his fingertip one last time before smacking his lips. Tom convulsed, collapsing onto his back. The sharp river rocks bit into his naked flesh as Tristan casually picked up his gear and sauntered over to stare down at him.

“That’s what you get for taking my front teeth, Brother,” he purred, raking his eyes salaciously over Tom’s nakedness. He smirked and sauntered away, leaving Tom humiliated and spent on the rocks behind him.

***

Chapter 3

Tom didn’t go out whoring with the boys that night. Still shaking with humiliation after the events at the river, he ate dinner in the kitchens (where his mother worried over his somber mood) and then sneaked into the barracks to gather his gear for the next morning’s departure. He bedded down in a corner of the stables after choosing a piebald mare for the journey. The mare was a gift from his father and she was quite a fine beast, though not quite as fine as the enormous warhorse in the next stall over; that stallion, the stableboy informed him, belonged to Tristan.

Well after midnight, he was awakened by boisterous shouting and rolled over in the straw, rubbing his eyes. He’d slept fitfully, tormented by dreams of the demonic monk, and half hoped it was morning already; he was desperate to be gone from the estate. The sooner he made it to the cursed isle and slew the monster, the sooner he would be free from the freakish sadist. Not for the first time, he swore at himself for letting his ego get the better of him during the swordfight. Why did he always have to show everyone he was the best with a sword? Why couldn’t he have just stayed on the sidelines and let someone else ‘win’ the Challenge?

“Oh, ho!” A loud voice called out beside him. “Who do we have here?”

Tom’s stomach fell when he recognized the voice; it was Tristan.

He rolled over and stared blearily up at the hateful monk, spitting, “Go bugger yourself, freak! I’m trying to sleep!”

Tristan was backlit with wavering torchlight so Tom could only see his outline but even so he could tell he was quite drunk. He stood there teetering back and forth on his feet, one arm slung over Percifal’s shoulder. Behind him, several young men from the estate–Rodrick, Wadsworth, Blaine, and Connor, if he were to guess from their silhouettes–snickered and elbowed each other. Apparently, Tristan had taken Tom’s place that night and gone into the town with the boys. Tom ground his teeth, hating the monk even more. He couldn’t believe the guys would follow the queer arsehole so readily. Didn’t they see that everything about him was against nature…or had the monk placed a geas on them, too? He shuddered at the thought.

While these thoughts were whizzing around in Tom’s skull, Tristan extricated himself from Percifal’s arm and collapsed on the straw beside him. “Mmmmm, yes, buggering and sleep!” he mumbled. “Sounds divine, my love!”

Tom saw red when the monk tried to snuggle against him, the guys roaring with laughter at the sight. He sat bolt upright and violently shoved Tristan away. Tom was a very strong man and his shove sent Tristan flying. The monk slammed against the stable boards with a loud thud before crumpling down in a little pile on the straw. A low moan escaped his lips as he rolled over and cast a baleful stare in Tom’s direction.

“That,” he pronounced coldly in a voice that was suddenly quite sober, “was uncalled for. You need to learn how to control your temper, Brother.”

“Piss off!” Tom spat, turning his back on him as he lay down. He threw his blanket over his head and curled up, doing his best to ignore the idiot drunks.

Tristan was not so easily ignored.

He staggered to his feet and stared down at Tom, lips curling into an evil smile. “Hey, boys,” he called out. “How about if we teach my brother here some manners?” This was greeted by a chorus of happy grunts. After a brief pause, the monk continued, “He is after all a novitiate of the order. And a novitiate must be shown that his place…is on the bottom.”

Tom’s fists clenched with these words and he flung the blanket off of him, springing to his feet and rounding on the taunting monk. Tristan’s eyes narrowed at his show of bravado but he didn’t back away. Instead, his lips split into a toothless grin as he held his hand out before him. Tom watched with sudden dread as the monk slowly straightened his index finger. He froze.

“No,” he begged, stepping backward. “Don’t!”

It was too late.

His cock sprang to life in his tattered underclothes, rising at once to a full, throbbing erection that poked lewdly out against the coarse fabric. He looked down at it aghast and tried to move his hands to cover himself but found he was frozen in place. His gaze swept back to Tristan’s face and his shivered at the cold hatred he saw there.

“Turn around, Tom,” Tristan ordered. “Show the boys how happy you are to see me.”

Tom’s body went rigid and he fought helplessly to resist the monk’s command. In the end, of course, his body betrayed him just as it had down by the river. To his undying horror, he jerked and twisted, gradually swiveling around so he was facing Percifal and the rest of the young men. At first, the sight of his pronounced erection was met with stunned silence but a second later they burst out in raucous laughter. Tom wilted, his shoulders shaking with shame as they crowed at him, each one taking delicious pleasure out of seeing the lord’s arrogant bastard son standing humiliated before them.

It got worse.

“Take off your breeches, Tom.”

Tom jumped at the order, a strangled sound coming of his throat. He begged Tristan wordlessly with his eyes to stop but the monk’s gap-toothed smile only broadened and he repeated, “Your breechcloth, Tom. Off. Now.”

Fighting a losing battle to resist the monk’s unnatural control over him, he watched his hands lift inexorably up to his waist. For a second, his fingers hesitated but then they worked their way between the cloth and his skin and pushed downward. He was briefly hopeful when his rigid cock caught on the fabric but then Tristan reached out and untied the drawstring around his waist. His huge cock sprang free as the cloth fell down, landing with a flutter around his ankles.

The group erupted in guffaws as his enormous hardon bobbed before him, a long rope of precum drooling down from his bunched up foreskin.

Tom’s back and neck and shoulders went scarlet and he wanted to die. No man had ever seen his erect cock; only women had had the privilege. He couldn’t believe that the boys he’d grown up with, that he’d thought were his friends, would stand by and let the depraved monk torment him like this. His eyes darted to their faces and he blanched when he saw their hungry stares. Tristan had them under a spell! They weren’t themselves. They were being controlled. Like him. They were pawns. No way they would behave like this otherwise!

That had to be the reason!

Somehow, knowing his friends were under a geas did little to assuage his humiliation. He stood there shaking with shame as his cock continued to harden. It grew so big and hard that it hurt. He looked down and blanched when he saw the skin had turned a dark, angry red.

“P-P-P-Please,” he begged, falling on his knees before Tristan. “Make it stop!”

His plea was met with an icy silence as Tristan regarded him with a raised eyebrow.
Rather than replying, he beckoned instead to Percifal, saying, “My satchel, Percy. Get my satchel. It’s hanging on the wall next to my horse.”

While the boy went to fetch the bag, Tristan stalked around Tom, eying his naked body up and down, a lascivious smile on his face as Tom quivered before him. The throbbing of his cock was quickly becoming agonizing and he set aside his pride, pleading pathetically for Tristan to have mercy on him.

His pleas did him no good. In fact, they seemed to heighten Tristan’s sadistic pleasure at having him completely under his control.

Percifal reappeared carrying a leather satchel and Tristan patted him fondly on the shoulder before turning to rummage through it. After a moment, he produced a small leather bag and, ordering Tom back into a standing position, emptied some of the contents into his open hand. The guttering torchlight was dim and Tom couldn’t see very well but it looked like a powder of some sort. A pink powder.

“Fairy dust,” Tristan explained to Percifal with a sly wink.

Before he could brace, Tristan turned and blew a cloud of it over Tom’s body. He inhaled and sneezed, watching with trepidation as the sparkling stuff wafted down over him. His skin tingled wherever it landed.

“What does it do?” Percifal asked breathlessly.

Tristan didn’t answer. Instead, he emptied more of the powder into the palm of his hand and paced around behind Tom, blowing another cloud of it over his naked body. Tom stood there unmoving, dread creeping over him as he felt the tiny flecks land on his skin.

Tristan dusted his hands on his leggings and knelt down to dig through his satchel again. When he straightened, he was holding a small stylus and a tiny, brown bottle. He handed them to Percifal and then, much to Tom’s shock, kissed the boy deeply on the lips.

Tom couldn’t believe it. He’d never seen, much less considered the possibility of, two men kissing and it sickened him. Tristan’s geas held him fast, though, and had no choice but to watch the lurid spectacle. His eyes darted from Tristan’s flushed and puffy face to Percifal’s eager one. The boy returned the monk’s kiss greedily, almost like he was drinking from the other man’s mouth. In the background, the boys gaped at them, amazed expressions on their faces. At first, Tom thought they shared his revulsion but was dumbstruck a moment later when Tristan pulled away from Percifal’s lips long enough to urge, “Go on, men! It’s high time you got to know each other better.”

Instantly, the strapping young men began to grope one another, all but shredding their clothes in the effort to get naked. Soon, they were stripped bare, fondling and kissing in the most wanton and debauched manner. Revolted, Tom was forced to take it all in with his erection bobbing lewdly before him despite the fact that he was feeling anything but turned on. His stomach turned and his gorge threatened to rise in his throat.

Tristan of Eisenholt, he decided then, was a man of the worst kind. Vile, disgusting, corrupt, and unholy. No one, it seemed, was safe from his perverting influence.

For what felt like hours, Tristan and Percifal mashed together and the young men writhed naked and aroused in the most unchristian ways. Finally, just when Tom was about to vomit, the monk separated himself from the ardent lad and, wiping his lips, turned and eyed Tom speculatively. Somehow, this struck Tom as worse than the sight of the two men kissing and he immediately wished that Tristan had forgotten about him and continued ravaging Percifal.

“I’d say he’s ready, Percy,” Tristan pronounced in a low voice. “Let the initiation begin.”

Behind them, the other young men fell silent and turned to watch, though Tom noticed with disgust that they still were clutching the hard cocks of their fellows, jacking them slowly. Their eyes shone with a depraved light and their mouths cracked into drunken leers. He shuddered and looked away only to find his gaze captured by Tristan’s malevolent stare. The monk had taken a step toward him and a supercilious smirk played across his warped visage.

Tristan looked demonic. 

His bald head shone in the dim torchlight and his garish tattoos seemed to glow an electric pink. Everything about him–his piercings, tattoos, shaved head and body–screamed of wickedness and Tom would have cringed away from him if he could have. When the monk spoke, his words slammed against Tom like stones.

“It’s time to take you down to size, Brother. You’re too full of yourself and need to learn humility,” he stated, pausing to let his gaze travel down the length of Tom’s toned, muscular, hairy body. Lingering on his throbbing member, he raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth lifted as he continued, “Our order teaches humility through humiliation, you know. And I am most skilled in this particular teaching.” Tom’s eyes narrowed at this, drilling into him hatefully but Tristan was unphased. “There are two parts to every initiation: The Give and the Take. We will begin with the Take.”

Before Tom could wonder what he meant by this, Tristan blew a puff of air at his chest. To his undying disbelief and horror, Tom watched the dense mat of body hair covering his torso, legs, and pubes disappear, raining down in a fine, brown dust onto the straw below. Another puff from Tristan and his thick beard evaporated, too, drifting downward in a fine, dry mist. In the space of a second, he’d gone from having a full beard to completely naked-cheeked.

Tom’s eyes bulged first in shock and then in outrage.

He was bare as a newborn babe!

Not a follicle of his manly fur remained!

He looked ridiculous!

He looked a like a boy again.

A boy with a very huge, erect cock and loads of muscles but a boy nonetheless.

His eyes snapped to Tristan’s face, shooting daggers of hatred at the evil man, but the monk merely laughed at his silent outrage. He walked around behind him and puffed again, sending the remaining hair on Tom’s backside wafting down. 

“Much better, don’t you think, Percy?” the monk queried, patting Tom lightly on his denuded ass cheek. 

Tom stiffened at the touch but was powerless to pull away. Percifal giggled and the guys behind him guffawed loudly. There was an edge to their mockery that bothered Tom almost as much as losing his precious body hair in a puff of air. It was an edge that told him their derision could not only be explained by Tristan’s unnatural influence. No, they really were taking pleasure in witnessing his downfall and humiliation. It hurt him. It hurt him badly.

“The fairy dust works wonders,” Tristan continued, oblivious to Tom’s inner turmoil. His attention, however, snapped back to Tristan when the monk concluded, saying, “Your hair will never grow back, boy. Never ever!”

Tom clenched his jaw and he was trying to spit at him when Tristan reached down to grab his balls, squeezing them painfully in his fist. 

“Who’s got big balls?” he teased, squeezing so hard that Tom’s eyes rolled back in his head. 

Tom panted, seeing stars, a strangled growl coming out of his closed mouth. Blind rage overwhelmed him as he seethed and boiled inside, seeing red. No one treated Tom like this! No one! People treated him with respect or he beat them senseless. It had been that way since he was fourteen and it wasn’t going to stop now! Indignant rage built inside him until incredibly he found the wherewithal to clench his hand into a fist. He was mustering the strength to punch Tristan in the face when the monk spat:

“Who’s got big balls? Ha! Not you for much longer!”

With that, he dropped Tom’s balls and reached out to take the mysterious vial and stylus from Percifal. Popping the cork off the vial, he dipped the tip of the stylus inside just enough to wet the tip with a glowing pink liquid. Even though Tom had no idea what it was, he had a distinct feeling that it wasn’t good, especially after his humiliating experience with the pink powder. 

A sick dread took hold over him and his rage evaporated. He couldn’t help but quake a little when Tristan straightened and held the stylus before him. Grabbing Tom’s balls in his fist once again, he yanked them downward, making Tom to gargle in agony. 

Tom had huge balls and a very generous ball sac; fully extended, it stretched halfway to his knees. It was this stretched skin that drew the monk’s attention. Aiming for the base of his scrotum just beneath his throbbing cock, Tristan drew a bright, pink line around the circumference of Tom’s sac.

Stepping back, he crossed his arms and pronounced, “There. Now we wait.”

The monk set the vial and stylus aside and bent over to unlace his breeches. Percifal watched him with adoring eyes while Tom goggled helplessly down at his denuded cock and balls, trepidation and fear creeping over him. Slowly, he became aware of a burning sensation spreading downward from the pink line. His ball sac was burning and it hurt like fuck! Soon, the burning was accompanied by a painful contraction and he yelped, eyes watering. It felt like someone had just kicked him in the balls!

Tristan kicked off his breeches and stood naked and sweaty before Tom, his smooth body limned in torchlight. His little cock, colored completely pink with tattoo ink, was erect but barely poked out more than an inch or two from his shorn pubes.

“You see, Tom,” Tristan said in a singsong voice. “The Mazzarine initiation is a time-honored rite. It gives a brother control over every aspect of the new brother’s life…and body. I have just laid claim to your balls.”

As if in response to this, Tom’s balls contracted again and he whined pitifully. When he looked down, he saw that his hairless sac was shrinking upward, drawing his balls along with it. Tristan grinned, noticing the same thing, and very deliberately lay his hot palm on Tom’s shoulder, pushing him inexorably downward. Tom folded to his knees, biting his tongue in the futile attempt to resist. When he looked up, he was staring straight at Tristan’s tiny cock and shrunken nutsac. Shit, he thought, Tristan is really tiny even by the most generous standards!

As he stared, though, the impossible began to happen. The shriveled skin of Tristan’s scrotum began to loosen and sag downward. Soon, his pea-sized balls dropped into the more generous sac, expanding slightly in the process. After a moment, they swelled again. Now they were the size of cherries.

“Look, Tom! Look!” Tristan urged, pushing his chin downward so that his gaze landed on his own giant cock.

Tom goggled at himself.

What!?

No!

NOOO!!!

His balls!

His precious bull balls!

His huge, swinging pair!

What the fuck!?

What the fuck was happening to him?!

He swung his head from his rapidly dwindling ball sac and over to Tristan’s, unable to comprehend how this was possible. At some point, he lost it, wailing pathetically as he watched Tristan’s nuts swell to the size of walnuts even as a stabbing pain in his own balls confirmed they had contracted even further. Afraid of what he would see, he nonetheless couldn’t help lowering his head to stare down at himself and bawled when he discovered that his formerly huge balls were now merely normal-sized.

Another contraction and they were no longer normal-sized; they were small, verging on tiny.

And another.

They were little bigger than a preadolescent boys.

He howled, both in pain and disbelief when they contracted again.

When he looked down again, they were gone.

And his ball sac had disappeared with them.

Gone!

His sac had shrunk up tight against the base of his cock.

And his balls.

His balls!

His hefty, beautiful, studly, magnificent balls!

Had completely disappeared.

Tom now had a huge, swinging cock that was completely empty underneath.

He was ball-less.

Shaking and whimpering, he looked up from his naked cock to stare stupidly at the huge pair of low-hangers that now swayed languidly under Tristan’s little dick.

Tristan had stolen his balls!

He had–

“Not so full of yourself now, are you?” Tristan taunted, swinging his humongous pair in Tom’s face. They slapped against his thighs loudly, a truly man-sized set of balls, heavy and full. Tristan’s shit-eating grin made Tom want to strangle him but he was too appalled and humiliated to do anything but hang his head and stare down at his hairless cock and nonexistent sac. There was nothing left down there. Nothing at all. Tristan had just fucking gelded him–by magic!

He sobbed openly, ears growing hot as the lads before him roared with laughter. They howled and howled, unable to contain their glee at seeing him knocked down to size. Tristan joined in, parading around the stable, thrusting his hips salaciously upward. The guys cheered as the monk’s giant pair of balls flopped up and down, slapping against his belly with each thrust.

Eventually, after Tom had been reduced to little more than a humiliated lump on the straw, Tristan drew to a halt. His face glowed in the torchlight as he regarded Tom with barely concealed derision.

“Don’t worry, Tom,” he said in a low voice. “I’m not done taking from you yet. You have more that I want.”

Tom cringed, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. His body was slick with sweat and he couldn’t stop trembling. The events of the day and the night had melded together to form a twisted, unending nightmare. He sniffled and took a shuddering breath, unaware that his lower lip was sticking out like a petulant child’s.

A quick motion from Tristan brought him back up onto his knees. Possessed by the monk’s insidious magic, he sat up adroitly like a begging dog, completely helpless to resist. If he could have run, he would have. Sadly, though, he could only kneel stupidly with his huge hardon jutting out before him, his whole body trembling with dread. No matter how much he fought against it, he was caught in Tristan’s web. In a last ditch attempt, he threw all of his will into breaking free. His muscles strained and his skin broke out in a cold sweat with the effort. 

But it was no use. 

He was a prisoner.

His shoulders sagged and he would have lowered his head and let his shaggy mane of hair cover his face in shame if he’d been able to move. Was there no one to save him? Where was his father? His father’s guards? Shit, even the stableboy was nowhere to be seen. How could the lad sleep through this? He tried to scream but only a pathetic gurgle escaped his lips.

Tristan leered over him, drunk on wine and power. “Let’s continue where we, ahem, left off,” he murmured, rubbing his hands together as he looked back at Percifal. The boy nodded encouragingly and Tristan favored him with a wink before turning back to Tom. His sinister gaze slid down his body and landed on his still-throbbing cock. In the chaos and turmoil of losing his balls, Tom had almost forgotten about the pain of the prolonged erection. Now he followed Tristan’s gaze and blanched with fear, anticipating that his enormous erection was the monk’s next target.

“N-N-N-No,” he stammered, finding it more and more difficult to speak.

“Don’t worry, boy,” Tristan replied, intuiting his thoughts. “We’ll get to that soon enough. I’ve got something else in mind right now.”

He sauntered over and lowered his hand to stroke Tom’s enormous erection. Tom grunted and tried to pull away but couldn’t move, of course. Very slowly, Tristan jacked his hand up and down, sending Tom’s eyes rolling back in his head despite his building terror. He stroked and stroked, murmuring in appreciation at the gouts of precum dribbling off the tip of his cock.

“I wonder how long you’ll be able to do that,” he commented, clenching Tom’s manhood in his viselike grip, “now that you have no balls.”

Tom flinched, feeling his masculine pride give way once again to bitter shame. He stared down at himself in disgust. What was a man without balls? A eunuch, that’s what. Tristan had turned him into a fucking eunuch!

Tristan continued to jack his cock, gradually working Tom into a near frenzy of arousal. When he was satisfied that Tom was about burst, he pulled his foreskin forward until it hung well past the tip of his cock. Wordlessly, Tristan motioned to Percifal to hand him the stylus and bottle again. Dropping Tom’s organ, he dipped the stylus inside. When he withdrew it, the tip glowed with the same pink and malevolent light.

“Hmmm…a boy like you doesn’t need a foreskin,” Tristan said, leaning over Tom’s cock and holding out the stylus. Tom let out a muffled scream as the monk held the tip menacingly over his tender flesh. “Let’s take that away now, shall we?”

He grabbed Tom’s foreskin and pulled it out. Fully extended, it stretched out more than six inches past the buried head of his cock. While Tom whined in dismay, Tristan drew a pink line on the skin of Tom’s cock just below the ridge of his covered glans. Tom mewled, clenching in fear, his mind roiling and his pulse pounding in his ears. 

When Tristan was finished, he smirked casting a sly wink over to Percifal. The boy–Tom realized then how much he detested the lad–grinned in response, eagerly loosening his belt and pushing down his breeches to expose his modest erection. He waggled it at Tristan and the monk licked his lips, saying, “Soon enough, my love! Soon enough. Let’s have our fun with Tom first, though.”

Just as had happened with his balls, Tom felt nothing at first but gradually and with increasing ferocity, the pink line began to glow and the skin around his cockhead burned. The burning rapidly built to a searing pain and he gurgled miserably, unable to open his mouth. His body broke out in sweat and he felt faint. When he began to weave on his knees, Tristan let loose of his foreskin to grab him by the elbow.

“Watch, Tom,” he purred. “Watch my cock.”

His gaze fell unwillingly to the monk’s pierced nub and, as he stared, the skin behind his little exposed glans began to wrinkle up and amass in size. He blinked. It wasn’t a trick of the light. Soon, more and more skin grew until it finally poured over the ridge of his cockhead, completely covering the ring of rose gold stuck through his piss slit.

Tristan was growing a foreskin!

Tom’s foreskin.

The fucking arsehole was stealing his foreskin!

The vile events of minutes ago replayed before his eyes and, try as he might to resist, he couldn’t help looking from Tristan’s cock and back at his own. He shook with incredulity as his own foreskin began to tighten. At first, it pulled back slowly but then it retreated more and more quickly, crawling ever backward. In seconds, the generous folds of skin hanging over the tip of his dick had all but disappeared. A few more seconds and his skin was shrinking over his cockhead. Then his entire cockhead was exposed. And finally there was nothing of his beautiful foreskin left.

Only a thin, pink line on his cock marked where it had been.

His cock was completely bare.

Tristan had cursed him with an infidel’s cock!

And he taken his skin for his own.

He stared longingly at his missing foreskin, now resident on the cock of his nemesis. The fucking queer had done it again. He’d used his unholy magic to steal from Tom and now a foreskin of stupendous length hung off the tip of Tristan’s little cocklet, wagging proudly in the breeze.

Tom stared at it, horrified and embarrassed and enraged. His gaze traveled from his bare cock to Tristan’s hooded one and back again.

This couldn’t be happening!

This couldn’t be real!

How could Tristan have done this to him?

“Looks better on me if I do say so myself,” Tristan boasted, swinging his new foreskin (and balls) provocatively. Behind him, Percifal crossed his arms and smirked and the other guys chortled with derisive laughter. “But,” the monk continued, much to the depraved delight of the onlookers, “it would look even better if I had a bigger cock, don’t you think, Tom?”

Tom froze in terror.  He stared up at Tristan, fighting to make his mouth work. He wanted badly to beg but he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t even move his lips. He could only fix his eyes pleadingly on Tristan’s, trying vainly and wordlessly to promise him that he would do anything–ANYTHING!–if he would just stop.

Anything but his cock!

His cock was his most treasured possession, defining him even more than his expert swordsmanship. His cock made him a man–A big, dominant man! He could live without his foreskin and even without his balls (as humiliating as that prospect was) but not without his big cock. Tristan couldn’t take it from him! He simply couldn’t!

“This is all your fault, Tom,” Tristan sneered, wagging his finger at him. “If you had restrained yourself and been more polite, you would be a free–and intact!–man right now. It’s too late for mercy, though. Far too late.”

Tom was blinking back tears by then but it made no difference. Tristan ignored him, taking up the stylus and ink vial again. After wetting the tip, he positioned the stylus over Tom’s shaft about an inch down from the previous pink line. Tom quivered and shook in misery as the monk drew a second line around his cock and then stepped back to inspect his handiwork. Percifal and the other lads crowded around him, staring avidly at Tom’s fiercely erect penis.

It didn’t take long for the burning to begin and soon he was grimacing in agony as the line glowed bright as fire. Tristan crept forward and thrust his nub in Tom’s face, ordering him to look at it. Tom did. He had no choice.

As he stared, a tremor ran through Tristan’s little cock and it pulsed, quivering. When the quivering stopped, a small ring of un-tattooed flesh had appeared just behind the hooded ridge of his glans. Tom blinked and the ring expanded, pushing out further.

Tristan’s cock was growing!

And his was…

Shaking with dread, Tom’s eye lowered down and he convulsed in pain and despair as the impossible happened once again. The twin pink lines on his cock shrank closer together. His cock twitched and then they were only a half inch apart. Another twitch and barely a quarter inch separated them.

An eighth of inch.

A sixteenth.

A hairline.

And then…

Nothing.

Nothing separated the pink lines.

They had merged.

Tom had just lost an inch of cock. Tom’s huge cock was no longer quite as huge.

And Tristan’s was an inch longer.

He had done it. He had really done it.

He had stolen an inch of Tom’s manhood…

…and he wasn’t done.

***

Chapter 4

Tristan had just stolen a third inch from Tom’s cock, effectively taming his monster by rendering it much closer to average size, when the jingling of bridles and the soft clop of horse hooves interrupted the festivities. A moment later, Lady Erlewine’s nephew, Bennett, and his best friend, John, led their horses into the stalls. They stopped and blinked in surprise at the sight of the naked and cavorting young men.

“Oh, ho!” Bennett called out, “What fresh hell is this?”

The lads froze, their sweaty chests heaving and erections flopping luridly before them. Percifal covered himself with his hands and dropped his head, cheeks flaming in the dim torchlight. Everyone–except for Tom and Tristan, that is–was chagrined by the appearance of the two men. 

While the boys reached down for clothing to cover their nakedness, Tristan leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms, completely unrepentant. His newly-grown cock jutted out before him, now a proud four inches encased in a tapering foreskin and adorned with a truly impressive set of balls hanging full and round in his pendulous nutsac. 

His face twisted in a sly grin as Bennett and John took in the spectacle of this late-night debauchery. “Welcome, men,” he intoned, opening his arms to usher them into the stable. “Join us, will you? We’re just getting to the good part.”

While Bennett stared at them, considering his reply, Tom tried valiantly to gain his attention. He was still firmly under Tristan’s control and could not call out for help but he did whatever he could to make them look his direction. Bennett and John were not friends of his but surely they would intervene when they saw what Tristan was up to? Straining and red-faced, he implored them with his eyes from his roost on the straw. (He was still locked in position on his knees, his diminished erection pointing out before him.)

Like Tom, Bennett was a big, bearded man, weighing close to fifteen stones; but, unlike Tom, he sported a hefty paunch and a rather generous backside. His clothes were spattered with wine from a night out drinking and he walked unevenly, obviously still tipsy. He wobbled into the stable and took in the scene with an expression that was both startled and bemused. When his gaze landed on Tom, his eyes widened.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” he breathed, awestruck. “He has no balls! And…no hair!”

John, a smaller man with shifty eyes and a rat-like mein, paced around beside him and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Tom, exclaiming, “Holy mother in heaven!”

“The holy mother has nothing to do with this, I assure you,” Tristan commented drolly. “This is a matter strictly between brothers.”

The two men came to stand before Tom, lips cracking into rude smiles as they gaped down at him. All hope of rescue died inside him when they burst out in rude laughter. Tom withered under the onslaught of their scorn.

“Shit, the bastard’s been fucking castrated!” Bennett guffawed, elbowing John in the ribs. “Look at that! No balls! And he’s been circumcised, too!” He turned to Tristan, asking, “How’d you do this, man? I don’t see any blood or scars!”

Tristan favored him with a smug smile. “Magic, my dear man. Magic is part of the Mazzarine Code. With his initiation, Tom was rendered particularly susceptible to my control. Though, honestly,” he added with false modesty, “There is no man alive who is immune from our magic. It is why we are the Emperor’s chosen order.”

If either man was startled by Tristan’s admission of using magic, he didn’t show it. John squatted down before Tom and studied him closely, an ugly leer etched across his weasley face. His breath reeked of ale and his body odor was repugnant. As Tom watched helplessly, he reached out and grabbed his cock, giving it painful squeeze before looking up at Bennett and laughing, “The bastard’s happy to see us, he is! He’s quite a fruity one, isn’t he? Bet he likes being buggered up the arse.”

Bennett’s eyes glinted evilly as he spat, “Yeah, I’ll wager you’re right on that one, Johnny. I’ll wager you’re right. And I’m so horny right now that even I’d fuck an arsehole.”

As he said this, he reached down and loosened his belt. Following his lead, John stood up and did the same. In a moment, their trousers slid down to their ankles and their rapidly hardening erections were on full display, pointing directly at Tom. His mind blanked and his arsehole clenched in fear, a voice gibbered in the back of his head as despair washed over him like an oily tide. Far from being his savoirs, it seemed that Bennett and John were intent on ravaging him. He shook with terror as they stepped closer.

Strangely, it was Tristan who intervened on his behalf–sort of. The monk deftly inserted himself between Tom and his would-be assaulters, cajoling, “Gentle sirs! Please hold! There will be time for buggering later. We’re in the midst of a sacred rite here.”

John and Bennett regarded him blankly for a moment before Bennett asked skeptically, “‘Sacred rite’? What sort of fuckin’ sacred rite is this? Looks more like a fuckin’ orgy to me.”

Tristan ignored this jab as he swept his hand back toward Tom, indicating his diminished equipment. “It’s the Take and the Give, kind sirs. The Take and the Give! Right now, I am taking from our friend but soon will be the time to give back to him.”

John’s brow furrowed. “I don’t get it.” Even when sober, John had never been a particularly astute fellow.

“The Take,” Tristan explained in a tone like one would use to address a small child, “is when I, ahem, remove certain physical qualities from the initiate and the Give is when I grant him new ones.”

“For instance…,” Bennett prompted.

“For instance,” Tristan continued, thrusting out his hips to display his now much larger erection, swinging balls, and dangling foreskin. “I already took his foreskin, his balls, and four inches of his manhood. And I’m about to take more from him.”

Tom sagged inwardly with this pronouncement and the two men were silent for a long time as their dim and drunken minds struggled to absorb this information. Their eyes darted back and forth from Tristan’s package to Tom’s. Slowly, understanding dawned in their dull eyes and their smiles spread into ugly grins.

John was the first to speak. “Can…you, well, take something from him and give it to me, too?” His voice was suffused with an unusual hesitancy as he cast his gaze meaningfully down toward his own erect cock. It was, Tom noticed then, quite slender. Barely more than the width of a small dowel. A pathetic endowment, to be sure.

“I can,” Tristan answered, nodding. “What would you like to take from Tom?”

“His girth,” John said before clapping his mouth shut as if surprised by this open admission. Bennett turned to look at him speculatively but remained silent. John’s shoulders relaxed when he realized that no one was going to laugh at him and he continued, “Can you take away his girth?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Tristan said with a nod of the head that caused his skinny ponytail to flop over his shoulder. “Tom’s girth is yours.”

Somehow, a low moan escaped Tom’s lips as his stomach fell. It was the equivalent of a desperate plea and he put everything he had into the sound in the hope that it would penetrate the aura of corruption that infected every man in that cursed stable.

It didn’t work.

John and Bennett merely chortled at his pathetic mewling and the other young men, realizing that they no longer had anything to fear from being discovered, advanced toward Tom. Soon, he and Tristan were surrounded by a ring of erect cocks as the men crowded eagerly around them. Tristan smiled indulgently as he took the hateful stylus and vial from Percifal once more.

With exaggerated care, he dipped the pen into the ink before withdrawing it and holding it aloft for all to see. The liquid glowed a sickening pink on the tip. John and Bennett oohed and ahhed appropriately, their eyes round and their erections straining at their loins.

“Now, John,” Tristan instructed, “I must paint your cock with this elixir. Please hold still.”

He knelt down and, before John could react, drew a line from base to tip along his narrow hardon. The man looked down at him with hungry eyes as the line grew suddenly bright as fire. A moment later, though, it faded and Tristan continued, tracing a second line adjacent to the first. It was so close that the two lines appeared to merge into a single, thicker one.

Tom didn’t have time to brace before Tristan turned and took his thick and meaty monster in hand and similarly drew two parallel lines down the length. This time, however, he separated the lines by more than three inches. While John might still be in the dark as to how the ritual worked, Tom was not. He stared down lovingly at his thick piece as tears slid down his cheeks. He could already feel the burning sensation that heralded the transformation and knew he only had seconds left before more of his pride and joy evaporated forever.

“Nothing’s happening,” John muttered, looking at his cock in consternation. “It’s not working!”

“Patience, my man,” Tristan soothed. “Patience. The magic is quick but not instantaneous.”

As he spoke, Tom’s cock was wracked with a severe contraction and he gurgled, closing his eyes as pain washed over him. When he opened them again, he whimpered miserably.

The twin pink lines along his shaft had moved closer together and already he could see that he’d lost some thickness.

His cock was getting skinnier!

An exultant whoop from John confirmed this. The man waggled his erection proudly to and fro, teasing Bennett with it. “Look, Ben! My manhood! It’s getting thicker!” Indeed, the two lines that Tristan had painted on his skinny cock were now a half inch apart.

Another contraction and Tom had lost even more girth. The lines were no more than an two inches apart by then and his cock was only barely normal thickness. He cried openly as he stared down it. His beautiful, huge, thick cock was gone! And in its place was one that was much shorter and thinner.

John’s elation mirrored Tom’s despondency. The man was jumping around the stable, hooting and hollering as his formerly deficient manhood began to rival even the fattest of male members. His thickening erection slapped loudly against his thighs as he returned to stand before Tom, thrusting it lewdly before him.

“Look at that scrawny cock!” he taunted as he gloated down at Tom’s shrinking penis. “Look!” he ordered again, shocking Tom by slapping him across the cheeks with his now hefty sausage. “You’re fucking pathetic, bastard! You’re fucking pathetic!”

Tom could only stare unhappily down at his rapidly narrowing erection as the lines drew so close that they were only separated by a hair’s width. It didn’t matter by then, of course. The damage had been done. Tom’s proud cock had been reduced to the thickness of a small twig. An eight-inch long twig.

He had a fucking twig for a cock!

And no balls.

No foreskin.

No hair.

He was ruined.

***

Tristan stole another four inches (for a total of eight) from Tom’s cock before he was finished with the ‘Take’. By that point, Tom’s eyes had glazed over and he was nearly delirious with grief. He couldn’t stop staring down at himself in disbelief, trying to recognize even a vestige of his once massive endowment.

There was none.

Not a trace.

Rather than a hairy, footlong monster with low hangers and a thick foreskin, he now possessed a four inch twig with no discernible balls, no foreskin, and certainly no hair. Tristan had effectively lopped off his pride, masculinity, and a large part of his identity.

Tom almost didn’t recognize his own body and would have been completely lost if it hadn’t been for the fact that he knew he was still a world-class swordsman. Even without a big cock, he was still a swordsman! Tristan could never take that away from him!

The sound of Bennett clearing his throat brought him back to the unending nightmare in the stable. He looked up to see the big man rubbing his chin as John and Tristan danced arm in arm around the stables, swinging their newly enhanced equipment with delight as the boys clapped out a jaunty rhythm. Tristan in particular had much to celebrate for he now boasted much of what Tom had lost. By any estimation, he was a very well hung man.

“Is it time to start the giving part of the ritual?” Bennett asked in a low voice that nonetheless carried over the cacophony.

Tristan and John drew to a halt, faces alight with happiness and sweat dripping off of their glistening bodies. The stable was quickly growing redolent with man scent, an odor even more pungent than horse manure.

“It is,” Tristan said, coming over to stand next to Bennett. He placed a companionable arm over the man’s shoulder as he joined him in staring down at the helpless and humiliated Tom. “What do you have in mind, my good man?”

In answer, Bennett lowered his hands to his prominent gut before letting them slide down to his equally prominent backside. Tristan watched him, a sly grin gradually spreading over his face as he picked up Bennett’s implied meaning. His eyes glittered evilly even as Tom began to quail in abject terror.

Nononononononononononononononono! A voice screamed inside his head as he, too, understood what Bennett had in mind. Nononononononononononononono!

“Ahhh,” Tristan breathed, motioning for the rest of the company to join them. He laughed softly when Percifal came up behind him to give him a fond hug. “Yes, yes!” he exclaimed happily. “I love the way you think, my lord! I will give Tom the gift of your fat! I was thinking he is in need of extra padding anyway.”

Bennett, whose chest had swelled with pride when Tristan referred to him as ‘lord’, was impatient to get started. “What do you need to do?” he demanded. “Draw on my belly and arse with your magic pen?” 

He had already begun to pull off his tunic, exposing his round, soft belly before Tristan answered, “Yes, yes, the process is similar to the Take but reversed.”

Even though Tom was a gibbering mess inside, Tristan’s hold over him meant that he was forced to kneel on the straw stoically. Only a single tear rolling down his cheek betrayed his true feelings and this was met with scorn by the onlookers.

“Fucking pansy,” John hissed. “Look! He’s crying like a fucking baby! I always knew there was something off about him. He’s getting his just desserts, he is!”

While the other men laughed in agreement, Tristan knelt down before Tom and, dipping the stylus in the inkwell, drew a tiny circle around his belly button. As Tom looked down at the little circle in dread, Tristan moved behind him and put a dot of ink on each of his buttocks and thighs. He then got up and drew a much larger circle around the circumference of Bennett’s stomach. Pausing only briefly to kiss Percifal on the lips, he concluded by tracing broad circles around Bennett’s big arse cheeks and generous thighs.

“Well?” Bennett growled after a few seconds had passed. “When does it begin? I want to be thin now!”

“All in good time, my lord,” Tristan replied, straightening and reaching out to draw Percifal against himself. “Remember what I told John? The magic takes a few moments to settle in.”

Tom didn’t need to be reminded of this. He could already feel the growing heat in his belly, butt, and thighs and knew that the horrible curse was beginning to take hold. He stared forlornly down at his impressive, rippling stomach and sculpted thighs knowing they would soon disappear forever. He couldn’t see his arse, of course, but knew that it was tight and muscular–just like the rest of him. Tom had always been proud of his ability to eat anything, packing on muscle while not showing a trace of fat.

No longer.

Before his eyes, his stomach began to bloat as the pink circle of ink expanded in diameter, growing from an inch wide to two in the space of a few seconds. Bennett’s grunt of delight told him that he was experiencing a reciprocal reduction in belly size. Soon, the pink circle around Tom’s navel was three inches wide, then four, then six. After another minute, it was nearly a foot in diameter as his belly bulged out and filled with fat.

The expansion showed no signs of abating and Tom stared down at himself in revulsion, already bitterly mourning the loss of his godlike physique. The ridges of his abdominal muscles were devoured and, behind him, he could feel growing pressure in his buttocks as they swelled in size and mass. Soon, love handles had appeared around his midsection and his thighs were growing heavy and thick with padding.

He observed his forced weight gain in agonized silence. Heedless of the jeering of his fellows, he cried and cried until his cheeks were wet with tears. They fell with audible plops down onto his new, corpulent belly. For the first time in his life, Tom wished fervently to be dead. Tristan and his perverse magic had taken everything from him–Everything!–and he felt completely desolate. Only a small, simmering ember of hatred kept him from losing it entirely and he tried vainly to focus on this rather than the humiliating loss of his manhood and physique.

If he could get free, he would make Tristan pay.

He would make him pay dearly.

He would make him pay with his life.

He sniffled to himself, choking down bile, and clung to this slim hope for revenge. He clung to it like a sailor clutches flotsam from a shipwreck during a storm. He had to; it was the only thing he had left.

Beside him, Bennett was in a state of near ecstasy as his belly fat disappeared completely, revealing a long-hidden washboard stomach. His buttocks and thighs were shrinking down as well and soon he was the spitting image of everything that Tom had been just moments ago. The wide, pink circles that Tristan had drawn on his ass, thighs, and stomach shrank down to mere dots before disappearing entirely.

Bennett was a whole new man.

And so was Tom.

“Mmmm,” Tristan murmured, squatting down beside Tom to admire his handiwork. “Such a big, perky butt and round tummy! And those thick thighs…” he paused to shiver theatrically. “Ungh! What a fucking delectable boy you are now, Tom!”

Tom clenched his jaw, feeling his hatred grow. As much as he resisted acknowledging it, though, Tristan’s words rang true. His belly protruded round and full before him, seeming to defy gravity in its firmness. Rather than sagging down, it stuck jauntily outward and his smooth, hairless skin made it look more than a little like a pregnant lass’ belly. It was so big that it eclipsed his toothpick of a cocklet. Behind him, he could feel his skin pulled tight and knew with dreadful certainty that his arse cheeks were bubbling out lasciviously. 

This was confirmed a moment later when Bennett chortled, “Why, look at him! He’s got a prettier bottom than any girl I’ve bedded!”

Soon, Tom’s big arse was the recipient of several of the lads’ affection and Tristan had to push their groping hands away, admonishing, “Now, now! Behave yourselves, boys! Tom’s fine arse isn’t going away; you’ll have plenty of time to…enjoy…it later.” This was met with a chorus of boos and hisses but Tristan ignored them, adding, “We’re almost done. I just have to shave his head and give him the requisite piercings. Then you can use my pen to draw tattoos all over his body.”

After the devastating humiliation of being robbed of his manhood and lean physique, having his head shaved down to a tiny square on the back of his scalp was almost nothing. He was beyond complaining anyway and knelt there passively as Tristan braided his few remaining locks into an rattail. He didn’t even cry out as the monk thrust heavy rings made of rose gold through his nipples and pierced his ears with dangling pendants of rose quartz. He did grunt in pain when Tristan stuck a needle through his tiny cockhead affixed a ring through his piss slit but no one heard; they were all too busy crowing at his misfortune.

When Tristan was done piercing his various body parts, he turned the men loose on Tom’s body with the tattoo ink. They pushed him down on his hands and knees and drew the most obscene and unflattering designs all over his body, not stopping until every inch was covered–including the top of his shaved head. Parting his generous butt cheeks, they even drew pictures of erect phalluses pointing salaciously at his tender, virgin hole. 

He didn’t care, though. No, he was numb. Numb to everything but a burning hatred for Tristan and this helped to get him through the mounting devastation of being subjected to the meanest debasement and torture.

He was so numb and exhausted that he didn’t remember when Tristan finally released him from his geas. He only knew that he awoke groggy and sore and filled with bitter rage as sunlight streamed through the open stable door, limning the bodies of the sleeping men. They were naked and piled on top of each other on the straw, some still locked in carnal embraces, completely spent after their night of carousing. He wrinkled his lip in distaste before making the mistake of looking down at himself. It took everything he had to suppress the wail of despair that threatened to erupt out of him at seeing the nightmare that had once been his beautiful body.

Somehow, he managed to steel himself as he looked around for his clothes, ignoring the new weight of his gut and butt and thighs that threatened to throw him off balance. He soon discovered that his clothes had disappeared from his pack and had been replaced by a set of pink leather breeches and a pink harness. The sword with the rose gold hilt glittered in the morning light nearby.

Gifts from Tristan, no doubt.

The trappings of his new life as a Mazzarine.

Tom scowled down at the despicable clothing but soon realized that he had no choice but to put them on. Tristan had stolen all of his regular clothing and he was already running short on time if he wanted to set off before the evil monk. Getting to the island and slaying the monster was his only hope for freeing himself from the Mazzarine curse.

The leather breeches were the most humiliating part of the outfit. They were split down the sides and tied with laces that stretched provocatively to expose his huge, tatted butt and thighs. Gritting his teeth, he cinched the belt under his protruding belly and snapped the harness across his chest, trying unsuccessfully to avoid touching the huge rings dangling from his swollen nipples. Slipping the sword into the scabbard at his hip, he went in search of his horse.

Tom tried to ignore the way the stableboy goggled at him but finally lost it when the kid started snickering rudely and boxed him across the ears. While the kid wailed, Tom clawed his way up onto the saddle of his waiting horse. It took an embarrassing amount of time to climb on top because he wasn’t accustomed to his new weight–Christ, Bennett must have given him more than forty pounds of fat!–but eventually he slung his boot over the beast’s shoulder and settled in. He grimaced when his arse no longer fit the saddle he’d picked out the night before–There was a lot of extra padding back there!–and debated changing it out for a larger size. After a few moments, though, he decided he was in too much of a hurry and could endure the discomfort.

He needed to get out of that place!

Yes.

He just needed to be gone.

He kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and set off. Tom’s journey toward redemption (and revenge) had begun.

***

Chapter 5

Tom’s mare pulled up lame an hour after he galloped out the front gate of the estate, hellbent on getting as far ahead of Tristan as possible. He knew but didn’t care that he was pushing the horse too hard. His burning fury and hatred were all-consuming, exacerbated by the humiliating way his big, new belly flopped up and down with each hoofbeat. It reminded him every second of the torment and humiliation he’d endured the night before.

He fucking hated Tristan of Eisenholt!

He would fucking make him pay!

Tristan was as good as dead…once Tom won the Rite of Refusal and freed himself from the Mazzarine curse.

His mare was a strong horse but not accustomed to carrying the weight of such a heavy man and she pulled a tendon during a headlong rush down a steep ravine. When she stumbled to a halt, he cursed vehemently, whipping her bloody until she got fed up with the abuse and bucked him out of the saddle. He landed with a thud on his arse, avoiding serious injury due to its newly enhanced size and softness, although he was in no state to acknowledge this fact. The horse kicked up her heels and trotted unevenly away, leaving him physically unharmed but with a very bruised ego.

His fall brought down upon him the full, ahem, weight of his horrible transformation and he sat there staring at his ravaged and bloated body in bitter disbelief. His belly ballooned round and full before him, covered in lurid, pink tattoos as it strained against the leather straps of his pink harness. With shaking hands, he reached down and cupped it in his hands, amazed by its size and heft. Even if he dug his fingers into his soft flesh, he couldn’t find the hard ridges of his buried abdominal muscles. He dropped it, unable to stand the feel of it any longer, but letting go didn’t make it go away. No, it was still very much there. He hung his head, seething with hatred.

His belly was awful enough but the tattoos were almost worse. Erect phalluses were the most common motif but there were plenty of crude designs of bare arses and men buggering each other in graphic–and inventive–ways. Even though he couldn’t see his own face, he knew that a tattoo of a hard cock adorned each of his cheeks, the twin cockheads pointing directly toward his mouth. (Tristan had laughed as he’d tattooed the word ‘Cockwhore’ across his forehead even though none of the other men present were literate.) How the fuck was he supposed to show his face in public again? He was a pariah, marked forever as a sexual deviant. How would he ever find a lass to marry him? And even if he managed to win the Rite, how could he join the Emperor’s elite guard looking like a freak? They would never let a tattooed queer into their ranks.

Tristan had done more than knock him down a few pegs; he had completely destroyed him and robbed him of his future!

Maybe if he won the Rite, Tristan’s unholy magic would dissolve and he’d be a real man again?

Maybe.

It was a very slender thread to hang on but he had nothing else.

Nothing.

He shook his head, trying to clear it but his new rattail braid slapped him across the cheek, reminding of his shaved head and tattooed scalp. He lifted the thin strand of hair and wrinkled his brow when he noticed the hair was blond and not his usual russet. How had his hair changed color? He didn’t remember Tristan dying it. Was this some sort of magic, too? He scowled and tossed it aside.

The day was warm and the morning sun beat down on his bare scalp. When he reached up to wipe the sweat off his face and touched his smooth cheeks, he frowned. His beard was gone! He kept forgetting about his hairlessness and he hated it! Not only did he look preadolescent but he was sweating like a fucking pig…everywhere. Body hair, he realized belatedly, was a blessing in more ways than one. Not only did it make him look manly, it also helped wick sweat!

Poor Tom. 

Everywhere he looked, he was confronted by the harsh reality of his new body. He was wiping his face off, trying to ignore the clamminess of his denuded skin, when his eyes alit on his nipples. Startled once again by the huge, rose gold rings dangling from them, he reached up and lifted one, intent on removing it, but grimaced in frustration when he saw that the ring was unbroken all of the way around. The only way to remove it would be to cut through the ring–or, much more painfully, tear it out of his nipple. 

But how had Tristan managed to…? 

His shoulders tightened as the answer dawned on him.

Magic.

Tristan had used magic to make sure that Tom could not remove his piercings!

He touched the jeweled pendants hanging from his ears, heart sinking when he realized that those, too, had been bolted to his earlobes.

Was there no end to the monk’s evil?

He closed his eyes but, even with them closed, nothing prevented him from running through the inventory of abuses heaped upon him. Every tattoo, every piercing, every ounce of fat, every stolen inch…they all galled him, burned him, fueling his lust for revenge. But foremost among them, of course, was his decimated manhood.  The tragic loss of his balls and foreskin–and the shrinking of his cock!–was like a hot brand burning against his heart. 

No, he corrected himself, it was not a loss but a theft.

A theft!

He’d been robbed of his manly jewels and now Tristan (and John) wore them in his stead. He ground his teeth at the memory of the two men swinging their prizes in his face, flaunting their new prowess and taunting him for his diminished size.

As if on cue, his bladder reminded him that he really had to piss. He’d been ignoring the urge for over an hour because he didn’t have the inner fortitude to touch his shrunken tool but the pressure was so bad that he either had to piss now or wet his breeches. Sighing with resignation and sudden modesty, he stood up (doing his best to ignore the substantial jiggling in front and in back when he moved) and looked around. He was in the middle of nowhere, past the plots of farmland ringing the Erlewine estate and nearing the forested lowlands of the Tighe River. In all of his life, Tom had only ventured this far north once when he was a lad on a boar hunt with his father. Normally, being on the verge of wilderness would have spooked him but that morning he was glad of the isolation because it meant that no one was around to see his tiny cocklet.

Shit, he didn’t even want to see it!

How would he ever hold his head up high again with a cock like this?

Any woman who saw it would laugh him out of her bed. And any man who saw it… 

He scowled, remembering all too well what happened when men saw his insignificant soldier.

Forcing himself to square his shoulders, he unlaced his breeches and pulled down his (empty) codpiece. His resolve withered, though, when he felt the cool air on his tiny package. He closed his eyes. 

He couldn’t do it.

He just couldn’t look at it.

But he had to piss.

Which meant…

He had to at least touch it.

Keeping his eyes firmly closed, he lowered his breeches and braced himself, moving his fingers toward…

He whined when he touched himself.

It was worse than he’d thought.

Much worse.

But there was no denying it; his fingers didn’t lie: His pathetic twig was barely two inches long and skinnier than the width of his pinkie finger! Unable to stop himself, he felt around underneath where his beautiful, big balls used to be and touched only empty skin. Or, well, maybe not quite empty. Shriveled up close to the base of his tiny cock were two almost imperceptible bumps. They were no larger than cherry pits and pulled in so tightly that he had to probe around to be sure they were real.

So. 

He wasn’t quite a eunuch but his meager raisins would have been small on an infant.

Great.

Just fucking great.

He hung his head and started pissing only to curse loudly when urine splattered all over him, dribbling down his legs and soaking his breeches. Clenching his (big, burgeoning) butt, he managed to choke off the flow of piss and, pulling his (big, burgeoning) belly out of the way, stared down at his cocklet.

Shit!

The piercing.

The fucking ring through his cockhead! 

It made it impossible to piss normally.

He couldn’t even fucking piss like a man anymore!

What the fuck?

Clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth hurt, Tom choked back tears as he squatted down in the weeds and peed like a little girl. Somehow, after out of all of the other assaults on his manhood, not being able to take a real piss pushed him to the brink.

He squatted there, red-faced and warring with himself, trying to stop the tears that wanted to pour out of his eyes. (Why was he such a fucking crybaby all of the sudden? He never cried. Never!)  But he lost it when his mare hobbled over and wuffled his ear. As she nuzzled against him, he started blubbering like a baby, past caring if anyone came upon him. He clung to her big, warm head and sobbed. The mare consoled him in an almost human manner, gently nibbling his shoulder and licking away the sweat (and tears) that trickled down his neck. 

The fact that he was being consoled by the horse he’d just beaten made him feel even worse and guilt mixed with self-loathing and bitter rage. It was a long time before he pulled himself together and, when he did, he couldn’t look the mare in the eyes. He felt too shitty. Here was a beast he’d wronged and that had no reason to forgive him. And yet she was comforting him. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t fucking deserve anything. He was a fucking loser. He sobbed again loudly, guilt driving the hard edge of despair in deeper.

He felt utterly lost.

***

His empty stomach finally got his attention and helped to draw him back out of the yawning abyss of self-pity. Still sniffling, he pushed up on his heels and staggered to his feet, reminded yet again how difficult it was to move now that he was fifty pounds heavier. How the fuck could he fight like this? Before, he’d been light on his feet, the epitome of stealth and grace. Now, though…

He looked down at his fat belly and hulking thighs and choked back more tears.

This time, though, rather than losing it, he steeled himself and looked away. He had work to do. He needed to eat and see to his horse. He reached over and patted her flank, deciding then that she needed a name.

“Faith.”

He smiled after he said it.

Yes, ‘Faith’ was a good name for her.

He took her muzzle in his hands and pressed his lips to her nose, promising her that he would prove her faith in him was not misplaced. He would stand by her even if it slowed his progress to the island…and to his ultimate goal of winning back his freedom.

A small stream burbled nearby and he led her over to it, splashing the blood off her rump and flanks where his whip and spurs had bitten into her flesh. She shivered at the cool water but didn’t move away. A close inspection revealed her wounds were superficial and he breathed a sigh of relief, feeling his nagging guilt recede somewhat. Before he let her go, though, he removed the bit from her mouth and tore the spurs off his boots, discarding them (along with the whip) into the underbrush. He vowed he would never again abuse her.

Looking down at the sword on his hip, he admired the artistry and beauty of the blade even though it reminded him of Tristan. At the same time, he felt deeply ambivalent about using it to fight. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the lingering effects of the abuse he’d endured the night before but he felt like he’d lost his stomach for fighting. He shivered, resolving to think more on this later. Clearly, he was not himself (in so many ways!) and needed time to sit with everything that had been done to him. Being in the woods and far away from Tristan helped somewhat. Yes, it helped. But what would help even more was a hearty breakfast…

The sound of hoofbeats brought him back to the present and the fact that he was butt-naked (he’d kicked off his boots and breeches before wading into the stream.) He braced against Faith, hiding his nakedness and hoping the rider continued past without seeing them. When the rider emerged from around a bend in the trail Tom cursed silently.

It was a knight.

He squinted and then froze when he recognized the mount. It was the same huge, chestnut warhorse he’d seen in the stable the night before. The one the stableboy said belonged to Tristan.

Tristan.

But, wait, was that really…

…Tristan?

Tom puzzled over the knight, realizing that the man must be Tristan but still not recognizing him.

If it was Tristan, he looked…different.

Quite different.

Tristan had been decked out in pink breeches and a pink harness (much like Tom) but this man was clad all in black leather. He seemed broader across the chest and shoulders and his skin was tanned dark brown. Also, far from being hairless, this man possessed a surfeit of body hair–black, not blond. A short, thick beard sprouted on his cheeks and his chest was covered in thick (but carefully trimmed) fur. The hair on his head was very short, almost shaved and he sported a ponytail much like Tristan’s, except that like his body hair, the ponytail was jet black. Another difference was the knight’s lack of tattoos; his skin was unblemished, apart from his copious body hair.

When he turned in the saddle and the sunlight filtering through the canopy sparkled off of the rings dangling from his big nipples, Tom’s sense of unease grew more pronounced. Tristan was the only man he’d ever seen with nipple rings (well, other than himself now) but these rings weren’t rose gold but black, shiny metal. Who was…?

At the last moment, the rider turned in the saddle and spotted Tom. Giving him a gap-toothed smile, he called out in voice that was reminiscent of yet deeper than Tristan’s.

“Oh, ho! There you are Tom!”

The knight’s sparklingly clear, blue gaze met his and a wave of a disbelief passed over Tom.

It was Tristan.

But how…?

He froze, too stunned to do anything but gawk. Winking slyly, the monk pulled up on the reins, bringing his beast to a halt. Faith whickered at the huge stallion and the warhorse cast its great head in her direction, stomping one of its hooves and rolling its eyes backward. The mare responded forcefully, fighting against the reins, and Tom frantically tried to restrain her, more from the desire to keep her as a modesty shield than anything else but, freed from the compulsion of the bit, she ignored him and wobbled over to the stallion. Tom clapped his hands over his crotch in embarrassment as she stepped away. The two horses greeted each other by rubbing noses and the mare nibbled the stallion’s forelock.

“Seems like Basil has taken a fancy to your mare,” Tristan commented, his strangely deep voice full of mirth. He paused to fix Tom with his beautiful, blue eyes, adding, “Much like I have to her rider.” 

Tom was rendered speechless by this admission. He gaped up at Tristan, cheeks growing hot, struggling to form words. Much to Tristan’s amusement, his mouth opened and closed a few times but no sound came out. As hard as he tried, Tom couldn’t make himself shout the words he’d been dying to yell since the night before. Instead, he stood there, fish-mouthed and mute, staring up at the hateful monk. 

What was wrong with him? 

Here was the man he hated more than anyone else in the world! The man he had vowed to kill! The man who had ruined his body, his life, and his prowess! The man who had humiliated him in the most nefarious ways in front of his peers! The man who…

Mastering himself with difficulty, Tom realized he was clenching his fists. Exerting supreme effort, he relaxed and was preparing launch into an angry tirade when his (rather large) stomach growled loudly. He froze in consternation and Tristan broke into laughter.

“I’m with you, Tom,” he announced. “It’s well past time for breakfast.” Not waiting for an invitation, he leaped down from the saddle, landing lightly on his feet, and started rummaging through his saddlebags.

“I-I-I,” Tom sputtered, mind reeling and pulse pounding for reasons he couldn’t figure out. Tristan’s unexpected appearance had quite discombobulated him. Finally, he gave up and turned his back on Tristan, saying lamely, “I-I am going to hunt for something to eat.” 

Why had he said that? He needed to get out of there! He needed to get to the island, not eat a leisurely breakfast with the man he hated. He needed to–

“Excellent idea!” Tristan agreed, oblivious to Tom’s turmoil. He pulled out some tinder and a flint from his bags, tossing them up in the air and catching them playfully in his fist. “I’ll get a fire going.”

Confused and uneasy, Tom sidled over to Faith and carefully positioned the horse between himself and Tristan before extracting his trusty sling from the saddlebag. He tossed it down on the grass and, still hiding behind the horse, pulled on his breeches and boots. His big belly wobbled to and fro and his monstrous thighs fought against the tight leather pants but he finally managed to squeeze back into them. Taking a shaky breath, he squared his shoulders and stalked off to find game. Why was he so tongue-tied around Tristan? It was as if the monk’s very presence was corrupting. He needed to get away from him, to be alone, collect his thoughts, get himself together.

Several minutes later, he’d spotted a large hare on the edge of a clearing and was taking silent aim when something went whizzing past his ear. The hare shrieked and collapsed in a splatter of blood, impaled by a large knife. Open-mouthed, Tom watched it writhe before turning to look behind him.

Tristan was standing there with crossed arms and a smug look on his face. He smiled at Tom’s expression, explaining, “I was too hungry to risk you missing the shot.”

“I wouldn’t have missed,” Tom grumbled, feeling both aggrieved by Tristan showing him up and impressed by the monk’s aim with a dagger. 

“I know. I remember your skill with the sword…and your fists,” Tristan cajoled, rubbing his mouth thoughtfully. “How about if you skin the hare while I make us a pot of porridge?”

***

Tristan leaned back and stretched after a tense breakfast during which Tom had eaten in stony silence. Lifting his long arms over his head and settling back in the grass on his elbows, he regarded Tom thoughtfully for a moment before saying, “I am sorry, Tom. I got…carried away last night. Between the wine and–”

“Shut up!” Tom barked, jumping to his feet so fast that he startled the horses. Faith jumped and Basil stomped a hoof, turning to give him the horsey equivalent of a dirty look.

Tristan’s expression clouded and he reached out to him, pleading, “Tom, I–”

“I said, shut the fuck up!”

“Tom! I’m trying to apologize–”

Slicing his hand through the air, Tom shouted, “No! No! You don’t get to do that! You can’t just fucking show up and act as if a fucking apology will erase everything you did to me!” He motioned down to his huge belly, obscene tattoos, and shrunken package, all but sobbing, “Look at me! Look at what you did! I was a fucking–”

“You were a fucking prick,” Tristan spat, getting to his feet. His face was red and he wouldn’t look at Tom. “I thought maybe you had learned your lesson after last night but I guess I was wrong. You’re still a fucking prick…even with nothing between your legs.”

His words slammed against Tom like fists and he had reached for his sword before he realized what he was doing. Tristan, however, was faster and Tom looked down to see the monk’s blade poised at his throat. He blinked. He’d never seen anyone move that quickly.

“Fuck you,” Tom growled, batting the blade away and fixing Tristan with a hate-filled glare. “Fuck you to hell!”

He pushed past Tristan and kicked sand over the fire. Choking on bitter rage, he quickly cleaned up the dishes from breakfast and packed them away in Faith’s saddlebags before leading the reluctant mare away from Basil. She whinnied pitifully and the stallion pawed the ground but she had no choice but to hobble along behind Tom.

Tristan watched them go in surprised silence, only belatedly calling out, “Tom! Wait! Don’t go! Your horse is lame. Let’s ride together.”

Tom didn’t respond and disappeared in the forest, the echoes of Tristan’s plaintive calling fading away behind. A few moments later, though, he heard the jingling of a saddle and the clop of Basil’s hooves as Tristan trotted up alongside them. Tom set his jaw and didn’t look up even when Faith pulled against the reins.

“Tom,” Tristan began, patting the spot on the saddle between his legs. “Come on! Jump up here. Basil is big enough to carry us both.”

“Fuck off.”

For some reason, Tristan laughed, saying, “Stop being such a grouch, will you? I’m trying to make nice.”

“Fuck off.”

“Tom! Come on! I am willing to admit that I was wrong, alright? I was wrong to treat you like that. The ritual should have–”

Tom exhaled loudly through his nose. “Tristan, get the fuck out of here. I never want to see you again.”

Before Tristan could respond, he pushed Basil out of the way and stomped off down the trail. The monk pulled up on the reins and stopped, watching him go.

***

He didn’t see Tristan again on the trail that morning but he continued to seethe over their encounter. He couldn’t believe that the monk had the balls to accuse him of being a prick, especially after he’d humiliated and destroyed him. He’d fucking taken away everything from Tom. Everything! If anyone was a prick, it was Tristan of Eisenholt! When he saw him again, he would fucking kill him. No, he would beat him bloody first and then kill him! No, wait. He’d do worse than that. He would–

“Well, well, what do we have here, laddies?”

Tom stopped abruptly. He’d been so preoccupied with planning his revenge on Tristan that he’d failed to pay attention to the trail. Looking up, he swallowed when he saw that he and Faith were ringed by a dozen rough men, brigands by the look of them. Four of the men held rusty swords and were seated astride scrawny, swaybacked nags. Four were aiming crossbows at his throat from their perches in the branches above. And the other four were holding what appeared to be farming implements. All in all, not the most imposing bunch of thieves but certainly more than he was equipped to handle. He would have been hard pressed to deal with them even before his transformation but now that he’d gained so much weight, his very survival was in question. Feeling his shoulders tighten, he realized that his only hope of was to allow them to rob him…and then pray that they left him alone after that.

The leader of the group, a tall, broad man with mangy brown hair and leering smile, stepped forward to survey Tom with amusement. Taking in his long braid, dangling earrings, protruding belly, obscene tattoos, and revealing pink harness, he let out a loud guffaw.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” he crowed. “We got ourselves a tarted-up heifer ready for breeding, lads!”

The rest of the band broke out in rowdy laughter as the men ogled the increasingly distressed Tom. One lout called out, “Breeding, huh? Looks like she’s already heavy with calf to me!”

More laughter and then another commented, “Twin calves from the looks of her!”

Tom wilted with humiliation, eyes falling groundward and heat creeping up his neck. The leader reached out and batted one of his earrings before tugging painfully on a nipple ring. His eyebrows rose as he sneered, “Shit! I seen cows with rings through their noses but never one with rings through her teats!”

“Teats?” the smartass behind him chimed in. “Them’s udders!”

Tom’s cheeks flamed crimson as the whole company dissolved in jeers and laughter. When the leader took yet another step closer, Tom backed against Faith, unable to stop himself from quaking. The man was so close that he could smell his fetid breath.

I need to get out of here! he thought frantically but his familiar resolve had utterly (udderly?) deserted him. Clearly, these men had no intention of letting him go free. Robbery, it seemed, was only a secondary concern. He steeled himself, trying to make himself look imposing by puffing out his chest and squaring his shoulders but that only made his round belly stick out further and he cringed when the man reached down and took it in his grimy hands, rolling it around and licking his lips.

“I’ve always liked a girl with a little meat on her bones,” he murmured, looking up and fixing Tom with a hungry stare.

“I’m…not a girl,” Tom protested but his words lacked conviction, coming out more as a feeble plea. Even worse and to his undying shame, he realized that he had become inexplicably aroused. His little prick was hard as a pebble inside his (mostly) empty codpiece.

“Oh, aye? Not a girl, eh?” the man queried, now pressing so firmly up against Tom that he could feel his bulging erection against his thigh. The rest of the men had likewise drawn closer and now formed a tight circle around them. “You sure about that? Let me find out.”

Tom braced, warring with his mutinous urges, as the man lowered his hand, slowly reaching down toward his meager package. Just as his fingers were about to close around Tom’s little boy, though, the familiar sound of a jingling harness and a warhorse’s heavy hooves interrupted them. The men straightened, abruptly alert, as Tristan emerged behind them on the trail.

“Oh, ho!” the monk called out playfully as he took in the scene before him. “What have we here? A party? Now why wasn’t I invited?”

Before the men could react, Tristan had swung down out of the saddle and somehow managed to insert himself between Tom and the bandit leader. He moved so quickly that he was almost a blur. One moment, the man was pressing up hard against Tom and the next Tristan had shoved him away and was drawing Tom to him, a heavy arm draped over his shoulder.

“Hey, boys,” he teased, smiling at the leader’s startled outrage. “I see you’ve got your eyes on my girl here.” He paused and looked over at Tom, giving him a sly wink. “Well, back off. She’s mine!”

With that, he took Tom’s face in his hands and kissed him deeply, his tongue working its way into his mouth before Tom registered what was happening. Lights exploded in his skull and he froze, going slack in Tristan’s grip. The monk responded with fervor, taking him forcefully in his arms and thrusting against him, his beard scraping Tom’s lips raw and his tongue wrestling for dominance inside his mouth. He assailed Tom for a long time as the bandits watched, their mouths hanging open, too stunned to do anything but gape. When he finally withdrew, he left an equally stunned and glassy-eyed Tom weaving on his feet before him. The taste of Tristan was like bitter metal in his mouth, a not entirely unwelcome flavor.

The bandits were slow to recover from the shock of Tristan’s sudden appearance and profane kiss but gradually they stirred and their leader, perhaps unsurprisingly, did not seem very happy with the monk’s intrusion. Motioning to the men wielding crossbows in the trees above, he lowered his hand to his sword. Tom tensed and was preparing to roll under Faith when Tristan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, guys!” the monk called out cheerfully. “Before you do anything you regret, I got something to show you.”

The archers in the branches paused, their fingers steady on the triggers of their crossbows. The bandit leader hesitated before holding up his hand and asking warily, “And what would that be?”

Tristan winked as he turned to Tom and took him by the shoulders. Tom stared at him, completely lost as to what game Tristan was playing. Did he not realize they were in danger here?

“I said,” the leader repeated in a menacing voice, “What would that be?”

Tristan paused, lips spreading into a wide grin as he announced dramatically, “Have you ever seen a cock this small?”

Before Tom could react, Tristan pulled a dagger out of nowhere and sliced open the lacing of his breeches. Tom looked down in horror as they split wide open, sliding down his bulging thighs to reveal his ridiculously tiny erection and nonexistent balls. He tried to clap his hands over himself but Tristan grabbed his wrists and thrust him, bare crotch forward, out in front.

Cacophony broke out among the bandits as they took in the sight of Tom’s pathetic manhood. It quickly built to near frenzied proportions making their previous outburst seem tame. Every man lost it and doubled over, gripping his sides, and Tom withered under the onslaught of their laughter. He struggled to free himself from Tristan’s grip, face burning red but the monk held him tight.

“Hang on, Tom,” he whispered. “Wait for it…”

Tom growled in frustration, redoubling his efforts to free himself. He couldn’t remember being so humiliated. Even the abuse he’d endured the night before was nothing compared to this. How could Tristan do this to him? Just when he thought the monk was on his side, he’d turn on him, betraying him, stopping at nothing to degrade him publically. He was a beast, a devil, a monster! 

Chest clenching with hurt and outrage, he threw all of his strength into breaking loose, only half expecting to succeed, and was surprised when Tristan suddenly let loose. He lost his balance and flailed his arms, tumbling face first toward the ground. He landed heavily, catching himself on his hands and groaning. He was turning to look back at Tristan when he heard a thunk and something wet splattered down on his back. Three more thunks and the splatter was followed by another and another.

What the…?

He looked up in the trees and his eyes widened as a bleeding archer–with a dagger lodged in his throat–toppled down from the branches above him. He rolled off to the side just as the man landed squarely beside him. The fallen man sputtered weakly, blood spurting from his neck. Tom stared in shock, unable to believe the speed of Tristan’s reflexes–not to mention his incredible aim!–and would have been crushed by the next falling man if Tristan hadn’t yelled, “Move, Tom!”

Without thinking, Tom rolled away and the second man thudded down beside him, clutching at the dagger buried in his throat. Tom sprang to his feet and staggered to safety as the remaining two archers fell to earth. Behind him, the monk had run out of daggers and was unsheathing his sword to fight desperately with the remaining brigands. At Tristan’s whistle, his great warhorse joined him, slashing out with sharpened hooves. As Tom stared, the stallion split a brigand’s skull wide open before turning and rearing up at the next hapless man.

“I could use a hand here!” Tristan shouted, snapping Tom out of his daze.

He shook his head and looked down at the glittering sword hanging from his belt as if seeing it for the first time. The sounds of the bloody fray faded as he gingerly pulled it out of its jeweled scabbard. It rested light and deadly in his palm and he found himself smiling as he remembered how much he loved sword fighting. He tossed it up in the air and caught it deftly, savoring its balance and heft. It was a gorgeous sword. One of the best, really. God, he really–

“Now, Tom!”

He looked up, chagrined, just in time to parry a thrust from an advancing bandit. The blade was responsive and agile but he was not. The extra weight around his middle slowed him more than he’d expected and he was handicapped by the wad of his breeches around his ankles. He was forced to work a lot harder than usual and only barely avoided several vicious slashes. Finally, he managed to kick off his boots and step out of his tattered pants and resumed fighting naked from the waist down, his little cocklet wagging back and forth jauntily with each jab. His nudity proved to be an advantage because it distracted his opponents and, by the end of the brawl, he’d regained a portion of his legendary skill.

Finishing off the last attacker, he sagged down on his heels, breathing heavily. The glade was silent around them; all twelve bandits lay scattered about, their bodies slashed and contorted gruesomely. Tristan soothed Basil and Faith, tethering them nearby, before coming to stand next to Tom. He was breathing heavily and covered with blood but none of it was his; he had emerged unscathed from the battle. As Tom stared up at him, panting, Tristan’s face broke into a slow grin.

“We fight well together, Tom,” he said, settling down on his heels in front of him and placing a warm hand on his shoulder. His eyes slid suggestively down to Tom’s crotch as he purred, “Have I told you how fucking sexy you are when you swing your little sword?”

Tom flushed, sputtering, “Fuck you! You–”

Tristan silenced him with a kiss, this one more tender and lingering than the first. It was so tender and so lingering that Tom didn’t have the strength to resist and he gave in, allowing Tristan to twine his hand through his little braid and reel him in closer. Their lips met and their tongues played games between the gaps of their missing front teeth. When Tristan drew away, his eyes were bright with desire as he stared at Tom.

“That…,” Tom began and stopped, a million conflicting emotions swirling around in his head. Finally, he wiped at his mouth and turned away, leaving the sentiment unsaid.

Tristan regarded him silently, his blue eyes dancing as he debated how to respond. Finally, he sighed, saying “Let’s go, Tom.”

He stood and offered his hand. Tom stared a moment before taking it and allowing the monk to pull him to his feet, uncertain how he felt about this turn of events. He still hated Tristan of Eisenholt with a passion but he couldn’t deny that part of him–the small part between his legs in particular–burned with an altogether different sort of passion for the knight. It left him feeling very confused.

Tristan wiped off his blade and resheathed it before tying Faith’s reins to Basil’s saddle. Then he jumped astride the giant beast and held his hand down to Tom. When Tom didn’t move, and he thumped the saddle in front of him, inclining his head. “Up, Tom! We must be off,” he urged. “There may be more bandits about.”

When Tom balked, he became plaintive. “Come on, Tom! We’ll make better progress on Basil. He’s plenty strong enough to carry us both!”

Tom crossed his arms, looking pointedly down at his nakedness. “You destroyed my breeches,” he complained, unable to keep the petulant tone out of his voice. “I don’t have another pair and I am not riding like this.”

“Oh, don’t be stupid!” Tristan pressed. “I’ll sew up your breeches when we set up camp…far away from here! There’s no one around anyway. Who cares if you’re naked?”

Tom looked away, embarrassed. When he didn’t reply, Tristan exhaled loudly and jumped down from the horse. With lithe grace, he kicked off his boots and pulled down his own breeches, stepping out of them and spreading his arms out wide. “There!” he challenged, his enormous package–the package he’d stolen from Tom!–swaying back and forth in the breeze. “We’re both bare-arse naked. You happy? Now let’s go!” 

Tom eyes fell downward, landing enviously on Tristan’s huge cock and balls. He couldn’t help noticing that his dick was no longer tattooed pink, nor were his pubes shaved smooth. His crotch was covered by a dense thatch of black pubic hair and the skin of his cock was pigmented deep brown, darkening almost to black by the tip of his drooping foreskin. Tom swallowed, unwillingly captivated by Tristan’s manhood.

The monk didn’t seem to notice his scrutiny and stomped over to Tom’s discarded clothing and, gathering it up, stowed it along with his boots and breeches in Basil’s saddlebags. Then, looking back at Tom, he knelt down and knit his hands together, providing a ready step for him to clamber up on the horse. Tom stared at him, incredibly befuddled by Tristan’s actions (and his nakedness), but then sighed and stepped forward, letting Tristan boost him into the saddle. A moment later, the monk swung up and settled in behind him. Reaching around Tom’s belly, he grabbed the reins and gave them a shake. Basil glanced behind him and tossed his head, unused to the weight of two riders, before letting out a low grunt and jerking forward.

They were off!

Tom sat there, nestled between Tristan’s bare thighs, wondering how he’d allowed himself to be talked into this.

***

Chapter 6

It wasn’t long before Tristan’s hands began to wander. 

Tom didn’t notice at first because he was too overwrought from the humiliating and then incredibly bloody altercation with the bandits. Despite being an expert swordsman, he had never killed a man before that day. During the fight, he’d been overtaken by powerful instinct and the killing had seemed distant, almost as he were watching it happen from far away. Now that it was over and he had time to think, he was haunted by the almost cavalier way he’d taken the lives of those men. They were bandits, sure, but had they really deserved death? And would they have really hurt him?

These thoughts were interrupted when Tristan let go of the reins with his right hand in order to let the hand settle on Tom’s thigh. He gave him a little squeeze. When Tom shifted uncomfortably, Tristan murmured, “Easy, girl. I’ve got you.”

“Would you stop calling me ‘girl’?” Tom protested.

Tristan squeezed his thigh again in apology, making Tom grunt. Rather than dissuading Tristan, though, his resistance only seemed to embolden him and soon he was cradling Tom’s belly in his right arm, fondling it and murmuring appreciatively as he held the reins loosely with his free hand.

“Tristan!” Tom shouted, taking his arm and moving it off of his belly. “Stop it!”

“Hey, babe,” Tristan cajoled. “Don’t be a whiny little wench. You owe me this.” He underscored his point by moving his arm back under Tom’s belly, jiggling it gently.

His words and touch made Tom see red. “Uh, come again?” he asked icily. “What exactly do I owe you?”

There was a soft exhale and a chuckle behind him, then, “Um, you owe me your life. Or did you forget that I just saved your arse back there?”

Only with supreme effort was Tom able to stop himself from whirling around and strangling the shit out of Tristan. He marshalled every ounce of self-restraint, though, and kept his voice level as he said, “I don’t owe you shit.”

Tristan laughed. “Yes, you do.” He followed this by giving Tom’s little nub a tweak.

Basil halted in the mid stride as Tom, yelping both in pain and outrage, lost his tenuous hold on self-control and whirled around in the saddle. Tristan was so startled that he dropped the reins and leaned backward, narrowly avoiding Tom’s foot in his face. Tom ended up doing a one-eighty, only halting when he was face to face with Tristan. They sat there, stunned and staring at each other with wide eyes, their chests heaving. 

It’s worth taking a break here to point out that both men were stunned for different reasons. Tristan by the vehemence of Tom’s reaction and Tom from the belated realization that his fit of pique had left him in a compromising position: His thick legs were straddling Tristan’s lap and his bare arse was directly over…

“Ahem,” Tristan said, clearing his throat and shifting position under Tom.

He wasn’t quite fast enough, though.

Tom’s face went scarlet as he registered the telltale sensation of something hard, hot, and blunt pressing insistently against his…

“What the fucking hell, Tristan?” he shouted, jumping up and pushing himself backward in the frantic attempt to get away. He would have fallen off the saddle if the monk hadn’t grabbed him. When they made eye contact again, he saw that Tristan’s face had likewise turned deep scarlet under his beard.

The knight looked away, clearly embarrassed, saying, “Well, what did you expect would happen with the most beautiful man in seven empires sitting between my legs?”

Tom was struck dumb by this admission. (The most beautiful man? Huh? Can a man be beautiful?) Befuddled, he clapped his mouth shut as a bitter retort died on his tongue. He, too, looked away, his face turning an even deeper shade of red.  When he was finally able to speak, his tongue was thick in his mouth.

“Don’t…tease me, Tristan,” he said, hating the pleading tone in his voice. “I know I’m not beautiful. Not after–”

“You’re wrong, Tom!” the monk interrupted. “You’re dead wrong. C’mere. I’ll show you!”

Before he could resist, Tristan reached out and pulled Tom back onto his lap, fixing him with his tender, luminous eyes. The man’s gaze was vulnerable in a way that took Tom’s breath away. He’d never thought it possible for a man to look at another man like that. It was too…too…too…

Somehow, he managed to croak, “Don’t. Please, stop!”

Tristan’s mouth quirked. “You’re going to make me kiss you again. You don’t want that, do you?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Tom’s eyes went round after he said those words. He couldn’t believe it! What had gotten into him? Men didn’t enjoy kissing other men, especially not arseholes who had humiliated them beyond belief! These feelings…that he was feeling…had to be unnatural. They had to be more foul magic. Yes, that was it! Tristan was using more of his magic on him and he was–

He leaned forward and kissed Tristan.

And then pulled abruptly away, a look of stunned surprise on his face.

Tristan laughed, taking his bulging butt cheeks in his hands and squeezing them fondly. As Tom stared (with his heart inexplicably stuck in his throat), the monk leaned forward and touched his lips with his own. It was the merest hint of a kiss, more of a promise than anything else…and it left Tom hungering for more.

“You didn’t realize what you were missing, did you?” Tristan teased. “You thought that thrusting your willy inside the poor girls you cornered behind the kitchen middens was the only way for a man to feel pleasure?”

Tom flushed, looking down.

“Well, my dear brother,” the monk continued, massaging Tom’s huge arse. “It’s almost time for the second half of your initiation. The first part, you already know,” he said with a sly wink, “is the Take and the Give. The second is the Binding.” He smiled at Tom’s look of confusion, explaining, “It’s when we unite as one, Tom. When you learn what it’s like to truly be a shield brother. Now, turn around in the saddle and let’s make haste. I can’t wait to make camp with you for the night.”

***

Tom was lost in a dream the whole ride to the banks of the River Tighe where they made camp. Everything seemed tinged with rose and hyacinth, glowing with a numinous light from within. It wasn’t until he was watching Tristan–His knight! His brother!–setting up camp and building a fire that he realized it wasn’t his imagination; everything really was tinged with rose and hyacinth. He turned to the west where the sinking sun was staining the horizon with those beautiful, tender colors. He sighed, feeling like his heart would burst.

What the fuck had Tristan done to make him forget all about his seething hatred, bitter rage, and devouring hunger for revenge?

And did he even care?

In the space of an afternoon, the center of his world had shifted and suddenly one man stood in the center of it.

Tristan of Eisenholt.

A fucking Mazzarine!

A fucking Mazzarine monk was the center of his world!

What the fuck was wrong with him?

This was foul magic.

Foul magic.

The foulest!

The most profane!

The worst kind.

Surely.

Surely…?

But it was also beautiful.

Because Tristan was beautiful.

Tom sighed again, feeling lovestruck as he leaned his back against Faith’s warm flank and crossing his arms as he watched his new brother tending to the camp. He was so big and strong and handsome! (God, it was weird feeling this way about another man. But he liked it! He really fucking liked it!) Tristan turned and caught him staring, consciously squaring his shoulders and puffing out his hairy chest. Tom smiled. He was showing off. Tristan of Eisenholt was showing off for him!

Solicitous and kind in the exact inverse of his cruelty and abuse of the previous evening, the knight spread a blanket for Tom to recline on while he busied himself with hunting their dinner. When he returned with a brace of hare that he’d already gutted and skinned, he set about cooking them up in a savory sauce of fiddleheads and mushrooms. They feasted, shoulder to shoulder, not saying a word the entire meal. Tom was too delirious to talk anyway. All he could do was stare at the handsome knight sitting naked next to him.

“Let me bathe you,” Tristan said, offering Tom one last drink from his wineskin. “It’s the least I can do for you after last night.”

He led Tom by the hand down to the river and scrubbed him clean from head to toe, taking elaborate care not to miss any crease or hard-to-reach spot. By the end, Tom was exquisitely turned on, his little nub dribbling precum like a straw, but somehow he restrained himself long enough to repay the favor. 

He paused to survey Tristan’s magnificent, manly body, so changed from the night before when he’d been a slight, hairless, boyish freak. That Tristan had gone, or rather grown into a potent man whose torso rippled with muscles and coursed with thick, black hair. Even the hair on his head had grown out into a dense mane that he had to tie back to keep from pouring over his face. He swallowed, feeling his nub twitch almost painfully. Tristan caught his eye, giving him a sly wink as he looked downward where his massive endowment had risen well past half mast. Tom cleared his throat and got down to business.

When they were finished washing the handsome knight, Tristan folded himself down in the shallows and slapped the water over his lap, entreating Tom to join him. Tom needed no encouragement. His entire outlook had inverted over the course of the afternoon and now, instead of wanting to be as far away from the monk as possible, he couldn’t get close enough! He sat happily down in the cool water, a silly grin plastered across his face.

“What did you do to me?” he asked, settling onto Tristan’s inviting lap. 

He didn’t even mind the feeling of the man’s erect cock pressing insistently against him. Mind it? Shit, he fucking wanted it! In fact, he more than wanted it, he wanted it inside… He flushed as he realized where his thoughts were going.

Tristan laughed, leaning forward to plant a kiss on the back of his neck before teasingly grabbing his long braid in his teeth and pulling backward. After a while, he let it fall out of his mouth, saying, “Tonight, I have done nothing to you. What you are feeling right now, my love and my brother, is all you.”

Tom leaned back and allowed his big brother to wrap his arms around him. They lay like that for a long time before he murmured, “Well, if it is magic, it’s the good kind.” He pressed his butt down and shivered when he felt Tristan’s monster surge awake underneath him.

“Let me tell you about the brotherhood before we complete your initiation–and before I shoot my load ere I even get the pleasure of buggering your big arse,” Tristan whispered in his ear, causing a thrill to zip up Tom’s spine. “We’re not as evil as you have been led to believe.”

Tom sighed as one shiver of delight after another passed through him. His little soldier was standing at full attention between his legs, though his view of himself down there was obscured by his round belly. For some reason, even the sight of it didn’t bother him (too much) just then.

“As a result of your initiation last night, you are now my ‘Shield Brother,’” Tristan continued, stroking Tom’s belly fondly while thrusting his hips ever so slightly beneath him. “The bond of shield brothers is between a knight and his novice. I was a novice to my brother, Enrico, until two months ago when he was killed in battle.” He paused only briefly with this news, starting again before Tom could question him. “Once a knight dies, his novice brother travels the empire looking for a new shieldmate, challenging potential brothers to duels. Once his chosen draws first blood in combat, the bond begins to take effect.”

When he paused, Tom looked back and saw that Tristan’s eyes were glowing carnal fire. His new brother grinned wolfishly at him and Tom turned back around quickly, his neck growing warm.

“The Ritual of the Take and the Give,” Tristan concluded, “was as much my initiation into the knighthood as it was your initiation into the brotherhood. Released from the bonds of a novice, my body was finally able to take on its true, adult form just as your body is now indelibly that of a young man barely out of adolescence. You will remain so until our bond is broken by my death. I am now Sir Tristan of Eisenholt and you are Brother Thomas of Erlewine.”

As if to underscore his point, he bucked his hips upward, lodging his huge pole firmly against Tom’s hole. He gasped and stiffened. When he settled back down, his vision filled with little stars when he realized that Tristan’s fat cockhead–along with his gem-encrusted cock ring–had parted his tender pucker. He shook his head at himself. Could this really be happening? Could he really be that eager to have a man…? His neck grew hot at the very thought.

“Your initiation was cruel,” Tristan was saying, teasing his hole with the tiny thrusts. Tom’s eyes rolled back in his head and he moaned when Tristan reached up to pull on his nipple rings. “But all Mazzarine initiations are harsh. It must be that way to ensure the new brother is subservient to the Order and to his knight.” 

He tugged on Tom’s braid, pulling his head backward and nibbling his ear. Tom whimpered, overcome with a host of new and heady sensations–Tristan’s cock ring grinding against his nubile hole, the delicious pain of his stretched nipples, the prickling of the knight’s coarse body hair on his smooth back, the exquisite torture of Tristan’s tongue lapping against his earlobe–and he worried that he was going to shoot before the real ‘fun’ began. Tristan eased back at the last moment, though, demonstrating his skill as a lover. Tom would have many opportunities to appreciate this about his brother knight in the coming days.

“Now, Tom,” Tristan queried, his hot breath on his neck. “Do you still wish to go through with the Rite of Refusal? Do you really want to walk away from this?” Before he could answer, though, Tristan laughed and kissed the back of his neck again, saying, “Nay, you don’t need to give me your answer yet, my love. There is no rush. I have all the time in the world to convince you.”

Tristan held him close and Tom relaxed, the pressure of the need to reply and his building climax receding into a warm haze. He sagged against the comforting bulk of his new brother. Tristan was far from done with him, of course, and once again demonstrated his uncanny ability to catch Tom when his defenses were at their lowest. Tricking him with the soft caress of the back of his hand against his cheek, he waited until Tom sighed before startling him with a sharp, upward thrust of his hips. Tom’s eyes popped open and he screamed in pain as the monk’s bulbous cockhead and thick ring burst through his slack defenses, gaining full entry to the last bastion of his manhood. 

Tristan of Eisenholt’s cock was in his arse!

“The Binding,” Tristan declared in a harsh gasp, “is the final step. It starts now with my cock in your arse and ends when I plant my seed inside of you.” He thrust upward and Tom gasped as another inch of Tristan’s pole penetrated him. Tristan lay back, drawing Tom against him, content to take his time breaking him in and Tom moaned as he felt himself stretching out down there to accommodate his brother’s huge manhood.

The minutes stretched as they lay there. The knight’s cock stretching him out and pushing ever inward was the most exquisite torture of Tom’s life. Tristan was the consummate gentleman and lover that night, seemingly intent on undoing the trauma and humiliation of his assault in the stables. He carefully and patiently taught Tom new and surprising ways of loving, lavishing him with attention and praising his beauty and prowess. Tom almost didn’t hear him when, near the end of their lovemaking, he revealed the truth behind the Binding. 

Only afterward would the terrible meaning become clear. Only later would he come to know that the Binding was a curse more foul even than the humiliation of the Take and Give. And as the curse took hold and began to control his thoughts and actions, it would cement his drive to break away from Tristan for good. It would convince him once again that the only way to regain his manhood and freedom was to win the Rite of Refusal.

But that was in the future. 

At that moment, the curse of the Binding was a complete unknown and Tom was so besotted that he couldn’t have cared less about it. His burning desire incinerated the meaning of knight’s explanation until they were just so many words. Those words were lost in the grinding, driving, building, burning force of the huge, fat cock splitting him open. Tristan may as well have been speaking another language for all the difference it made to Tom.

“You will hunger forevermore for a cock up your big, fat arse, my lovely brother,” the knight whispered in his ear as his thrusting worked up to a near frenzy, driving Tom insane with the onslaught of pleasure. 

He moaned, completely enslaved to Tristan and his huge, beautiful cock. He wanted that cock inside him. No, he HAD to have that cock inside him! He hungered for it like a wanton slattern. He would do anything, anything for that cock!

“Not a moment will go by,” Tristan gasped, his voice seeming to come from far away, “when you do not crave a cock inside you. The longer you go without, the greater your desire will become until you go mad, willing to do anything to be penetrated by a man.”

He sealed these fateful words with a final potent thrust that sent poor Tom rocketing toward an unbelievable climax.

“AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHH!” Tom wailed as Tristan’s cock hit his magical spot, that singular place that immediately triggered an intense orgasm and his nub spewed thimbleful after thimbleful of hot cum.

Tristan was close behind (indeed, he was so close behind that he inside of him!) and he had no sooner choked out the final words of the curse when he likewise exploded, coating Tom’s insides indelibly with his potent seed. As his cock was spasming uncontrollably, he reached down with his index finger and stroked Tom’s nub, making him cry out even as he lost himself in the throes of passion. 

The release was more intense than anything Tom had ever experienced and he was overcome by incandescent ecstasy. As it slowly faded, he was left feeling spent and exhausted and his eyelids grew heavy and he sagged against Tristan, savoring the closeness and the connection with the big man. Tristan’s cock was so huge that, even when soft, it more than filled Tom’s hole and he snuggled against his lover, pushing his buttocks down and clenching a little. It felt so good to have his knight–His brave, handsome knight! His shieldmate! His brother!–inside him. Tom felt safe and protected in a way he hadn’t felt since he was very small.

Just as he was drifting off to sleep, lulled by the warm waters of the Tighe lapping gently against their twinned bodies as they melded into a pleasant, drowsy union, Tristan pulled out.

He pulled out!

He fucking pulled out!

Tom wailed in protest, pushing his bum down and trying vainly to envelope his lover’s cock again but Tristan was already pushing him off of his lap and standing up. Water dripped in rivulets down his magnificently muscled and exquisitely hairy body as he looked down at Tom, eyes filled with pity. Tom reached up to him, begging him to stay, begging him to enter him once again but Tristan shook his shaggy head, saying, “I’m sorry, Tom. I truly am sorry.”

He got up and stalked off into the growing dusk, leaving Tom crying out in frustration and longing.

Already he could feel the hunger building inside of him, a hunger that would become all too familiar in the coming days, months, and years. Not a moment would pass when he wasn’t nagged by it and the all-consuming hunger would come close to making him go crazy.

Tristan had just turned Brother Thomas of Erlewine into a hopeless cockwhore.

***

Chapter 7

Tom kept Tristan awake nearly all night, begging with increasing desperation to be fucked. The knight was more than happy to comply…the first dozen times. After the fifteenth time, though, when the sky was beginning to turn rosy with dawn, Tristan complained, “Ho, Tom! I’m too tired! See?” He sat up on the blanket they were sharing and wagged his floppy cock to and fro; it was limp and listless. “You’ve worn me out!”

Tom stared at the big cock, unconsciously licking his lips and reaching out for it, trying to pull it toward his hungry hole. “Just shut up and bugger me!” he gasped, on fire with an inhuman lust for that big cock. “It’s your fault I’m like this!” 

Even though it had scarcely been a half hour since the last time the knight had fucked him, the gnawing emptiness was more than he could tolerate. When Tristan resisted his attempt to yank his cock downward, he grew frantic. Out of desperation (and grimacing at the humiliation of having to resort to such base behavior), he attempted to stick his finger inside himself to quell the longing. He was startled to find, though, that his moist hole was really tight. So tight it was difficult even to wedge his little finger inside.

Tristan had just fucked him! He should be loose!

But, no, he remembered then that each time the big knight had fucked him, he’d had to work Tom up to it, usually coaxing his hole open with a moistened finger first. Tom had been so cock-hungry, he hadn’t paid much attention. Now that he thought about it, though, he realized his hole had tightened up after each fucking. Tightened up a lot!

Exhaling in frustration, he stuck his finger in his mouth to wet it, making a face at the residual taste of his hole on his fingertip. Goddamned Tristan! he thought fiercely. If the fucking knight didn’t have such a huge, gorgeous cock, he would be furious with him. As it was, though, he couldn’t get enough of him. Couldn’t get enough of his cock inside him, that is!

The wetness helped and he finally managed to work a fingertip in. He sighed in frustration a moment later, though, when he realized it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as Tristan’s cock. Fuck! Nothing could take the place of having a big cock inside him!

The Binding, he realized with increasing despair, was a terrible curse.

How the fuck was he supposed to live like this? He could barely go a few minutes without being overcome with the awful cock hunger. He was fucking doomed!

He would have dwelled longer on the supreme unfairness of Tristan’s misbegotten curse if the hunger weren’t growing worse by the second. Trying his best to relax himself ‘down there’, he thrust his finger deeper inside but progress was slow.

“Why am I so tight?” he complained as Tristan watched his efforts with amusement. “It hurts!”

“That, my love, is part of the Binding,” the knight explained, stifling a yawn. “I remade you into both a virgin AND a whore forevermore.”

“What?!” Tom demanded, squinting with the effort of jamming his finger deeper inside. His hole clenched around his finger, hot and tight as ever. “What the fuck do you mean?”

Sinking down on the blanket next to him, Tristan asked rhetorically, “What fun would it to be to bugger you if you were loose as an old, cheap whore? The Binding guarantees that you’ll always bring pleasure to your man, no matter how often you’re ploughed.”

Wiggling his finger around inside himself with increasing fervor, Tom felt his cheeks grow hot at these words. “You–ungh!” he shouted. “You are a fucking–”

Tristan rolled over on top of him, silencing him with a kiss. Tom tried to bite him but the knight merely pulled back laughing. “You are a feisty little bitch, aren’t you? I definitely chose the right man for my shield brother.” 

Tom narrowed his eyes at the slight and was preparing to blast back with a sharp retort when Tristand took his face in his hands and, gazing deeply into his eyes, smiled disarmingly. This time, when he lowered his head and brushed his lips against Tom’s, Tom didn’t resist even though part of him wanted to chew the monk’s face off. Instead, he found himself arching his neck and meeting those tender, full lips. Tristan’s beard tickled but he was getting used it. In fact, he kind of liked it.

“Don’t worry, my love,” the knight whispered, his deep voice sending little thrills through his body, “after a few weeks, the hunger subsides. It’s always the most insatiable in the beginning. Trust me, I know this from experience.”

Tom knew he should argue, that he should be angry with Tristan, that even a few days of the unquenchable hunger was intolerable, but he found himself nodding obediently. 

Tristan’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “You are so beautiful, my love and my brother. And desirable. Look,” he said, inclining his head meaningfully toward his crotch where Tom could see his erection standing firm and strong again in the dim morning light. “All of your complaining has gotten me aroused.”

“Fuck you.”

Tristan reached down and patted his cheek before sliding his fingers slowly down Tom’s neck and chest. He paused to spit into his palm before moving Tom’s hand away from his hole and, slicking up his cock, teased his pucker with his index finger until he gave way.

Tom resentment evaporated as the knight thrust inside him, taking his time and treating him with exquisite care. He fucked him lingeringly, burying his cock to the hilt and staying like that as he wrapped Tom in his big, strong arms and held him close. They fell asleep that way with birdsong filling the air and the first rays of the morning sun dying their naked bodies crimson.

I could get used to this, Tom thought dreamily before drifting off. If only we could stay like this forever.

***

Tristan’s cock was never far from Tom’s hole over the next few weeks as they made their way north through the densely forested region beyond the River Tighe. The forest was empty of people which suited Tom just fine. The Binding had turned him into such a wanton slut that he didn’t know if he could trust himself around other men. He worried he would bend over and present his arse to any man he met!

For his part, the knight was happy to accommodate Tom’s incessant requests for a fucking. He even modified Tom’s pink leggings, sewing a flap in back that allowed him to settle Tom on his lap while in the saddle and bounce him up and down on his hard cock as they rode along. They made a funny caravan, two knights fucking on horseback with a lame mare hobbling along behind but, luckily for Tom, they met no one to bear witness to the spectacle on the trail.

The situation was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, Tom’s hole was in heaven with the knight’s substantial cock inside it. On the other, he was burning with humiliation at being reduced to a cock-hungry slattern who couldn’t go for more than a few minutes without being fucked. Even though Tristan was a perfect gentleman and lover, lavishing attention on him and seeing to his every need, it didn’t make up for the fact that he was responsible for single-handedly destroying Tom’s life and turning him into a laughing stock whose freakish appearance was matched only by his lascivious desire to have his hole stuffed.

Tom was torn by these conflicting emotions; both hating and desiring Tristan of Eisenholt at the same time. He also needed him, if only because he had a cock. The result of this conflict manifested in self-loathing that only seemed to grow worse the nearer they came to the coast and the fateful cursed island where one of them would slay the monster and free the virgin, thereby winning the Rite of Refusal.

At his worst moments, he wondered if he could even complete the Rite now that he was such a cock-hungry whore. He didn’t know. He didn’t know! The more the Binding took a hold over him, the less certain he was about anything. Everything he thought he knew about himself had been turned on its head and he felt unmoored, the only sure thing was the knight’s cock inside him.

And that cock–or, rather, his hunger for it–was precisely the problem. 

God, he hated Tristan! And he wanted him! Shit, he was so fucked up!

If Tom became more conflicted as they neared the island, the opposite was true of Tristan. The knight grew relaxed and showered Tom with love. He didn’t mention the quest but it was clear from his solicitous behavior that he hoped Tom would let him win the Rite of Refusal and thereby willingly join the Mazzarine Order. Tom played along and pretended to be head over heels for the man, although the truth was that he didn’t need to pretend; his body responded forcefully to Tristan no matter how much he resisted. He knew that this attraction was part of the magic but the draw to the knight was so powerful that Tom sometimes wondered if he wasn’t in fact in love with him.

Did he love Tristan?

It was a question that would have been unthinkable just a few weeks ago…but now? The urges, longings, feelings for Tristan were overpowering. Even in his most dour moments, Tom couldn’t say for certain that he didn’t love the knight. As degrading and hurtful as Tristan’s actions had been, there remained something sincere in the way he treated him. He didn’t doubt that Tristan had feelings for him and wanted him for his own. 

But what did Tom want? After a few weeks in the studly knight’s company, he was more confused than ever. Worrying over his feelings and desires tormented him on those rare moments when he wasn’t consumed with getting his hole packed.

***

They arrived at the village of Northrup on the coast of Albany, just a mile offshore from the cursed island, on the eve of a wedding. The town square was bedecked with garlands of red flowers leading to the doorway of the small church where a cadre of women were scrubbing the steps with buckets of water. Judging from the modest trappings, Tom thought as they rode through town, it’s probably a peasant wedding. Even so, his stomach soured at the sight of people preparing to celebrate a rite that he, due to evil Mazzarine magic, was barred from ever enjoying. Had it only been three weeks past when Tom had been the stud of the Erlewine estate, bedding lasses without a care in the world? Now even the thought of a woman’s body put him off. Tristan! he thought angrily. What the fuck have you done to me?

Tristan asked directions to the inn and was pointed down to the docks. As the knight paid for their lodging inside, Tom stood alone on the stairway, huddled beneath the concealing folds of his pink cloak. Gulls shrieked above, following the last of the fishing boats into the harbor, and the air was redolent with drying fish. 

He was trying to distract himself from the itching of his empty hole when the first of the revelers–no doubt preparing to drink and whore until dawn with the groom-to-be–began making their way toward the tavern attached to the inn. Both the inn and the tavern were seedy affairs, filled with rough sailors and stinky fishmongers. Still, the place was the best that a poor village like Northrup had to offer and they were only staying one night. Providing that Tristan could arrange transport to the cursed isle, they would be leaving promptly at dawn.

Tom shifted nervously under his cloak as several rowdy young lads lifted their heads and sniffed the air. The skin on the back of his neck prickled when their heads swiveled in his direction.Can they smell me? he wondered, panicking and pulling the hood closer to his face as he tried to fade into the shadows. Behind him, the sun was setting and it was beginning to grow dark; he hoped fervently that he was sufficiently obscured. Please, please, please! Just ignore me and keep going! He lowered his head and stared down at his feet, trying to be invisible.

For a moment, it seemed as if they would leave him alone but then Tom’s stomach fell at the fateful sound of creaking planks. Soon a pair of feet wrapped in crude leather appeared on the steps facing his own. A man cleared his throat as a hand lifted the hood away from his face.

“Oh, ho!” his accoster, a burly, black-haired man, called out in an amused voice. “A Mazzarine, boys! A Mazzarine has come t’ celebrate with us tonight!”

Tom fought to pull the hood back over his face but he was too late. Within seconds, he was surrounded by a horde of young men who took in his bizarre appearance with a mixture of surprise and derision. One of them catcalled as the rest broke out into raucous laughter.

“Are those earrings? And tattoos of men bugg–?” a gruff voice queried before breaking off in disgust to exclaim, “What a freak!”

Someone tugged on Tom’s rattail, yanking his head backward, and he cried out in pain. He was lowering his hand to his sword when the first man, stopped him, placing a calloused hand over his own.

“No need for violence, my lady,” he sneered, reaching behind Tom with his other hand to grab his arse. “We’re jus havin’ a bit o’ fun. We’d be honor’d if you’d share a drink wit’ us inside. My kinsman, Eowin, the son o’ the town smith, is gettin’ married on the morrow and the lad’d like some company. No man should go t’ his troth a virgin, now. Wouldn’t you agree?” The crowd exploded in laughter at this and Tom wilted.

“I’m not a lady,” he protested ineffectually, hating how whiny he sounded. Where was his deep, self-assured tone when he needed it? “And I will not–”

“Don’t believe I was askin’,” the man interrupted, his hand exploring Tom’s nether regions with obvious relish. “Let’s be clear: You will accompany us t’ the tavern, my lady.”

Tom swallowed, suddenly sick with dread. The men surrounding him guffawed as they saw the color drain out of his face. They were starting to corral him toward the tavern door when a familiar voice rang out behind them.

“And where might you be going with my shield brother, friends?” Tristan called. His voice was jovial but there was an edge of steel to it. “It’s ever so rude of you not to invite me.”

The group of men froze, instinctively closing around Tom, and the burly leader turned toward Tristan. It was almost funny to watch him cringe as he registered the sight of the big knight. Tom looked back to see Tristan place his hand menacingly on the hilt of his sword. He looked very impressive dressed all in black leather and standing at least a half a head taller than the ruffians. A tight smile creased his handsome face. It was a smile that Tom knew well; Tristan had smiled in much the same way before slaying the brigands in the forest.

The knight’s feet slipped into combat stance as he continued cordially, “Might I suggest that you step away from my brother, gentle sirs?”

Blanching, the leader nodded to his compatriots and they quickly moved away from Tom. In a moment, they had disappeared into the tavern like so many mongrels with their tails between their legs.

Tristan shook his head as he watched them go, sauntering up to Tom and dropping his hand over his shoulder. “I can’t leave you alone for a moment,” he teased, “without you lifting up your skirt at every lad who walks by!”

“Piss off!” Tom hissed, tired of being referred to as a woman. “I could’ve handled them myself.”

“Yes,” the knight observed drily. “I could see that from the way you were fighting off their advances.” Tom glared over at him, preparing a sharp retort but Tristan was already lowering his head to kiss him on the lips, cajoling, “Come now, Tom! I’ve got us a room with a seaside view. Why don’t you get comfortable while I talk to the harbormaster about a ferry to the isle?”

***

Tom locked the door behind Tristan as the knight left to negotiate with the harbormaster, lowering himself onto the burlap-covered pallet and holding his head in his hands. His heart was still pounding from the near miss he’d had back on the stairs. It didn’t help that the floorboards in their room were so thin that he could hear the men who had accosted him carrying on in the tavern below. They were boasting to each other, talking about what they would have done to him if they had succeeded in carrying him off. He squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing with humiliation. Eventually, he gave up trying to stifle his tears and he wept silently, hating himself for his weakness and his wretched state. How would he ever be taken seriously looking like this? And why did men seem to find him irresistible? He’d been hiding on the stairs under a cloak and they’d still sniffed him out! Was this more Mazzarine magic? If it was, he was doomed. Fucking doomed!

Eventually, he grew tired of feeling sorry for himself and lay down to await Tristan’s return. In the tavern below, a bard began to strum a lute and sing a bawdy tune about a young lad, a saucy maid, and their wedding night adventures. The crowd cheered, growing increasingly rowdy as the evening wore on. Clearly the ale was flowing freely and the groom-to-be and his friends were intent on enjoying their night of freedom before the next day’s wedding. It didn’t escape Tom’s awareness that scarcely a month ago, he would have been downstairs singing his heart out, enjoying a night–and a strumpet!–with his best mates. Now, though, he was hiding upstairs, crying like a baby as he waited for his man to return and stuff his hole.

He gritted his teeth and ground his hips into the filthy bedding as the gnawing emptiness ‘down there’ flared up with renewed urgency. Where the fuck was Tristan? Why was he taking so long? With desperation, he realized that he hadn’t gone this long without the knight’s cock since the Binding and he really needed to be filled. He chewed the insides of his cheeks, trying to resist the temptation to finger himself. The emptiness was quickly becoming intolerable!

He was so preoccupied with his need to be fucked that he didn’t hear the sound of drunken footsteps lurching up the stairs or the muffled laughter from the other side of the door. Only when someone threw his weight against the door, shattering the lock and nearly tearing the door of its hinges, did he jump to attention, all but falling off the pallet. Before he knew what was happening, he had been dragged out of the room and thrown unceremoniously onto the floor of a nearby room. The door slammed shut behind him and he heard the sound of a key in a lock.

“Ho! Eowin!” someone called through the door. “Have fun with yer Mazzarine wench! Yer not comin’ out o’ there til you’ve buggered her brains out!”

There was rude laughter followed by some guttural mumbling but Tom was too overwhelmed to listen. He rolled over on the floor, grimacing at the splinters in his elbows. He looked down at himself in consternation, seeing that the thugs had stripped him almost bare. He was clad only in his harness, his fat arse hanging out the flap in back. He was turning toward the door when he heard a movement and froze.

A man, Eowin presumably, cleared his throat. “Are you alright, friend?” he asked. “I’m sorry for this. As you can plainly see, I am not here of my own free will, either.” Even though the man’s voice was deep, Tom could tell by its timbre that he was quite young.

He looked up. He was in a room much like the one Tristan had rented for their overnight stay. It was windowless and dimly lit by a guttering lamp on a small table. A tattered sheepskin rug lay on the floor and a broken chair sat propped against the near wall. These things, however, were not what made him flush, though. No, it was something else entirely that got Tom’s heart racing.

Eowin lay entirely naked and spread-eagled on the pallet against the far wall, his hands and feet tied to the corner posts and garland of red flowers strategically positioned over his crotch.

“I am sorry,” Eowin repeated, mistaking Tom’s reaction for embarrassment. “If you would untie me, I will clothe myself.”

As if in a trance, Tom staggered over to the bed and knelt down to examine the knots. “These are well tied,” he commented, reaching out to fumble with the rope. His fingers were stiff, though, and somewhat unwilling. And he couldn’t keep his eyes off… He swallowed and forced his gaze away from the lad’s nakedness.

The young man smiled up at him, his brown eyes dancing in the lamplight.

There was nothing special, Tom realized, about his looks. He was perhaps nineteen years old with messy brown hair and a rather plain face. His body, however, was corded with muscle and his shoulders were quite broad, the legacy, no doubt, of blacksmithing. The faint odor of coal smoke clung to his body but it wasn’t unpleasant. No, in fact, Tom found it rather appealing. Eowin’s smile turned shy as Tom realized he was staring and he tore his gaze away from the lad’s body, focusing again on the knots.

“What are you called, friend?” Eowin asked in a light voice.

Tom looked away, feeling shy in his own right and Eowin had to prompt him again for his name. Finally, he muttered, “It’s Tom, sir.”

“Sir?” Eowin snorted with amusement. “Since when is a son o’ the blacksmith a member o’ the gentry?”

“Even a blacksmith,” Tom retorted, stung, “outranks a minor lord’s bastard son, turned Mazzarine whore.”

Eowin was silent, considering these words. Finally, he exhaled softly, saying, “Ah, so you really are a Mazzarine! That explains yer hold over me.”

“Hold?” Tom queried, still fiddling with the knotted rope. “I have no hold over you.” Eowin laughed and Tom wrinkled his brow, saying, “I didn’t mean that as a joke. I have no hold over you.”

“Are you serious, Tom?” Eowin’s tone was incredulous. “Yer mere scent is enough t’ drive me wild. Don’t you remember how my friends assaulted you earlier? They smelt you a mile off!”

Tom shook his head, mind reeling as he assimilated this unwelcome information. After a long time, he breathed, “So. It is as I feared. The spell…”

Eowin nodded. “Yes, magic surrounds you. I find it very–” His voice broke off and Tom looked down to see he was blushing. He watched, feeling his heart pound in his chest, as the boy struggled for words. Finally, he confided, “My friends didn’t lie, Tom. I am still a virgin.”

At that moment, Tom succeeded in freeing Eowin’s hand. The boy flexed his big fingers, sighing in relief. Before Tom could move over to begin work on his other hand, though, Eowin lifted his palm to his cheek, caressing it.

“Your skin is so smooth,” he whispered. “And soft.” He twined his hand through the braid of Tom’s hair, admiring it for a moment before lifting his gaze to study Tom’s face, neck, and arms. “And your tattoos,” he began tentatively, “are of men doing–” He stopped, his face growing a deeper shade of red.

Tom blinked, feeling his little nub twitch. His growing arousal awakened his hole, too, and its inhuman need to be filled overtook him. He’d been so preoccupied with freeing Eowin that he’d quite forgotten his curse. Now, though, the compulsion of the Binding washed over him like a wave and he was reduced nearly to tears as he fought to resist it. He wasn’t a slut! He was a man! He was–

“What’s wrong, Tom?” Eowin’s voice was so tender it made him sob.

Tom pulled away from him, cradling his head in his hands and shaking with the effort of maintaining self-control. “It’s–Fuck!–it’s the fucking curse! I have to have–” his voice broke off. He couldn’t finish the sentence; it was too humiliating.

Eowin was not so easily put off. “Have t’ what, Tom? Tell me. I promise I’ll not judge you.”

Gritting his teeth, Tom shouted, “No! I don’t want to talk about it. I just need to get you free so we can get out of here!”

Sliding away from the boy, he moved resolutely over to work on Eowin’s other hand, succeeding in freeing it after a few tense minutes. The boy remained silent, observing him closely. When his other hand was free, he reached over and massaged his wrist gratefully. Before he could thank him, though, Tom moved down to work on his feet. After another five minutes, Eowin was a free man. He sat up on the bed, placing the garland of flowers aside and cradling his knees in his arms. He was staring at Tom in a manner that made his neck to grow hot. In the tavern below, the noise was growing louder, echoing through the floorboards. From the sound of it, the crowd was growing boisterous and the bard had been joined by a full accompaniment of musicians.

“Tom.”

The sound of his name on the boy’s lips made his skin prickle. He looked up from the bed and met Eowin’s soft gaze.

“Yes.”

“We don’t have t’ fight it, you know. Sometimes magic isn’t meant t’ be resisted. Sometimes it’s best t’ go along with it.”

Tom looked away, warring with himself. His desire to have the boy inside him was driving him crazy but he refused to be made a slave of his lust. He was a man after all, not a puppet! He was so focused on resisting the pull of the Binding that he didn’t hear Eowin slide over next to him until the boy had taken him in his arms. 

Startled, Tom tried to pull away but the lad hushed him, soothing, “Come, Tom. Let me hold you. I can’t stand seeing you suffer like this.”

Taking a shuddering breath, Tom relented, allowing the boy to guide him onto the coverlet. Eowin hugged him tight before unfastening the straps of his harness and unbuckling his belt, letting his ridiculous Mazzarine attire fall away onto the bed. Tom hung his head in shame as the the young man surveyed his naked body, taking note of every tattoo, every piercing, and every roll of flab. He flinched when the lad lifted his big, round paunch and inspected his tiny member before lowering it again and circling behind him to view his prominent backside.

“I used to be a swordsman,” he protested. “I used to have a real man’s body.”

Eowin made a dismissive sound. “And you think you don’t have a man’s body now? In my head, I am already designing the armor I would make for you. You’ll be a god among men when you wear it.”

Tom shook his head, feeling increasingly miserable despite the lad’s attempts to cheer him. He almost jumped off the bed when the boy nestled up behind him, taking him in his broad arms and pulling him close. And then he began to sweat when he felt the lad’s massive protuberance pressing into the cleft of his buttocks. From the feel of things back there, Eowin was very big! So big, he might even give Tristan a run for his money.

“I am dreaming of trying out some of the positions that have been inked on t’ yer body,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss the back of Tom’s neck. “Some o’ them could be helpful tomorrow night. My cousin was right; no man wants t’ go t’ his wedding bed inexperienced.”

“Are you sure?” Tom pressed, finding it strangely hard to breathe with Eowin’s huge cock pushing insistently into his arse. “You’re not going to blame me for corrupting you? What you’re feeling right now is the work of the curse. Intercourse between men is against nature.”

In response, Eowin turned Tom around so they were facing each other. As Tom stared at him, quivering from head to toe with wanton desire, the lad cupped his broad buttocks and, leaning forward, nibbled his ear. “You are the only man I have ever wanted, Tom,” he murmured. “I don’t care if it’s magic and I don’t care if it’s wrong.”

Their lovemaking was awkward but tender with Tom instructing the viginal boy in the ways of sex between men. On some level, he couldn’t believe that he–the once-proud Tomcat!–was having to show a boy how to fuck his hole. Still, Eowin was a rapt student with a huge endowment that allowed them to try some daring positions that Tom had been unable to enjoy with Tristan. In the end, they collapsed next to each other on the bed, bodies sweating and chests heaving. The air was filled with the carnal fragrance of man sex and Tom worried that now that Eowin’s fire had been quenched, he would lose nerve and reject him. The boy, however, snuggled up against him and they fell asleep entwined together even as the cacophony downstairs grew deafening.

***

Tom awoke next to Tristan the next morning, only dimly remembering moving back to his room. The knight had still been out when he’d sunk down into the bed, saddened to be parted from Eowin. The boy had been such an attentive lover, so matter of fact in his feelings that Tom had been quite disarmed and now he felt a pang in his chest when he realized he might never see the young man again. These feelings he was having for men, he realized bitterly, were yet another side effect of the curse. He set his jaw. There was only one solution: Win the Rite of Refusal and be a free man again.

Tristan woke to find himself skewering Tom’s hole. 

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” he teased, thrilling Tom with a particularly vigorous thrust.

“Shut up and fuck me!” Tom growled, in no mood for the knight’s mirth. “Do I need to remind you that you made me this way?”

“Ungh, no!” Tristan moaned, flipping Tom onto his back and driving his rod in deeply. “You’re–Uh!–just the way I want you! A slutty whore!”

Tom bit his tongue, wanting in the worst way to yell back, ‘I will never be your whore again once I slay the monster and win the Rite!’ but he knew that doing so was unwise. Only with great effort, did he swallow his outrage and sink back onto the bed. 

***

“It took me half the night, a lot of gold, and some…coaxing,” Tristan was saying as they waited at the docks with their horses for their boat to arrive. “But I finally found a man willing to take us to the Isle of the Damned.”

“‘The Isle of the Damned’?” Tom repeated, feeling a sudden chill despite the fact he was wrapped tightly in his pink cloak. “Is that what they call the it?”

Tristan nodded as he scanned the harbor. “Yes, it was marked as strictly off limits by the Empire many centuries ago and even sailing ships go to great lengths to avoid proximity to it. The best I could do was get the captain to drop us on a sandbar offshore because he refused to moor on the beach.” He paused to point to the north where a fogbank had settled, obscuring the sea behind it. “The isle is out there, shrouded in mist. The harbormaster said there’s a legend that, before the monster arrived, the place was the seat of a powerful kingdom that ruled the seas for miles around. Rome was never able to conquer it.”

Tom shook his head, amazed if the legend were really true. The whole of Europe and most of Asia was controlled by the Empire. Rome had overtaken Britain so long ago that people scarcely remembered anything from the time before. He had trouble believing that the most powerful empire in the world had been unable to bring a small island under its control. The fact that it had failed could mean that something very powerful resided there. For the first time, he questioned his wisdom in seeking to win the Rite of Refusal.

His resolve hardened the next moment, though, when he felt his hole clench, its unending hunger for cock returning with a vengeance. He had no choice! He had to win the Rite or spend the rest of his life enslaved to his arsehole.

***

It was evening before they reached the cursed island, leading their horses through waist-deep water as breakers crashed around them. Tom turned to watch the little boat that had ferried them across the strait disappear into the fog. They had not been able to get the captain to agree to return to pick them up; he wanted nothing to do with the place and seemed convinced that he would be punished by some supernatural force for even agreeing to drop them off there. ‘Besides,’ he’d muttered darkly, ‘no one ever returns from the isle anyway.’

Looking around, Tom thought the place seemed innocent enough…and quite beautiful. A wide sand beach spread out before them with dunes rising up behind. Gulls flocked overhead and the sun was sinking beneath the mist, washing the horses and the knights blood red in its waning light. The wind whipped the hood off Tom’s head and he lifted his head to inhale the salty scent of the sea. Despite being on a cursed island, he felt good, almost hopeful. The task at hand was a big one but he felt up to the challenge. All he had to do was beat Tristan to the lair of the monster and slay the beast…

Feeling the eyes of the knight upon him, he turned to see Tristan smiling, a look of pride suffusing his rugged face. “We’re here, my brother,” he pronounced, waxing poetic in his happiness. “On the morrow our truce will end and we will be adversaries once more. Let us lie down as lovers one last time, though, this night.”

He held his hand out, bowing deeply. When Tom reached out to take it, Tristan’s face blazed with triumph and he led Tom up onto the dunes where he proceeded to bugger him to within an inch of his life.

***

Tom didn’t awake until Tristan was staking his restraints into the ground. The thud of the knight’s hilt against the wooden stake woke him with a start and his eyes flew open. Tristan, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, was bending over him, slamming the wide base of his sword hard against the stake, driving it into the sandy ground.

“Tristan, what–” he started to say before realizing that he was tied up. Thick coils of rope twined around his torso and legs. His right arm was fastened to a nearby shrub and his left was attached to the stake that Tristan had just finished driving into the ground.

Tristan paused long enough to flip his hair out of his eyes and give him a sly wink. “Don’t worry, Love,” he said in a merry voice. “I’ll be back for you in a thrice…just as soon as I lob off that monster’s head and win the Rite!”

“Tristan!” Tom shouted, struggling against his bonds. “Let me go!”

“Ah,” the knight sighed. “Now that is something I will not do. Better that you lie back and relax. And don’t worry,” he added with a smirk. “I’ll be back to fill your hole with my fat cock before you know it!”

Satisfied that Tom’s arms were sufficiently restrained, he proceeded to stake his feet down as well. When he was finished, he was sweating profusely. He didn’t stop to rest, though. He placed his wineskin near enough to Tom’s mouth so that he could turn his head and sip out of it and, waving goodbye, strode over to Basil. Then he hoisted himself into the saddle and jabbed his heels into the stallion’s flanks. The horse set off at a cantor, leaving Tom shouting imprecations behind.

***

Chapter 8

Tom lay there, tied down and fuming for most of the day. Periodically, he’d take a sip from the wineskin and then resume cursing loudly as Faith nibbled dune grass nearby. The day was cloudy and breezy and he was wearing only his skimpy harness but he stayed warm enough at the base of the small hummock where Tristan had confined him. He quickly abandoned any attempts to free himself because the more he struggled, the tighter his bonds got. The knight really knew how to tie knots!

Being tied up had implications beyond the simple tightening of the knots around his wrists and ankles; it meant he couldn’t reach his hole to relieve the awful, building emptiness. As the morning wore on, his discomfort increased from a nagging nuisance to a rampant hunger. By midday, he was in serious distress, moaning pitifully as he writhed in his bonds. Where was Tristan? This wasn’t fair! This was torture!

There was no sign of the knight.

Tom grew increasingly frantic, bordering on delusional. He was entertaining the improbable plan of coaxing Faith over to nibble through the ropes when he heard a man’s voice call out. 

It wasn’t Tristan.

Wait.

What?

Was he imagining things?

Was the island inhabited?

He’d assumed it was abandoned. The captain of the boat that dropped them offshore had said the place was cursed and no one went there.

After a moment, another voice replied nearby and he tilted his head and blinked in disbelief, all thoughts of his empty hole evaporating.

Two incredibly ancient men were hobbling down the dunes toward him. He blinked again. Surely he was imagining things! What were two elderly men doing out here? When he opened his eyes, though, they were still standing there, gripping spears and pointing them at him. 

Hold on. What were they wearing?

No way.

Impossible!

Not only were the men ancient but they seemed to be clothed in archaic armor. Tom stared, feeling like the Binding had finally robbed him of his sanity but the old men’s armor seemed real enough. It had been patched many times (and had clearly seen better days) but to Tom’s practiced eye, it was unmistakable. Under their segmented armor, they wore red tunics that came down to their knees. Leather straps hung down from their belts and their feet were adorned with well-worn sandals. Tarnished bronze helmets with cheek guards covered their heads. To anyone who knew military history (which Tom did from studying with Sage Robert back Lord Erlewine’s estate), it was obvious they were dressed in the manner of Roman legionaries from more than ten centuries past. 

He opened his mouth, completely baffled. If they weren’t figments of his imagination, where had they come from?

The two ancient soldiers sidled closer, seemingly just as confused by him as he was by them. They studied him for a long time with puzzled expressions. Finally, one of them muttered something and the other laughed. When Tom struggled, they gripped their spears, lowering the tips to his throat.

“Thou wilst holdeth still,” the taller of the two old men commanded in archaic Latin, poking his speartip into Tom’s adam’s apple.

He swallowed, feeling a trickle of blood run down his neck where the speartip had broken skin. He didn’t know what to make of these strange apparitions from the distant past. Where had they come from? Why were they speaking in old Latin? And why were they wearing such antique armor? Were they ghosts? The speartips against his throat felt real enough, though.

“I will hold still!” he said before pleading, “If you’ll only cut me loose!”

The soldier exchanged bewildered glances and Tom heard one say, “It speakest with a forked tongue! Best we slay it!” His hand tightened on the shaft of his spear.

“Wait!” Tom shouted as more blood trickled down his neck. “No! I’m not a monster. Don’t kill me!”

“Beast most foul!” the old man cried, shaking his head so hard that his helmet rattled. “Die!”

Before he could pierce Tom’s throat, though, his partner stayed his hand, reasoning, “Hold, Dio! Let us convey it to Tribune Maximus and let him decide its fate.”

Dio didn’t seem inclined to listen but finally relented and, lifting his spear, used the tip instead to sever Tom’s bonds. In a few moments, he was free and sat up in the sand, rubbing his aching ankles and wrists gratefully. The two soldiers watched him warily, their spears pointing at his chest.

“Thank you,” he breathed, standing up stiffly and spreading his arms to encompass his ridiculous getup. “You see? I am no threat.” 

The men surveyed his body critically, taking in his tattoos, pink harness, shaved head, piercings and skinny, blond braid. Finally, they burst out laughing, their faces spreading in toothless grins as they nudged each other in the ribs. The effort of laughing, however, seemed to tire them and soon they stopped, leaning heavily on their spears and gasping for breath. Tom pursed his lips; he would never get used to being the laughing stock of men wherever he went.

***

Refusing to answer any questions, the elderly soldiers (legionaries?!) led Tom at spearpoint over the dunes and into the rocky foothills of the island. They were so old and feeble that he could have easily overpowered them even without his sword (which was safely tucked away in Faith’s saddlebags) but he was curious to see where they were taking him, the mystery of their presence on the isle growing deeper by the minute. It wasn’t everyday that he encountered soldiers who appeared to have stepped out of the mists of time. 

As they marched, the two men kept up a steady banter such that, after a half hour of listening, Tom’s ear grew accustomed to their peculiar speech. Soon, he no longer had to pause and translate their words in his head before replying to their questions.

Gio and Dio were their names, he learned, and they were brothers. They were easily the oldest men that Tom had ever seen, older by far than Sage Robert whom Tom had thought was beyond ancient. From the looks of them, they had to be more than four score years old, as impossible as that was to believe. For such old men, though, they were in reasonably good shape. Their arms and legs were stringy and they moved stiffly, needing to take frequent breaks, but they nonetheless managed to cover a lot of territory. Gio told Tom that they had already scouted more than ten miles that morning.

Of the two, Gio was the more curious and pressed Tom on how he came to the island.

“By boat last night,” he answered, pausing to wrap his cloak more tightly around himself. The wind had picked up after they left the dunelands and it was growing quite chill. He was glad that Tristan had left his gear behind or he would have been in sorry shape.

“By boat?” Gio replied, his wavery voice full of surprise. “No boats ever visit Sequestria.”

“Sequestria?” Tom repeated. “Is that the name of this island?”

“Aye, at least that’s the name we have given it.  No one remembers the name before.”

“Before what?” Tom asked, waiting patiently as Faith limped her way up the rocky ravine behind him.

“Before the curse but that’s all I’ll say on the matter,” Dio grumbled, scowling back at the mare; he had wanted to leave her behind but Tom insisted on bringing her. He couldn’t bear the thought of abandoning her.

Despite this admonition, Tom was about to ask more about this supposed curse when the trio crested a craggy hillock. Below, a wide, grassy valley, dotted with ancient oaks spread out before them. In the center, laid out in a classic grid, complete with a drainage ditch and a border of sharpened palisades, was a sprawling military camp. Pastures filled with grazing horses, sheep, and shaggy cattle surrounded the camp and beyond those were patches of tilled farmland. Tom stared down at it, feeling dizzy. He had to grab Faith’s bridle to steady himself because he felt like he’d stepped back in time a thousand years. He was staring at yet another illustration come to life, seemingly reproduced right out of Sage Robert’s tome on Roman military history.

As impossible as it was to believe, there was no mistaking the fact that he was looking down upon the encampment of a Roman legion.

***

“The Ninth Legion,” Dio announced, smiling proudly as Tom gaped down at the scene before them. “Commanded by Tribune Maximus Aurelius Gaius Septimus Gallo.”

Tom’s tongue stuck to the back of his throat and he had to cough before he could make himself speak. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. “Did you say the Ninth? This is the Ninth Legion?”

Gio nodded, saying, “The same.”

“But that’s impossible!” Tom protested. “The Ninth was lost more than a thousand years ago! They disappeared without a trace!”

“We never disappeared,” Gio corrected gruffly. “Been here all along. Trapped on this wretched isle.”

“For ten centuries?” Tom’s mouth was hanging open; none of this made a whit of sense.

“Actually, it’s closer to eleven by my reckoning,” Dio said, giving Tom a toothless grin. “Last month was my eleven hundred thirty-third birthday.”

Tom stared at the old man, certain he was teasing. “Eleven hundred…?”

“In truth, I barely feel a day over one thousand,” Dio quipped, clearly enjoying Tom’s reaction. “After first five hundred, the years all start to feel the same.”

Tom stared at him. He simply could not believe that a Roman legion, missing for more than a millenium, had been hidden away on this island the whole time. Add to it the supposed fact that the men were still alive and well, more than a thousand years old, and, well, it could not be true!

“Come on, freak,” Gio growled, poking Tom in the side with his spear and startling him out of his amazement. “Tribune Maximus will explain it all to you…after your interrogation.”

***

Tom fish-mouthed openly as the two soldiers led him to the sentries into the main camp. Like Gio and Dio, they were decrepit old men who were barely able to hold up their spears in challenge. They wore patched and tattered garments that looked to be as old as the men themselves. As strange as they were, though,  it was the camp that Tom glimpsed behind them that sent thrills up his spine.

As a boy, he and the other boys on the Erlewine estate would sometimes pretend they were soldiers in ancient Rome, fashioning sticks to use as short swords and wearing kettles stolen from the kitchen as helmets. Many a night, he would drift off to sleep dreaming of life as a centurion, commanding men who would fight to the death in order to spread the glory of the Empire to barbarian savages. Even though the legions had long ago been dissolved and modern regiments had taken their place, their history lived on in the imaginations of boys (and girls) in the modern day empire. This boyhood obsession with the legions had ultimately fueled Tom’s drive to excel in swordsmanship and ultimately helped land him a position in the Emperor’s elite guard. And now he was walking up to the camp of a real legion! (Or at least something that looked an awful lot like one.) His brain felt like it was going to explode!

Gio and Dio answered the sentry’s challenge gruffly, every ounce the hardened legionaries they appeared to be. Tom lowered his head as the guards regarded him with curiosity. He could tell they wanted to ask more about him but their duty came first and, once the challenge was met satisfactorily, they resumed staring straight ahead, feigning indifference. Gio cast Tom a wry glance before urging him forward.

They entered the camp. A Roman legion camp!

His mind refused to believe it but the sounds, smells, and sights of the camp were undeniably real. Smoke from cooking fires drifted across the compound, mixing with the redolent odors of horse dung and human waste. The tents on either side of the wide thoroughfare down the camp’s center were fabricated from stretched and cured leather. Tom guessed that, if the camp was laid out in the traditional manner, these housed the cavalry troops and the officers. Ahead lay the commander’s tent, draped in crimson leather and guarded by the biggest and most imposing sentries (who were nonetheless just as elderly as the legionaries throughout the rest of the camp.) The legion’s magnificent standard, a golden eagle with wings outstretched, stood firmly fixed on a gilt-edged pole directly before the entrance to the tent.

After tethering Faith nearby, they halted before the standard and a prickling on the back of his neck told Tom that all eyes in the camp were upon him. He flushed, drawing his cloak more tightly about himself. Several wizened legionaries were seated in a semicircle nearby, patching their armor and darning their tunics, but they stood and approached the trio when they spotted Tom. One or two lifted his head to sniff the air just like Eowin’s comrades had the night before. Tom shrank back, remembering what the boy had said about the scent of him being irresistible. This time, he realized with a mixture of excitement and dread, there was no Tristan nearby to save him.

His hole twitched, reminding him that he hadn’t been fucked since the night before. The need to be filled overtook him, flooding his consciousness and he staggered. He would have fallen if Gio hadn’t caught him by the arm. Tom moaned at the touch–a man’s touch!–and his body lit up, rampantly on fire with lust. He didn’t care if the man was practically mummified; he needed to be fucked!

Oblivious to Tom’s torment, Gio patted him on the back and removed his hand. Only by a supreme act of will was Tom able to stop himself from grabbing the man and begging him to stuff his hole. He was struggling with his carnal instincts when a movement caught his eye and he looked around, seeing that he was now ringed by soldiers. His mouth went dry and his little pricklet tingled hopefully in its leather pouch.

Men! He was surrounded by men!

Sniffing the air like dogs, the legionaries hobbled closer and were about to speak when, much to Tom’s annoyance, Gio motioned them away, prodding one with the butt of his spear. The old soldiers straightened, remembering their sense of duty, and teetered away. Gio flashed Tom a quick smile before fixing his gaze on the men standing guard before the commander’s tent. He clicked his heels together and announced, “We have a captive to present to Tribune Maximus.”

The guards’ eyes bored into Tom as he stood there, huddled inside his cloak, not trusting himself to do anything but look down at the sand. Inwardly, he longed to get down on his knees and beg them to buggerk him and was about ready to do just that when one of the men grunted  and they moved their spears aside. Gio and Dio led Tom through the open flaps of the tent.

Tom stooped inside, blinking in the dim light. He was so eager to behold the inside of a real legion commander’s tent that he forgot all about his hole’s driving need to be filled and stood there, breathlessly waiting for his eyes to adjust. After what felt like an eternity, he discerned an immense table strewn with parchment. Twin braziers flickered on either side, bringing warmth to the damp air. An ancient scribe (who didn’t deign to look up) sat at a small desk to the right, scribbling furiously on parchment. The floor was covered with bear skins and a huge, low bed sat off to the left behind a privacy screen. Tom’s military eye noticed two armor racks behind the scribe, one holding the red-plumed helmet and polished gold cuirass of a Roman officer. The other rack, though, held something so unexpected that, even in his overwhelmed state, Tom couldn’t help studying it. 

The rack itself was wrought of reinforced iron and upon it hung hulking pieces of steel plate, so large and heavy that they appeared to be armor built for a giant. Propped against the armor was the largest, heaviest warhammer that Tom had ever seen. It stood more than seven feet tall and had a massive, blunt head and a wickedly sharp claw. Puzzled, he was wondering how any human could wear such armor and wield such a weapon when Gio and Dio straightened next to him, drawing their frail bodies so taut that they quivered with the effort. Tom likewise stood up taller and followed their gaze to the center of the room where a man, presumably Tribune Maximus, was standing, backlit from an open tent flap behind him. Tom squinted, lifting his hand to shield his eyes as he struggled to see the tribune.

“Gio, Dio,” the Tribune growled, “what have you brought me? If I didn’t know better, I would swear that a Mazzarine brother is standing before me.”

Tom took an inadvertent step backward. The man’s tone crackled with such authority that it immediately instilled both fear and admiration. He retreated behind Gio, heart pounding. 

This seemed to amuse both his escorts and the commander because Gio cast him a sidelong glance, rolling his eyes. Even the scribe took a moment to look up from his writing to eye Tom speculatively. When the man sniffed the air delicately, Tom felt his cheeks flush.

“Ah,” Tribune Maximus breathed, stepping forward so that Tom could finally see his face. “I’d forgotten about the Order of the Rosy Club’s magical geas.” He paused to inhale deeply before continuing, “Then again, I can be forgiven for my poor memory because it’s been over a millennium since I’ve had the pleasure of hosting one of the esteemed brothers.”

The man’s flowery words barely registered because Tom was rendered dumb by the sight of the him. Given the advanced age of the legionaries, he’d expected the tribune to be equally enfeebled. But, no, that was not the case.

Tribune Maximus was far from old.

He was quite the opposite. Before Tom stood the finest example of male beauty he’d ever seen. Maximus appeared to be no more than twenty-five years old, a young man at the peak of his prowess and virility. Towering well over six feet tall and sporting the broadest shoulders imaginable, he made Tristan seem like a waifish boy. He stood erect with his shoulders pushed back and his feet in a square stance, every once a man who was accustomed to being in charge.

Everything about him was symmetrical, right down to his arched eyebrows and almond-colored eyes. Even the lateral scar across the bridge of his nose was perfectly balanced on his face, adding to his intriguing beauty rather than detracting from it. He was clean-shaven (making him look even younger) and his chin was square and his lips were full. His dark hair was cut short on the sides but full on top, pushed rakishly to the side. Oddly, he had a shock of snow-white hair at the center of his forehead, reminding Tom distantly of Lord Erlewine’s prize stallion; the horse had a bright white forelock much like Tribune Maximus. The man was so impressive that Tom scarcely registered the fact that his left arm was missing just above the elbow; Tom only wondered at its absence much later.

He was so taken by the tribune that he failed to hear what the man was saying. He jumped, though, at a sharp nudge from Dio and straightened abruptly. “Um, sorry!” he chirped, hating the way his voice cracked like a young lad’s. “What did you say?”

Maximus regarded him with amusement, holding the stump of his left arm with his right hand and settling back against the desk. Tom noticed that he was wearing a red tunic cinched at the waist by a golden belt but even the loose clothing did nothing to conceal his bulging muscles. The tribune was really built!

“I was saying,” the commander murmured in his silken voice that sent thrills down Tom’s back, “that I can temporarily lift the magical spell placed upon you so that we might…converse…without distraction.”

“What?” Tom said before realizing how rude this sounded and he started again, “I mean, what do you mean?”

Rather than answering him, Maximus turned to Gio and Dio, saying, “You are dismissed, men. Thank you for bringing him to me.” The two scouts saluted, placing their fists over their hearts, and were turning to leave when Maximus added, “If you wouldn’t mind, could you send the Magus to see me? Tell him to prepare a dose of Nux Masserina and bring it with him. He’ll know what I mean.”

After they had left, Maximus nodded to the scribe and the man got up and left without a word, closing the tent flap behind him. When they were alone, Maximum favored Tom with a rare smile. The commander, Tom came to learn quickly, was not a man who smiled easily. Indeed, he wore sobriety like a mantel draped over his shoulders, giving him a serious and somewhat brooding mein. Despite this or maybe because of this, Tom found himself quite taken with the man and winced inwardly when he felt his hole wake up. He shifted nervously, trying to distract himself and hoping the tribune didn’t notice his growing agitation.

“I sent for the Nux Masserina as much for your benefit as mine, friend,” Maximus was explaining. “My men are so old and feeble that they are all but immune to your wiles but I am not so fortunate. It is only with great effort that I am restraining myself in your presence right now. The very air you exhale is like the sweet juice of Adonis’ loins.” 

Tom flushed, trying to remain steady on his feet as waves of desire coursing through his veins. He was dimly aware that the commander had lowered his hand and was clenching the desk with whitened knuckles. He started to pull his cloak around his face but Maximus stopped him with a small gesture. With somewhat jerky movements, he got up and paced over to Tom where he stood gazing down at him from his lofty height. He stared so intently and for so long that Tom began to swoon. Just when his knees were about to give out, Maximus laughed and reached down to lift the cloak from Tom’s shoulders. 

It fluttered to the floor at his feet. 

He was left standing nearly naked before the most beautiful man in the Empire. Predictably, his little nub started to harden into a twig between his legs. (It was one of the rare moments he was glad of its shrunken size.) More pressing than his nub’s arousal, though, was the clenching of his empty hole. If he didn’t get fucked soon, he was going to pass out!

Maximus inhaled deeply and smiled down upon him, oblivious to his inner torment. (Unbelievably, the tribune still possessed his front teeth, something that was very unusual in fighting men.) Tom luxuriated in that smile, so sweet and yet so tinged with sadness, before losing himself in the man’s soft, brown eyes. The tribune studied his naked, pierced, and tattooed body, displayed profanely in his ridiculous pink harness. Unlike other men (with the exception of Eowin), though, Maximus didn’t seem to find his body amusing or offensive. Indeed, he seemed to be savoring the sight of him much like one would appreciate a fine work of art. 

His scrutiny drove Tom wild with expectation and he had to work hard not to throw himself into the man’s arms. Finally, he was so overcome that he had to do something to break the tension and he squatted down to retrieve his cloak. Before he could reach for it, though, Maximus stopped him, saying, “You are wrapped in divine magic, friend. I have been away from the world of men for too long but it’s good to see that the Mazzarine Order remains unchanged. ‘The Brotherhood of Earthly Angels,’ we used to call it back in Rome.”

Tom’s face fell with these words but then he remembered dimly that, when the order was first formed–probably not long before the Ninth Legion disappeared–it had been considered sacred. Unfortunately, a thousand years of debauchery had rendered the monks little more than hedonistic perverts. And he had been turned into one against his will…

Maximus noticed his expression and was opening his mouth to question him when the tent flap opened and the sentries announced the arrival of the legion’s magus accompanied by Gio. Tom turned to see an old man in a faded blue robe, stooped over a staff, hobbling toward them. The ancient magus reminded him of Sage Robert even though this man was far older. As he neared, the similarities increased for the man’s eyes were white with cataracts much like those of Lord Erlewine’s sage. Despite being nearly blind, though, the mage seemed to sense Tom’s presence and strained to lift his head while sniffing the air with interest. He looked, Tom realized, like an old turtle poking its head out of its shell.

In a quavering voice the man pronounced, “Ahhh, the scent of heaven.” He paused to focus his milky gaze on Tom’s face, adding, “I wondered if I should ever smell it again.”

Maximus let out a low chuckle. “He is a rare visitor, indeed, Sagitus. We’ve had many a questing knight come to the isle over the centuries but never a Mazzarine. I worried the order had died out.”

“Would that it had!” Tom blurted before he could stop himself.

Hid outburst was met with startled looks from the magus, scout, and tribune. Maximus was the first to recover, querying, “Tell me, friend, why do you say this? The Mazzarine Order that I knew stood for honor, loyalty, and brotherhood, the very embodiment of divine eros.”

Tom snorted. “Hardly! Just look at me!” he challenged, holding his arms out to display his bloated and disfigured body. “Does this look like the work of divine eros? Whatever the fuck that means!”

“Do not curse before the tribune!” Gio warned, holding up a hand and looking aggrieved. “He is the Emperor’s representative.” He was about to say more but Maximus silenced him with a reproving glance.

“I very much wish to hear why you say this, my friend,” the tribune murmured softly. “But please let’s speak of it in private.” Turning to Sagitus, he asked, “Have you brought the Nux masserina?” The mage nodded and handed over a small package. Maximus smiled in thanks and, lifting his chin at the scout and the mage, ordered, “That is all. Please tell the guards that I do not wish to be disturbed.”

Sagitus seemed like he wanted to object but reluctantly turned to go when Maximus placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. Leaning heavily on his staff, he followed Gio out of the tent and the guards replaced the flap, leaving Tribune Maximus and Tom alone in silence. 

Tom colored when he realized the man was gazing upon him intently again. He lowered his eyes to the floor, feeling his hole ache with hunger. Time slowed as the tribune stepped forward, standing so close to Tom that he could feel the puffs of his exhaled breath on the top of his shaved head. His nub was straining by this point, pressing almost painfully against the leather of its tiny pouch. He wondered at himself, half convinced that Maximus exuded his very own brand of potent attraction. There was something about the man, something implacable. Something simmering. Something…

The tribune raised his hand to Tom’s chin, taking it between his great fingers and lifting until Tom was looking squarely into his tender eyes. They were, Tom noticed, not only the color of almonds but the shape of them as well.

“Eat this,” Maximus murmured, placing something dry and bitter on his tongue. “And swallow.”

Tom did.

The substance was both brittle and chewy with a chalky flavor. He made a face as he swallowed and Maximus’ eyes crinkled into an almost smile. They stood there, staring into each other’s eyes, Tom feeling both uncomfortable and aroused, until he noticed something peculiar. The skin all over his body felt prickly. The sensation grew in intensity until he couldn’t resist scratching himself. He felt like his whole body was being bitten by tiny gnats and cried out in distress. The next instant, though, the biting pain was gone and he exhaled in relief.

“Well?” he asked. “Did it work?”

Maximus nodded. “See for yourself.”

Tom looked down at himself and blinked. His center of his chest and the tops of his arms and legs were crawling with little brown hairs that gradually thickened and became denser, spreading outward and concealing the pink tattoos covering his body. He stared in disbelief, almost forgetting what it was like to have body hair again.

Scratching himself vigorously, he marveled as the hair descended down to his crotch. His pouch itched and he moved his hands down to massage it as thick, brown pubic hair exploded out from the leather edges. Tom sighed and was unfastening his harness to give his skin a chance to breathe when his muscles contracted and he cried out. He would have toppled over if Maximus hadn’t caught him. He sagged down in the tribune’s arms, feeling like his muscles were on fire. A low moan escaped his lips and he closed his eyes, feeling feverish. When he opened them again, he jerked in surprise.

His muscles!

They were coming back!

His limbs and chest were expanding as sinews pulsed and grew under his newly hairy skin. In a few moments, he’d regained his lost biceps and proud pectorals and his quads were plumping out, growing wide and powerful. He pushed himself back onto his feet, staring down at himself in surprised happiness. His old body was coming back!

The best was yet to come.

As Tom flexed his big arm muscles and admired his manly chest, his enormous gut began a retreat, shrinking in on itself and deflating to reveal the shadows of his once-proud abdominal muscles lurking beneath. At the same time, he became aware of a building pressure in the pouch of his harness and knew with certainty that his cock was growing long and fat. A huge, stupid grin spread across his face and he reached up to rub his chin.

He stopped.

A beard.

He had a beard again!

He whooped loudly as he massaged his cheeks, overcome with delight at the return of his facial hair. He ran his hands over his face and up to the top of his head, grunting in surprise when he discovered that his head was no longer shaved bald. Short, dense hairs were pushing out of his scalp, lengthening to several inches in mere seconds.

As Tribune Maximus looked on with amusement, Tom fell to his knees, holding his face in his hands. Before he could control himself, tears overwhelmed him and he sobbed openly, crying aloud with joy and relief.

He was a man again!

He was a real man!

***

By the time the Nux masserina completed its work, Tom was mostly back to his old self. He dried his tears and staggered to his feet, realizing that he’d have to relearn how to move now that his weight had been redistributed. It was surprising how quickly he’d forgotten what his body used to feel like! He grimaced as he shrugged out of the horrid pink harness that had been his prison for too long and eagerly surveyed his new body.

The magical substance hadn’t erased all evidence of the Mazzerine curse but he wasn’t inclined to complain because it nonetheless had worked miracles. He still carried a roll of flab around the middle and he could tell from the heft of his buttocks behind him that they were pretty generous. His skin had darkened back to its usual chestnut brown hue but the pink tattoos were still visible, even when partially covered with body hair.

He gazed down at his cock critically. It took him a moment to realize that his belly no longer obscured his view of it. He smiled with satisfaction when he saw how long and fat it was. And his balls! His big, hairy balls were back! He cradled his package lovingly in his hand, relieved even though it wasn’t nearly as hefty as he remembered. He frowned slightly when he noticed that his foreskin was still missing. And then there was the piercing…

After a moment, though, he shook off his consternation and smiled. Well, I’m mostly back to normal, he thought. And, if I’m honest with myself, I kind of like the way the ring hangs out of my piss slit. Even the pink gem looks sort of badass. He stuck his finger through the gold ring and pulled, smile broadening.

“Very handsome.”

Tom jumped. He’d completely forgotten about the tribune, much less the fact that he was naked and standing directly in front of the man.

“I was curious,” Maximus continued as Tom scrambled to cover himself, “to see what you looked like before joining the order. Novices take on such extreme appearances after their initiation.”

Tom lifted his head at this, forgetting about his lack of clothing for a moment. “What was that nux stuff anyway? And am I cured?”

The tribune laughed. “Cured? You weren’t sick to begin with. How can you be cured?”

“You know what I mean,” Tom growled, proud now that his voice had regained its usual baritone. “I was fucking tricked into becoming a Mazzerine whore!”

“Ah, so you won the Challenge of First Blood,” Maximus mused, nodding. “It used to be a tremendous honor but perhaps things have changed over the years.” He settled back against his desk before he continued, “And, to answer your questions, that ‘stuff’ was the meat of an acorn from the sacred grove of the Mazzerine Order. I’m surprised your shieldmate never told you about it. And, no, I’m afraid that your changes are only temporary. After a day or two, you will shift back to your proper form.”

“Proper form!” Tom spat, standing up to his full height. “There was nothing proper about my form!”

Maximus made a dismissive gesture, “That is a matter for debate. I thought you looked quite stunning.” When Tom bridled, he added conciliatorily, “Just as you look stunning now.”

Heat crept up Tom’s neck as he realized that the strange acorn had failed to make him normal in another important way: He was still very much attracted to men. His proximity to the handsome tribune was doing things to his heart…and his cock…that he couldn’t deny. Cheeks blazing, he moved his hands in front of his crotch before Maximus could spy his growing erection and stooped down to retrieve his cloak. He was tying it around his waist when he realized something else. His hole’s craving for cock was gone.

He was free of the Binding!

Or, well, mostly.

Tom lowered his head, feeling his hole come alive in a whole new way. This time, it didn’t feel empty so much as just really fucking eager. The tips of his ears went pink as he caught himself imagining what Maximus looked like naked. How big was the big man? Probably pretty fucking huge from the obvious bulge just below his belt… His hole clenched involuntarily at these thoughts and he cleared his throat.

“Yes?” Maximus inquired.

“Can you, um, maybe give me some clothes to wear?” Tom stammered. “I’d, uh, really like to cover up a bit, if you know what I mean.”

This time, Maximus’ cheeks grew rosy and he pushed himself off the desk abruptly, saying, “Yes, yes, of course!” He paced over to a trunk in the corner and pulled out a simple brown tunic, handing it to Tom. “This should fit you and…” his voice trailed off as he extracted a breechcloth from the chest, adding, “you can wear this for…support…because, from the looks of things, you’re going to need it.”

He turned his back politely as Tom got dressed. When he was fully clothed, Maximus gave him the once over and Tom could tell from the slightly glazed expression on the man’s face that he liked the fit of the clothes…among other things. He looked down at the floor when the tribune met his gaze, feeling shy and awkward. 

It was then that he remembered the Rite and his quest and that he wasn’t here on the island simply to get his hole packed. Tribune Maximus, however handsome and alluring he might be, was an unknown quantity. As far as Tom could tell, he was a ghost of ancient Rome come to life on a cursed island. He couldn’t afford to be seduced by him! For all he knew, the man was a demon sent to tempt and trap him.

And yet…

And yet…

Tom didn’t know precisely why but he trusted the tribune…and was wary of him at the same time. His gut told him that Maximus and his legion were somehow the key to his quest to the slay the monster and win the Rite. In other words, he needed them if he was going to succeed in beat Tristan and free himself from the Mazzerine curse..

But he had to be careful and he had to be quick!

Maximus had said that the acorn’s effects were only temporary. He had only a short time to find and slay the monster before Tristan beat him to it. As much as he wanted to bend over and present his hole to the tribune, he had to concentrate and get to work. With great effort, he forced his rampant desire away from his mind and got down to business.

Lifting his head and meeting Maximus’ beautiful gaze, he announced, “Tribune, I need to tell you why I am here.”

***

Chapter 9

Pivoting on his heel, Tom ducked and rolled out of the way as the sword went slicing past his left ear. He scrambled to his feet, cursing at himself for being so out of shape. He couldn’t believe he was getting his arse kicked by a one-armed Roman tribune over twelve hundred years old!

“Lower your elbow,” Maximus chided, dancing lightly on his feet before him. “And keep your knees bent!” He spun and struck out, slicing his short sword through the air and narrowly missing Tom’s hamstring.

“Go fuck yourself!” Tom cursed as he rolled out of the way and barely avoided getting nicked by another slash. In the heat of battle, he momentarily forgot that he was cursing at a high-ranking officer. Maximus didn’t seem offended, though. If anything, he seemed amused. He smiled wolfishly as he crouched down in fighting stance, reaching up to push the shock of white hair out of his eyes with the tip of his weapon.

Even though they were only using wooden swords and Tom wouldn’t have been seriously injured if the tribune’s blade had connected, the near miss still rankled. Over the course of their practice sword fight, Tom’s ego–much like his body–was taking a serious bruising. He was not used to being bested on the practice field!

The tribune lunged and Tom spun away, just a bit more easily this time. He landed in a crouch, setting his jaw and pondering his next move. Maximus circled him warily, his eyes searching for any hint of weakness to exploit. Tom was momentarily distracted by the man’s preternatural beauty. He was wearing only a breechcloth with a leather balatea skirt, similar to those worn by gladiators in ancient Rome and his near-nudity was driving Tom crazy. Tall, lean, and sinewy with the narrowest waist imaginable, Maximus was a paragon of masculinity. How could the man be so damned fine?

And that fucking bulge! Shit, Tom thought, unconsciously licking his lips, what the fuck is he packing in there?

Maximus chose that moment to lash out and Tom danced away, laughing. Now that he was warmed up (and horned up), he was getting the hang of his new (old) body again and relished the challenge of defeating this sexy man in combat…and maybe in bed later on if he was lucky. Instinct and training took over and soon he was treating Maximus to the most strenuous and difficult fight of his long, long, long life. 

The tables turned in Tom’s favor when he surprised the tribune with one of his signature maneuvers, launching into the air and plummeting down directly on top of the man.  It was the same maneuver that had landed him in so much trouble all those weeks ago with Tristan when he and the knight had dueled during the Challenge of First Blood. This time, the move worked on Maximus just as it had with Tristan but with much happier results. Tom slapped the tribune playfully on the side of his neck with the flat of his sword as he slipped past. Maximus howled in outrage and Tom landed in a roll, neatly avoiding the man’s counterattack. He straightened nonchalantly, a smug grin on his face.

“Well played,” Maximus growled, sheathing his sword momentarily to rub his neck. “I can see that the art of the swordfight has progressed over the centuries.”

“That move,” Tom bragged, “is all mine. I developed and perfected it all on my own.” He paused to rearrange his newly regrown junk in the leather pouch of his practice thong before taunting, “Ready for more, old man? Or have you had enough already?”

Face reddening, Maximus barreled toward him, slashing out savagely but Tom was too quick. He ducked, rolled, and slapped the tribune’s muscular buttocks with his hand on the way past. The sound rang across the arena, arousing the interest of several legionaries who, until that moment, had given the fight only passing interest. They hobbled over to the arena’s fence to watch. A couple of the men cheered and Tom paused to execute a low bow as Maximus growled behind him menacingly. The legion commander was clearly not accustomed to losing in front of his troops and he quickly became enraged, strengthening his attacks. This proved to be his undoing; Tom used his recklessness against him and subjected him to a series of blistering attacks, all of which landed squarely and painfully on the tribune’s butt.

The result of his unexpected success was both exhilarating, and terrifying as Maximus’s humiliation immolated before Tom’s eyes and the tribune transformed into a wildman, incandescent with rage and erupting with strength and power that bordered on the superhuman. Tom was forced to use every ounce of his training and expertise to keep one step ahead of the frenzied onslaught. He was more than up to the challenge, though, and soon lost himself in a glory of combat, reveling in the joy of a battle well fought. By the end, the arena’s fences were lined with soldiers, cheering raggedly as they watched their tribune receive a solid thrashing at the hands of a strange, young upstart. Their cheers, however, were easily drowned out by Maximus’ angry bellowing.

Maximus, it turned out, was a very sore loser.

The fight concluded when Maximus used Tom’s own maneuver against him, launching himself into the air while his back was briefly turned. (He was soaking up the adulation of the crowd.) Tom looked up in surprise to find the savage beast inhabiting the tribune’s body descending rapidly upon him. His wooden sword was pointed directly at his throat. He froze, feverishly pondering his options and realizing quickly that he had no recourse. One way or the other, the commander would land his strike.

Except…

There was one thing.

One thing he could do to avert catastrophe. It was a gamble and a desperate one but it might work. Did he dare try?

Yes! Yes, he dared!

Besides, it wasn’t like he had any choice.

As if in slow motion, he turned to face Maximus, making eye contact as the man appeared to hang suspended in the air above. The tribune’s eyes were feral, on fire with hatred and rage. It was enough to make an ordinary man quail in fear.

But Tom was no ordinary man.

With supreme self-confidence, he tossed his sword aside and smiled angelically up at Maximus while throwing his arms wide open. 

The tribune’s eyes went round, his bloodlust evaporating. It was almost comical watching his expression shift from one of savagery to startled surprise. He wobbled in the air, trying frantically to turn aside but was unable to change his trajectory. Tom’s smile broadened into a grin. He reveled in the sweetness of his unexpected triumph, watching the man’s crusty exterior crumble to reveal an exquisite tenderness beneath. Maximus’ eyes were locked onto Tom’s but now his expression was soft, almost sweet.  At the last moment, he moved his blade aside and it went whistling past Tom’s ear.

Radiant with the light of victory, Tom widened his stance and crouched down to receive his prize. And a moment later he took it, displaying it proudly for all to see. He–Tom of Erlewine! A lowly bastard!–had won the fight and Maximus–Maximus the Beautiful! Maximus the Exalted! Maximus the Roman Lion!–landed directly in his embrace, his sweaty, lithe, and gorgeous body slamming against his own. 

Tom staggered under the tribune’s sheer size and weight (Maximus was a big boy!) and he almost toppled backward. At the last instant, though, he recovered and the tribune’s muscular thighs slipped around his waist. Tom lowered his arms and caught him, lifting the man up even as he hugged him tightly to his chest. He raised his chin and beheld his captive, laughing aloud at the man’s glazed expression.

He didn’t hesitate.

He kissed him.

Tom’s lips met Maximus’ and the two men locked together, their tongues vying for dominance just as their bodies had done only moments ago. This time, though, Tom didn’t mind yielding. He opened his mouth, his body, and his soul to the tribune and they met. 

They met and met and met.

It was a sweet victory.

***

Maximus turned shy after Tom carried him off the practice grounds. He deposited the hulking tribune on a wooden platform just outside the arena. Buckets of water were stacked nearby; clearly, this was the place combatants rinsed off after fighting. Some scraps of cloth for toweling dry hung from a stand off to the side.

“Come on, Max,” he urged, tugging at the tribune’s leather belt. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Then I’m taking you back to your tent.”

“Hold, Tom!” Maximus, pushing his hands away. “I can’t do this!”

Tom gave him a sly grin, dropping his eyes meaningfully down to the breechcloth under the tribune’s balatea where the man’s bulge strained impressively against the fabric. “What’s the matter, stud?” he teased, glancing around the practice grounds where several legionaries were milling about after the fight. “Don’t want your men to see you? I promise they’ll enjoy the show.“

Maximus’ cheeks colored and he danced away when Tom reached out to grab his belt again. “No! Tom, please stop!” he begged. “I told you I can’t do this!”

Tom put his hands on his hips and shifted his weight onto his back foot for a moment, considering. Finally, he shrugged and reached down to pull off his practice thong, letting it slide down his sweaty thighs before kicking it over at Maximus. The tribune had to duck to avoid getting the soggy garment in the face. Tom stood there naked and, for the first time in a long time, proud of himself and his body. His fat erection bobbed jaunty and hard before him, the gold ring piercing his piss slit glinting in the evening light.

“Fine,” he said, grabbing a bucket and handing it to Maximus. “Have it your way but can you at least help me clean up? I’m so dirty.” When the tribune didn’t respond, he turned questioningly and caught the man staring at his arse. He laughed and Maximus shook himself, closing his half-open mouth.

He took the proffered bucket.

Tom straightened and braced as the cool water poured over his head. He sighed loudly and was pretending to stretch when he spun around suddenly and yanked down Maximus’ balatea and loincloth in one swift movement. Howling, Maximus dropped the bucket and scrambled to cover himself but he was too late.

Way too late.

What the fuck is that thing?!

Tom goggled, mouth falling open. He started to say, “Holy fucking–” but Maximus had stormed off before he could finish. 

He watched the tribune flee, tugging his loincloth ineffectually over his bare arse as the soldiers nearby turned away, their faces white. A few cast wary glances over at Tom before making themselves scarce. In a few moments, the entire area around the practice grounds was empty and Tom was left standing there, dripping wet, naked and stunned. He looked down at his hands and saw that they were shaking. Indeed, his whole body was trembling.

“Forgot to warn you about that,” Gio commented behind him, making him jump. He hadn’t realized anyone was still around.

“What–” Tom started to say and then stopped, trying to make his mouth work. After a moment, he began again, “What happened to his…?”

Gio made a sound in the back of his throat before spitting on the ground superstitiously. “He was cursed, along with the rest of us on this wretched isle.”

“You mean, you all have…?”

“No!” Gio exclaimed loudly before recovering his composure and dropping an awkward palm on Tom’s shoulder. He handed him a rag to wipe off with and Tom accepted it, drying himself as the elderly legionary explained, “It’s, well, it’s complicated and it’d be better if Tribune Maximus told you himself. That man and the rest of us have paid dearly for our past mistakes. And we continued to pay and pay and pay. Thanks to this curse!”

Tom stopped drying himself long enough to look at him askance, “Go on. Tell me more.”

Gio held up his hands. “Nay, nay! I shan’t say more about it. Go to the tribune. Make him talk to you. He will tell you, I know it!”

“But…”

“Go to Tribune Maximus,” Gio repeated levelly. “And don’t be afraid. It’s plain he’s taken a liking to you. I haven’t seen him this happy in over a thousand years!”

He turned and walked stiffly away, leaving Tom staring. Behind him, the tribune’s tent stood illuminated in the last light of the setting sun.

It was blood red.

***

“GO AWAY!” Maximus shouted when Tom approached the tent and asked to be let in. The sentries crossed their spears before him, barring his entry.

Tom, still bare-arsed after toweling himself dry, crossed his arms and glared up at them. (The sentries might be old but they weren’t small!) Finally, he sighed and walked away, stalking off a few paces until he heard the men lift their spears, then he spun on his heels and dodged between them, darting inside before they could stop him.

Maximus was standing just inside, still clad in his loincloth and looking very unhappy. His face darkened ominously when he registered Tom’s presence.

“I SAID–” he started to bellow but Tom had taken him in his arms and pressed his lips to his mouth before he could finish. The tribune went stiff for a moment before relaxing into his embrace, finally opening his lips and returning the kiss. Tom opened his eyes to find Maximus staring at him in wonder. The tribune pulled away, though, when the sentries tried to grab Tom, ordering, “Cassius, Philo, hold! Leave him be. I’ve changed my mind. He can stay…for now.”

The guards unhanded Tom, grunting their assent and limping away. Tom watched them go, a smug expression on his face, “Thank you,” he murmured, pressing his ear against the tribune’s chest and savoring the pleasant thud of his heartbeat. “Thank you for letting me stay, Max.”

Maximus snorted. “Max? Since when do you get away with shortening my name like that? I am a Roman officer and your superior!”

Tom smiled up at him, standing up on his tiptoes to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “I can call you whatever I like,” he teased. “Because I just beat your arse out there. That makes me your superior.”

Maximus growled, taking Tom in his great arm–even with only one arm, he was surprisingly strong–and manhandling him over to the bed where he threw him down on the covers. The bed was wide and soft and draped in furs, the lap of luxury after the places Tom had slept lately. He rolled onto his stomach and thrust his arse provocatively in the air, looking back over his shoulder at the big man. He grinned when he saw Maximus’ glazed expression.

“Been awhile, has it?” Tom queried, his tone light.

Maximus blinked, shaking himself. “It’s far too long since I’ve…” His voice trailed off as he looked down at himself. His loincloth was tented luridly before him. He lifted his head and, searching Tom’s face, asked, “Are you sure about this? After what you just saw out there? You want to…?”

In answer, Tom laughed, reaching back to part his arse cheeks and pushing backward until his buried, hairy hole was fully exposed. He burned with an eagerness to be filled and, for the first time he could remember, it had nothing to do with the curse of the Binding.

“I don’t give a fuck what is lurking in there,” he declared, “as long as you stuff it inside me!”

Maximus sank onto the bed beside him, shoulders drooping. Tom tilted his head to glance at him; he looked miserable. “I…I have been cursed, Tom,” he murmured, shrinking away when Tom reached out to touch him. “And this,” he motioned with his head toward his crotch, “isn’t even the worst of it.”

Tom rolled closer to the big man, cock at full mast and body on fire with longing. He wanted Maximus and he didn’t give a fuck about any stupid curse. The man was fucking fine!

“Here,” he instructed the tribune. “Lie back and let me do the work. If it’s been as long as you say, then you are practically a virgin. I will show you how it’s done.”

“But,” Maximus protested, “there’s no way you can, uh, fit this…thing…inside you!”

Tom swallowed, eyes sliding toward the lurid bulge in Maximus’ loincloth. Was it his imagination or did the thing in there just move? He closed his eyes but the memory of the tribune’s nakedness back on the practice ground was etched into his mind. Maximus was right, of course. He had been cursed and cursed badly. He was hideous, or at least his crotch was.

And yet…

And yet…

Tom sighed.

Fuck it! He didn’t give a shit!

“Come here, Max,” he coaxed, holding out his hand. “I have made up my mind. I want you and only you. I will get that thing inside me or die trying!” Maximus lifted his head and gave him a wan smile. A tear slid down his cheek. He was reaching up to wipe it away when Tom stayed his hand and drew him down for a kiss. “You have suffered enough,” he whispered. “Now let me take the burden off your shoulders.” He smirked before adding, “Or, rather, out of your loincloth.”

Startled by this unexpected bit of humor, Maximus slapped him on the bum, laughing. It was so unexpected, a sound filled with such delight that soon both men were laughing. They rolled around next to each on the furs, their taut bodies still sweaty from sword practice. One thing led to another and then Tom was on top of Maximus, looking meaningfully into his eyes as his fingers grappled with the leather laces of the man’s loincloth.

“You ready for me to unleash the monster, big guy?” he teased, lowering his eyes to the tribune’s stuffed pouch. The leather was packed solid and definitely moving in the most unholy manner. No man’s cock should ever move like that.

“It’s ready,” Maximus commented drily, “whether we are or not.”

Tom steeled himself as the tribune reached out to squeeze his arm. “And here we go,” he murmured, loosening the laces and tugging the garment resolutely downward.

***

Chapter 10

Despite the fact that he’d seen Maximus’s cursed cock once already and had prepared himself, Tom still felt both horrified and slightly nauseous when the bloated maggot–for there was no other word for it–hiding in Maximus’ loincloth wriggled out. He turned his head aside and closed his eyes, suppressing a shudder.

“Tom–” Maximus started to say but he silenced him, holding up a hand.

“Shut up!” he snapped, startling the tribune with his vehemence. “When I told you that I want you, I meant all of you. Every part!”

Clenching his jaw, he forced himself to look back at the ugly, wriggling, puffy mass. There was no easy way to put it: Maximus’ cock had been transformed into a disgusting green maggot of stupendous proportions. It writhed on his crotch, its body a series of bloated, squishy rings growing fatter toward the middle and gradually tapering down to an eyeless head with a suction mouth that opened and closed hungrily. The whole thing was more than two feet long and was wider than Tom’s beefy upper arm at its fattest. Below the beast, the tribune’s ball sack sagged, full and heavy with a massive set of misshapen balls that looked more like the egg sacs of a profane insect than a man’s testicles. His skin was whitish green and covered in thick, black hairs like those covering the bodies of carrion flies.

“Shit, that is fucking hideous!” he breathed, feeling his arsehole clench at the thought of that thing inside him.

“Now you see why I am against this,” Maximus muttered, propping himself up on his elbows and staring down at the revolting creature flopping back and forth between his thighs. As they stared, it lifted its head and rose up, seeming to sniff the air. A second later, it twisted around, orienting itself at Tom’s lower body. Slime dripped down onto Maximus’ belly as it opened and closed its fleshy maw.

“Ewwww.”

“Tom, don’t do this,” Maximus urged. “I’ve already resigned myself to never experiencing the delight of a lover’s body again. After a thousand years, I thought I didn’t even miss it.”

“No, it’s fine,” Tom replied, squaring his shoulders. “It’s gross but I have a feeling about this. A good feeling.”

Before Maximus could stop him, he shimmied forward on the bed and straddled the tribune’s waist. Making eye contact with the man, he winked encouragingly, pushing his bum downward. Then, bracing himself, he reached behind and scooped up the bloated monster, steering its hungry head toward his hole. He took a deep breath and relaxed himself as best as he could, opening up wide.

SLURP!

Tom quivered, fighting against the waves of revulsion that overtook him as the creature devoured him, pushing greedily inside with an ease that should have been impossible given its enormous size. He broke out in a cold sweat as he felt it come alive, wiggling in deeper and deeper. Its body, he realized after a tense few seconds, was lengthening, stretching out longer and longer as it chewed its way upward.

He froze, torn between between the urge to vomit and…

Fuck!

Could it be true?

Another squishy section of the monstrous maggot pushed inside him and his eyes went round.

It was true!

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

This was really fucked up but…

It also felt really fucking good!

“Unnnnngggghhh,” he moaned, eyes rolling back in his head and arsehole going slack, all but inviting the creature to eat him alive. “This is A-MAZING!”

He fell forward onto Maximus’ broad, hairy chest, groaning in ecstasy as the worm ate him up. Slowly, he began to undulate his hips in time with the creature’s pulsing and soon Maximus joined in. The two men writhed together, their bodies locked in a sinuous and profane dance that neither wished to end.

Tom’s mind blanked as starbursts and scintillations occluded his vision. He had never felt so good, so high, so delirious. At one point, he realized he was screaming at the top of his lungs, demanding that Maximus fuck him so hard and deep that he would never walk again. The tribune silenced him with a devouring kiss and his voice died inside Maximus’ throat.

Gradually, through a blissful haze, he became aware that Maximus’ thrusting was growing in intensity. He didn’t resist when the man flipped him over and the worm went rigid inside him. It’s body thrummed and locked into place, becoming harder than a wooden pole but exquisitely silky and slippery at the same time.

And then it pulsed, expanding.

Tom’s eyes bugged out and he choked.

It pulsed again, now even fatter.

He gasped for air, feeling like his arse would split in two. He was about to cry out when Maximus rammed him so viciously that he felt his insides rend. He blacked out momentarily only to awaken to find himself suspended several inches off the bed, firmly skewered on Maximus’ pole like a pig roasting on a spit.

An inhuman roar burst out of Maximus’ mouth as he came in a volcanic climax, his maggot cock spewing alien seed inside Tom’s hole. Tom’s entire body began to spasm uncontrollably and foam frothed from his mouth as his own cock let loose in an equally violent orgasm. The cascade of sensations quickly overwhelmed his overwrought mind and he lost consciousness, drifting away in a green-tinged dream.

***

He awoke cradled in the nook of Maximus’ stump. His eyes fluttered opened and he was momentarily overcome with joy at the man’s tender gaze. Maximus lowered his head to kiss him and Tom parted his lips, inviting his tongue inside. The tribune giggled.

“You’re such a naughty boy,” he teased. “If I didn’t know the truth, I’d say you were born this way. That you can even take a cock like mine…” his voice trailed off as he shook his head in wonder.

Tom pondered this for a moment. Thinking was difficult because he was suffused with such contentment, being held by the biggest, strongest, sexiest man in the Empire, but gradually he realized that Maximus had a point. Was it only a month ago that he’d been chasing maids around Lord Erlewine’s estate with nary a thought of cock in his head? The Mazzerine magic was indeed powerful if it could turn him into a cockwhore who barely hesitated before sticking a giant maggot up his hole.

He turned his head, ashamed of himself. If his father could see him now…

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” Maximus said, taking Tom’s chin in his hand and turning his face toward him. “I meant it as a compliment. In a thousand years, no man has done what you just did. And you did so willingly. You have my eternal gratitude.”

Tom flushed. “It was the least I could do,” he said slowly. “Really. I couldn’t stand to see you suffering and alone. No one should endure a thousand years of loneliness no matter what you may have done to be cursed.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Maximus sighed, unable to meet Tom’s gaze. “There is so much you do not know.”

“Then tell me!” Tom cried, this time taking the tribune’s chin in his hand and turning his face toward him. “Tell me! Tell me everything! You know I will listen and not judge you.”

Taking a long shuddering breath, Maximus repositioned himself on the bed next to him, his huge maggot cock rolling over to slap Tom’s thigh. The creature was quiescent now that its hunger had been sated. After a long time, the tribune began in a sad voice, “It is an ill tale, Tom. A very ill tale.” He paused when Tom squeezed his hand encouragingly, saying, “but it intersects with your quest and you need to hear it.”

***

“My legion arrived on this isle in the spring more than eleven centuries ago,” Maximus began, his gazing growing far away as he remembered. “We were commanded by Legate Cerialis and followed him overland from our base in Eboracum.”

“Um, we call it ‘York’ these days,” Tom corrected, earning a stern look from Maximus; the tribune was unaccustomed to being interrupted.

“As I was saying,” he continued gruffly, “we sailed on a fleet of transport ships from Opiddum Borealis across the strait and landed about where my scouts found you tied up this morning.”

Oppidum Borealis? Tom wondered, not daring to speak out of turn again. Is that what Northrup used to be called?

“The isle was ruled at that time by a queen of the Picts, named Gruoch, who was a continual thorn in the side of Rome.” Maximus made a face as he spoke the name, clenching his fist. When he spoke again, his voice was tight. “If only we had known then that she was a witch! Everything would be different!” Tom remained silent but leaned over to kiss the tribune’s cheek. Maximus smiled and pulled Tom tighter against his side with the stump of his arm. “In retrospect, though,” he said, “we should have realized that witchcraft was involved for there was no other explanation for the hold that woman had over the isle and the seas around it.”

He swallowed, taking a breath and shaking his head at the memory. “When we beached on shore, all was silent. Not a soul was to be seen but that changed as soon as we began to unload the boats. A hail of flaming arrows came down upon us, setting many a ship ablaze. We were forced to fight our way over the dunes, taking heavy losses.”

He paused then and Tom commented, “Sounds awful! How did you survive?”

“We nearly didn’t!” Maximus exclaimed, voice rising as the memories flooded back. “We lost nearly a quarter of the legion before we succeeded in subduing the queen’s army. When it became clear that she could not stop us, Gruoch sent a herald, offering to parley. Legate Cerialis, a good man to the bone, agreed and we sent a coterie of men–myself and the legate among them–the next day to meet with the queen and negotiate the terms of her surrender.”

“Let me guess,” Tom offered. “It was trap.”

Maximus’ jaw clenched. “It was indeed.”

“But even if she was a witch,” Tom reasoned, “how could she have trapped you when you had a battle mage with you? Didn’t Sagitus sense her machinations?”

“Ah, but as I already mentioned, the witch was fiendishly clever. She set her trap using subterfuge of the non-magical variety,” the tribune replied. “She used poison.”

“She poisoned you?”

“Hush, let me finish!” Maximus reproved, lifting his hand to push his sweaty, white forelock out of his eyes. “We set out to meet the witch at her fortress on the northern shore of the island, escorted by a full century and a troop of her own guards. Everything was going well; Gruoch’s army was in disarray and our legion had set up a fortified base such that, even if they managed to regroup, we would have been ready for them. All that remained was for her to agree to the terms of surrender. Legate Cerialis was prepared to be generous, offering to allow Gruoch to remain queen, albeit as a vassal of the Empire.”

Tom nodded. He had questions but decided to keep his counsel until the tribune was finished with his story.

“The queen received us on the plain outside of her keep, inviting us inside a tent to dine before beginning our negotiations. She was cordial and appropriately chastened, acting every ounce the part of a defeated monarch. We had no reason to suspect treachery…” Maximus voice trailed off and Tom looked up to see his cheeks had turned rosy. “And here is where I have to be honest, Tom,” he said in a low voice. “Because I failed my legate and failed him miserably.”

“How so?”

Maximus wouldn’t look at him. “I allowed myself to be distracted by Queen Gruoch’s son. He had accompanied his mother to the negotiations and immediately caught my eye. He was so tall, so handsome, so boyish, and yet so strong. A youth like that comes but once an age and there he was standing before me. I lost myself in his beauty and was so taken that I wasn’t paying attention to anything else. Gods! If only I hadn’t allowed my cock to control me, I might have saved the legate’s life and slain Gruoch! My legion and I would have lived out our lives as free men. But, alas, I was nothing but a stupid beast! I deserve everything that Gruoch did to me!”

As he spoke, Maximus became more worked up until he was so agitated that Tom had to intervene to keep him from injuring himself. Pinning him down by the shoulders, he hissed, “Maximus! This is all in the past! Let it be! You can’t keep blaming yourself for being human!”

“Human?!” the tribune spat, fighting mightily to shove Tom off. “I’m not human! I stopped being human on that very day. This wretch you see before you is nothing but a monster wearing the guise of a man! Gruoch saw to that! Gruoch saw who I really was inside and refashioned my body to match.”

“Stop it!” Tom cried, somehow managing to keep the big man pinned despite being outweighed by over a stone. He wasn’t proud of it but he used the tribune’s lack of an arm–and critical leverage–against him; there was little Maximus could do beyond writhe beneath him. “You have only been cursed,” he continued, regaining his composure. “That does not make you a monster!”

Surprisingly, tears filled Maximus’ eyes. “Tom, oh, Tom! Sweet Tom!” he wailed, voice cracking. “You are wrong. So wrong. I am beyond cursed and there is nothing anyone can do to redeem me.”

“Shhhh, be quiet. You have already shown that curses can be broken,” Tom insisted. “Remember the Nux masserina? It gave me back my body. There must be a way to help you…and your men. Curses are made to be undone!”

“Over a thousand years have passed,” Maximus said, sadly shaking his head. “Over a thousand years have come and gone and still we are cursed. There is no way out for us. We are doomed.”

“Max,” Tom interjected, his use of the nickname earning a sly grimace from the tribune, “you still haven’t told me about the curse. Is there more to it than what, er, happened to your cock?”

“More?” Maximus replied, laughing bitterly and glancing down at his maggot cock. “This is but the merest hint. A trifle even! The truth of the full curse is nearly unspeakable.”

“Then tell me!” Tom all but yelled, shaking him violently. “Fucking tell me so I might have a chance of undoing it!”

“Would that you could!” Maximus sighed, going slack with resignation. “Would that you could but it is a curse most foul! A curse that eats away at my very soul. A curse that cannot ever be undone.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Just tell me about it and leave it to me to figure out how to break it. I have fresh eyes. Maybe I will see something you can’t.”

Maximus lifted his head and fixed Tom with his burning gaze. “You are here to slay a monster and free the sleeping virgin it guards. Am I correct?”

Tom nodded. It was exactly what he had told Maximus earlier, before their fight on the practice grounds. At the time, the tribune had shrugged, admitting that many knights had visited to the island over the centuries to accomplish exactly the same goal. None of them had succeeded.

Maximus paused a moment before continuing. When he spoke, his voice was deadly serious. “What if I told you that I am that monster and Duncan is the sleeping virgin?”

***

Chapter 11

“WHAT?” Tom shouted. “You are the monster I’m supposed to slay? You have to be joking!”

Maximus cracked a small smile. “I couldn’t be more serious, Tom.” He spread his arm to indicate his body, saying, “What you see of me right now is not my true form, or it’s only my form for a few days each month on either side of the full moon. The rest of the time, I am your monster.”

Tom still couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You are not a monster, Max! You are a beautiful man! And a good one. I know it!”

Sinking back onto the bed and rolling his eyes, the tribune complained, “Would you please stop calling me by that name? I hate it!”

“I will call you whatever the fuck I please,” Tom yelled. “But I will never call you a monster! And I could never hurt you, much less slay you, even if it means that I’m stuck as a Mazzarine whore for the rest of my life.”

Maximus lowered his head. “What if I asked you to kill me?” he queried in a low voice. “Would you do it then? This life…if you can call it that…has become unbearable. I no longer wish to live.”

Tom was rendered speechless by this request. He froze, mouth opening, trying to comprehend the terrible words the tribune had just uttered. Finally, unable to answer, he burst into tears and rolled off the bed to curl up in a little ball, sobbing like a small child. The whole day–Fuck, the whole fucking month!–was too much for him! Even though he’d only just met Maximus, he had already fallen for him, fallen so hard and so fast that it felt like his chest was ripping apart at the mere thought of murdering him. He couldn’t comprehend doing such a heinous deed, even if it meant setting Maximus free of the curse. No! He could not! Could not!

He cried for a long time, ashamed of himself for his weakness and for letting his emotions get the better of him but he was unable to stop. Before Tristan had…done whatever the fuck he had done to him, he never cried but now he seemed to do it all the time. It was unmanly. It was…

“Please stop, my love.”

It was Maximus.

Tom was so stunned by the term that he choked on his tears. Finally, he regained his composure enough to sniffle, “Please don’t ever say that again.”

“What?” the tribune asked, settling down on the floor next to him and squeezing his arm around his shoulders. “Call you ‘my love’?”

Tom scowled. “You know what I mean. Don’t ever ask me that again. I will not kill you!”

In answer, Maximus lifted him back onto the bed and, kissing him on the forehead, wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. “I was asking you for mercy,” he explained. “Maybe we could both get what we want if you were to slay me?”

“Maximus,” Tom warned, body going rigid, “I said never to ask me that again. I will help you but not by killing you. I’ll do it by breaking your curse once and for all. Now tell me what Gruoch did to you.”

***

“As I already told you,” the tribune continued. “I was so distracted by Duncan that I didn’t pay attention until it was too late.” He settled back down on the bed next to Tom and idly toyed with one of his nipple rings. “Gruoch herself seated us and her servants carried out platters of food. They placed a covered dish in front of each of us while musicians played a traditional Pict ballad. Everything seemed so festive, so normal, so…safe until–”

“You said she tried to poison you?” Tom chimed in before crying out in pain when Maximus yanked upward on his nipple ring. “Ow!” he complained, swatting Maximus’ hand away. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because you interrupted me. Again,” the tribune replied icily. “Where did you learn such manners?”

“Hey,” Tom said, spreading his hands, “I told you I’m a bastard. We bastards don’t exactly get lessons in etiquette.”

“You’re lucky I love you so much,” Maximus grumbled, “or I would have you flogged. But anyway, as I was about to say, we never suspected Gruoch’s treachery and it turned out that neither did Duncan. The witch kept her scheme hidden even from him.”

“What happened?” Tom asked breathlessly. “What did you she do?”

“For the love of Jupiter, man! Will you please shut up and let me finish?”

“Sorry.”

Maximus glared at him and clamped his mouth shut only deigning to speak again after Tom pleaded. Finally he continued, “When the servants lifted the covers off the serving bowls, snakes lay coiled within. They struck with lightning speed, biting every Roman present and filling our veins with poison. Cerialis was dead within seconds and I would have died, too, if Duncan hadn’t intervened and sliced off my bitten arm with a sword. In doing so, I lost my limb but gained my life because the creature’s venom never traveled beyond my severed elbow.”

Tom gasped at this, wide-eyed and stunned. “You mean, Duncan betrayed his mother and saved your life? Wow.”

“Yes,” Maximus said, nodding. ”The boy ended up saving my life more than once that day. While the tent erupted in chaos, the lad put a tourniquet on my arm and dragged me to safety, slaying several of Gruoch’s shieldmaidens in the process.”

“That’s really incredible but I can’t believe that the snake venom acted so quickly,” Tom said hurriedly. “And I thought there were no poisonous snakes in Britania. And I’ve heard stories that you can suck the venom out before–”

“You know what I think?” Maximus interrupted, reaching down to grab Tom’s cock in his fist and yanking it upward until Tom gasped in pain. “I think I need to suck the poison out of your snake so you’ll shut the fuck up and let me finish!”

Tom struggled as he hauled him up, drawing his cock up to his mouth and gulping it down while taking his buttocks in his hand and pulling him close. Tom soon discovered that the past thousand years had done nothing to dull the man’s fellating skills. Maximus really knew how to suck cock! In seconds, Tom was crying out in ecstasy, taking the back of his lover’s head and thrusting himself deeply into his throat. Maximus growled and swallowed him whole, working magic of a whole new variety. (Tristan could learn a thing or two from him, Tom thought as his cock neared the exploding point.) Tom howled loudly as he spasmed, emptying his load onto the man’s questing tongue and filling his mouth with hot seed.

When he was finally drained and happy, Maximus released his cock from his mouth with a pop and Tom sank down onto the bed, a delirious smile on his face.

“Thank you, daddy!” he teased, pulling the man down on top of him. Maximus’ worm beast stirred, awake and hungry again, probing Tom’s stomach with its wet mouth. The sensation tickled and he giggled, spreading his legs and allowing Maximus to reposition the thing between his thighs. Soon, its hungry maw had found his hole and began working its way inside. This time, though, the maggot was content to simply make its home in there, its fat body humming lazily as it went back to sleep. Tom smiled, feeling connected to his man in a way that he’d never experienced before. It was like he and Maximus had united as one being. It was unexpected and so delicious that tears came unbidden to his eyes.

“What’s wrong, Tom?” Maximus asked softly.

“Nothing, Max,” he sighed, not wanting to lose the feeling. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just happy. Can we stay like this forever, please?”

Maximus eased his pleasant bulk on top of him, lowering his head to take one of his earrings in his mouth and nibbling on it. “Mmmmm, I’d like that,” he replied after a while, his deep voice relaxed and sonorous in Tom’s ear. “We can stay like this for as long as you like or until morning, whichever comes first.”

“Mmmmm, how about a week? Or maybe two?”

The tribune laughed. “How about if I finish my tale without you interrupting me constantly?”

Tom smiled, wrapping his arms around the big man’s body and hugging tightly. “Agreed. Please continue.”

“Even though I’d been gravely wounded, the week that followed with Duncan was the happiest of my life,” Maximus said before adding, “until today, of course.” He teased Tom with a little thrust of his hips and his worm stirred sleepily, making Tom shiver with pleasure. “It was no accident that the boy had caught my eye because he later admitted that he’d been smitten with me from the moment he saw me get off the transport ships and marshall the troops for battle. I couldn’t believe that one so fair and so brave would find me irresistible but he insisted that no other man had caught his fancy quite like me.”

“Come on, Max,” Tom chided. “Really find that so hard to believe? You’re the biggest stud I’ve ever met and I’ve met plenty.”

“And exactly how many studs have you, ahem, met, my dear?” Maximus inquired, eyes narrowing. When Tom didn’t answer, he laughed. “Wait, I don’t want to know the answer; it would just make me jealous. Anyway, Duncan took me back to the legion’s camp and he and Sagitus nursed my wounds while the legion rampaged, destroying Gruoch’s forces in retaliation for her treachery. From reports from the field, we assumed that she had been killed or had taken her own life. After three days, the island was Roman territory.”

“But…” Tom prompted, earning a particularly vigorous thrust from Maximus.

“But,” he muttered gruffly, unhappy at being interrupted again, “of course, Gruoch was far from defeated. While her army was being destroyed, the witch was at work crafting a curse that would ruin all of our lives forever, a curse that would keep both the island out of the Empire’s hands and her son out of mine. We noticed the effects after four days when I had trouble rousing Duncan from slumber. The boy wanted to sleep all day and it took all of my coaxing to wake him. And, once awakened, he would drift off to sleep again within a few minutes.”

Maximus paused then, shaking his head sadly at the memory. “And then I noticed my body changing. My skin took on an unhealthy pallor, gradually turning green. I began to grow and grow and grow. My…features…distorted until I was unrecognizable. When my cock started turning into a disgusting maggot, I knew something was very wrong.”

Tom nodded, biting his tongue. He was dying to ask more questions but didn’t want to risk angering Maximus.

The tribune took a deep breath, his body shaking on top of Tom. When he spoke, his voice was raspy. “By then, it was too late to counteract the curse. Sagitus is a skilled mage but even he was powerless against it. After a week, I could no longer awake Duncan. Not that I was trying, mind you. I was too distraught over my own changes! I had become so ugly that my own men quailed in fear when they saw me. It was almost a mercy when Gruoch cast the final spell, sending a profane darkness to cover the camp that rendered us all unconscious. While we were out, the witch stole Duncan from my arms and sealed him forever in a cave on the far end of the island. When we awoke, the entire legion–except for me–had aged to the point of near senility. Men who had been in the prime of life could barely lift their weapons any longer.”

Tom lifted his hand to cup Maximus’ cheek but the man shook it off, almost shouting, “Gruoch was a cunning bitch! She took from each of us what we valued most. Even death has evaded us. There is no end to our suffering because we cannot die and nor we can never leave this cursed island. We are stuck here in this hell forever. Gods, if only I had killed her when I had a chance!”

Tom took his face in his hands and this time Maximus didn’t resist. Lifting his chin, he kissed him deeply and lovingly, pausing to stare into his eyes. “Tell me, Max,” he coaxed. “Tell me what happened to Gruoch? Is she dead?”

The torment in Maximus’ eyes was palpable. “Fie! Oh, fie! I do not know! I never laid eyes upon her again. Sagitus saw to that. In retribution for her misdeeds, the mage cast a spell on her fortress so that no one could ever leave or enter it again. For all I know, she is still alive and festering inside. Each month, when my body has taken on its most monstrous form, I trudge up to that hateful place and take out my fury upon it but, even though I am more powerful than twelve oxen, I have barely been able to carve more than a few flakes off the walls. After all this time, the woman’s magic still protects it. No one has ever managed to get inside.”

Tom took Maximus’ head in his hands and lowered it until his face was nestled in the nape of his neck. The effort of telling his tale had upset him so much that his whole body was shaking uncontrollably. He lost it entirely when Tom turned to kiss his ear and he let loose with a torrent of tears. Tom let him sob, murmuring soothingly as his neck and chest grew wet with tears. Finally, Maximus took a long, shuddering breath and lay still.

“Tomorrow,” Tom whispered. “Tomorrow, I will go to the castle and find a way to break your curse or die trying. You have my word on that.”

***

Chapter 12

Tom groaned the next morning when he rolled over in bed and realized his big belly was back. He looked down at himself with disgust. The effects of the mysterious Nux masserina were wearing off quickly; his body hair was retreating, his belly and arse were growing, and his tattoos were nearly as vivid as ever. Worst of all, his cock was shrinking up to almost nothing.

“Whath wrong, Lovth?”

He looked over at Maximus and gave a start when he saw what had happened to the tribune overnight. His skin had taken on a sickly green hue and his formerly symmetrical features had distorted, growing blocky and misshapen. Warts and blemishes had appeared all over his body, sprouting tufts of thick, black hair. A pair of tusks were emerging from his lower jaw.

Maximus grimaced. When he spoke, his voice was deeper by several octaves and he had to work hard to enunciate clearly. “Yeth, theresth no escapth from outh curses. We arth thuck this wayth.”

Tom clenched his jaw, angry at both Tristan and Gruoch for what they had done to him and Maximus. He leaned over and kissed Maximus fiercely, wrapping his arms around him as if this alone would stop the progression of the curse. The tribune’s body had grown so massively wide that Tom had trouble reaching around him.

“Maximus,” he said in a low but fervent voice, “Don’t give up! When I come back–”

“Whenth you come backth,” the huge beast of a man breathed, “You wonth recthognize me.”

“No, that’s where you’re wrong,” Tom declared. “My heart will always know you no matter what you look like.”

***

He dressed in his pink harness again after breakfast, sighing as he looked down at his bloated body. He felt ridiculous wearing it but somehow it felt appropriate to don his Mazzerine attire again now that he had returned to his cursed form. He draped the pink cape over his shoulders and saddled up Faith, hoisting himself in the saddle with difficulty. After only a day back as his old, lighter self, he’d forgotten what it was like to be heavier by five stones. Faith, for her part, didn’t seem to mind carrying his bulk. After several weeks, her tendon had healed and she was back to her old form. He patted her neck fondly as he waved goodbye to Maximus.

The tribune had refused to leave his tent and watched Tom go through the parted flap.

***

The island was much bigger than he’d expected and he was glad to be on horseback because the journey to Gruoch’s fortress on foot would have taken more than a day. Faith trotted over pleasantly rolling hills, dotted with oak and beech. Roe deer grazed among herds of shaggy, feral sheep and the occasional sounder of wild boar. Once he thought he saw a sow bear fleeing into a copse of trees with her cubs but he wasn’t sure. It had been a long time since he’d been so alone in the wilds and he enjoyed it despite the urgency of his quest and the cool weather. He shivered, drawing his cloak around him and gazing up at the sky in the hope of seeing the sun but the day was overcast and the wind was chill. Tom missed the tender warmth of southern Britannia. He doubted he could ever get used to the dank chill of the north.

His body gradually bloated up over the course of the day, regaining its stupendous proportions. By lunchtime, he looked exactly as he had before Maximus gave him the magical acorn. He regarded his bulk stoically, determination to succeed in the quest rekindling. He would find a way to break the curse, he vowed. He would do it!

The only residual effect of the Nux masserina was the dampening of the Binding; Tom’s hole didn’t ache to be filled with quite the same fervor as before. Oh, he still longed to get fucked up the arse but the need wasn’t overwhelming and he could easily ignore it. He did find himself daydreaming of Maximus a lot, though. Foremost was a preoccupation with the tribune’s cock size: Did it get bigger as he transformed into a troll? He suppressed a shiver of delight at the thought. He couldn’t wait to get back to find out!

As evening approached and Faith grew tired, the terrain began to rise and the ground became rocky. Tom dismounted and led the mare up a ridge, halting in wonder at the top. In the distance, an enormous stone keep sat atop a high cliff overlooking the sea. Gulls swirled in the air above the fortress and, if he squinted, Tom could pick out the dark forms of seals lying upon the surf-wetted rocks below. The keep’s walls were coated with guano, making the place look like it had been abandoned for centuries. He leaned into Faith’s shoulder for warmth as the setting sun broke free of the clouds, drenching the castle in soft shades of rose and lavender.

He was turning to lead the horse down a steep ravine toward the castle when something caught his eye. He glanced up at the fortress and narrowed his eyes. Barely discernible in the light of the sunset was a thread of smoke.

A fire.

Someone had lit a fire inside the keep.

So, he thought, maybe Gruoch is still alive? 

It seemed impossible that anyone could survive, locked inside a stone fortress for more than a thousand years but, then again, how was that more unbelievable than the discovery of the missing Ninth Legion eleven centuries after they disappeared? If I’ve learned anything in the past several weeks it is that magic defies logic, he thought sourly as he gazed down upon his cursed form. Bowing his head, he took Faith by the reins and picked his way down to the great plain that stretched out before the castle.

Now all he had to do was get inside!

***

Tristan lifted his head and sniffed the air, his face breaking into a slow grin as he registered the pink-clad form descending to the plain below.

“Ah, my odiferous brother,” he murmured. “You have finally arrived.”

His cock plumped up in its confining leather pouch at the sight (and smell) of Tom but he forced his attention away from these distractions. As much as he would love to ride down and bugger the shit out of his beautiful shieldmate, he had to restrain himself if he was going to win the Rite of Refusal and keep Tom–and his bountiful arse–as his prize possessions.

Who released you from your bonds? he wondered as he shrank back into the shadows, admiring the corpulent swordsman. It’s a good thing that someone freed you before you died of thirst because this quest has proved to be harder than a I thought!

He was perched on a narrow ledge on a cliff beside the fortress that he’d scaled in the hope of dropping inside the walls. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been so lucky. After two days of trying, he was no closer to getting inside the mysterious keep than when he first arrived. The damned place had been rendered impregnable both by its solid construction and a particularly devious spell. A glance below him confirmed that no one in many years had succeeded in breaking into (or out of) the fortress: The moat beneath the steep wall was littered with the skeletons of fallen knights, many still adorned in their tarnished armor. 

Alas! My bones shall not join you, friends, he thought with a smirk as he stared down at the unfortunate bastards, because luck is on my side. Tristan of Eisenholt never fails a quest!

He had a strong suspicion that whatever lay inside the fortress was one of the keys to solving the riddle of the cursed island. How did he know this? It was the aura of magic that surrounded the place. He might not be a mage but he was no stranger to magic, having learned the essence of Mazzerine spells from his beloved shield brother, Enrico. Enrico, God rest his soul, had taught him how to sense magic and the fortress was drenched in it. Very old magic from the feeling of it.

And then there was the enchanted cave nearby.

After arriving at the fortress the evening before, Tristan had scouted the area, eventually locating a mysterious cave radiating an ominous green glow. Taking a step inside had nearly been fatal because the place was infested with snakes. He’d barely managed to jump out of the way as one of the vile creatures lunged at his ankles. When he looked down at the cave floor, he saw that it was festooned with skeletons and rotting corpses. More knights who had perished in their attempt to enter the cave.

The cave and the keep.

The cave and the keep.

Both were guarded by powerful magic.

Which meant they were keys to his quest. The only missing piece was the monster.

The monster.

He lifted his head to sniff the air once again, relishing Tom’s divine scent.

But, wait! What was this?

He flared his nostrils, breathing deeply.

Hmmm…His lover carried another scent upon his body, a particularly pungent aroma. What was it? Tristan inhaled, puzzled. He couldn’t quite place the odor but he was certain of one thing: It was magical.

Aha!

More magic. And such good timing!

The whiff of magic had to be linked to the third piece of the puzzle of the cursed isle: The monster.

So, Tom had met the monster, huh?

Shit, from the smell of him, he’d done more than meet him! The big boy reeked of the beast from head to toe.

Very slowly, Tristan’s lips curled into a sly smile and he crouched down on the ledge, waiting and watching. Brother Tom! he thought as his heart beat with excitement, Brother Tom, you’re not just ornamental, you’re functional as well! He laughed to himself as his lover approached the walled fortress, tethering his mare and pacing over to examine the sealed gates.

He watched Tom stop to examine the keep’s impregnable walls, crossing the drawbridge to stare at the enormous boulder covering the front gate. The next moment, he almost toppled off of his hiding place on the ledge, joining the pile of dead knight’s below, because Tom reached out and touched an empty spot, only to have it open before his eyes. A hidden door! He’d found a hidden door inside. Tristan was beside himself with glee.

Yes, my brother, yes! You are a true gift! he thought, face distorting into a vulpine grin. It was a good thing that Tom had freed himself because, Tristan now knew with certainty, he would lead him to the monster and the virgin.

All he had to do was follow Tom and keep out of sight. Tom of Erlewine would seal his own fate by delivering everything Tristan needed to win the Rite.

You’re a beautiful fool, Tom. A beautiful fool.

***

Tom cast about as he approached the enormous stone gate, examining it for imperfections. It was taller than three men and sealed by a boulder the size of a house. A deep moat had been dug before the walls. Tom swallowed as he stared down into it, feeling ill; the ravine was half filled with the bodies of fallen knights, their broken skulls bleached white and their armor rusting in the elements. Apparently, many had tried to scale the walls over the years but none had succeeded. The way into the fortress, Tom decided then, did not lie over the walls. He would have to find another path inside.

A narrow causeway bridged the moat and he paced across it, scanning the walls for clues. The skin on the back of his neck prickled and he paused. He had a feeling that he was close to something significant. He closed his eyes and took a breath, calming himself. There was a strange feeling in the air here. A very strange feeling…

When he opened his eyes again, a doorway stood in front of him. It was right there beside the gate, plain as day.

Had it been there all along?

He walked up to it, confused. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? There wasn’t anything extraordinary about it. It was a simple doorway like the one beside the postern gate of his father’s keep, wide enough for a man to enter but too narrow for an army to storm through. All of the old keeps and fortresses had such doorways.

But, wait!

He was certain that it hadn’t been there before he closed his eyes.

Was this an effect of Sagitus’ magical barrier?

Was it a trap?

He took another breath and, reaching out, resolutely pushed in on the door.

It opened.

This is too easy, he thought, taking a step forward. According to Maximus, no one had entered–or exited–the fortress in over a thousand years. There was no way that he could simply walk up to the castle and waltz inside without a second thought.

It had to be a trap!

He retreated, crossing his arms as he studied the open door. A stale smell emanated through the opening, the odor of a fortress that had been sealed off for centuries. He sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose. It was dank but not necessarily unhealthy. It smelled of stone and moisture and lichen.

What should he do?

He looked around, noting that the sun had long since set and the night was growing dark. His stomach growled and he crossed back over the bridge to rummage through Faith’s saddlebags for something to chew on. While he was there, he removed the mare’s lead and let her graze; he had a feeling they would spend the night here. The mare kicked up her heels and trotted off, making a beeline for a succulent patch of grass nearby.

He was smiling over at her when a dull glow off to the north caught his eye. Far away, upon the side of a distant ridge, a greenish glow was emanating from within a deep hole. A cave? He furrowed his brow, thinking, Is that where Duncan lies asleep? Maximus said that Gruoch had laid the boy to rest in a cave near the fortress. Yes, that had to be where Duncan was!

So, he was in the right place at least. He was getting closer to breaking the curse! Now, he only needed to get inside the castle…

He looked back to the door across the moat, debating his next move. He knew that magic was never straightforward. There was always a catch, always a price to pay. If he went through that door, there would be a cost. The question was what would it be? Could he afford it? And would it cost him his life?

Ah, decisions, decisions!

The wind was picking up and he shivered, looking at the open door longingly. He would be sheltered in there, warm and away from the wind. Maybe he was making this too complicated? Maybe it really was a simple matter of walking over the threshold and into the keep? And, even if it was a trap, what choice did he have? If he was going to break the curse, he had to get inside!

That was it. He made up his mind.

He padded over and kissed Faith on the forelock before straightening and squaring his shoulders. Without looking back, he walked across the chasm and up to the doorway. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

***

At first, nothing happened and he was beginning to relax when a wave of nausea rolled over him. The door slammed shut behind him as he toppled to his knees, retching pathetically. He whimpered, holding his head in his hands as his mind was flooded with bitter memories.

Memories of Tristan. 

Memories of the Challenge of First Blood, the Take and the Give, and, worst of all, the Binding. He saw the knight’s face again as if he were right in front of him. He was illuminated by torchlight, looking just like he had that night in the stables when he’d taken everything from Tom and left him a broken man. In his mind’s eye, Tristan’s lips split into a leer and he laughed mockingly down at him. Laughed at his weakness, at his ugliness, at his fat belly, at his shaved head. At his pink tattoos and pierced nipples. And especially at his shrunken cocklet.

Tom withered, groveling on the stone floor, trying to get away from Tristan, from the humiliation, the abuse, the cruelty, the savagery, the horror.

But there was no escape. Tristan laughed and laughed and laughed.

Just when he felt like he would break and go completely insane, he remembered something. It seemed like such a little thing at first but slowly it grew, warming him from the inside, eating away at the bitter desolation of his downfall and humiliation at the hands of the Mazzarine knight.

He remembered Tristan’s smile.

And his sensitive eyes.

The way he looked at Tom, face radiant with pride.

The way he touched him, so softly, so tenderly.

The sound of his laughter when he threw his head back and roared with wild abandon.

His wicked humor.

His steadfast defense.

His huge cock and the way he used it to thrust Tom through the gates of paradise over and over and over and over.

He remembered the things he loved about Tristan and the things he missed. Tristan, he recalled then as his chest filled with love, was his knight. His protector. His lover. And his brother. He loved Tristan of Eisenholt in spite of all of the vile things he’d done to him.

He forgave him.

***

He awoke on a dimly lit stone floor, a pair of sandaled feet on either side of his head. He gazed up and found himself staring at a very confused-looking woman. She was holding a torch and her face was mostly shrouded by a cloak but he could see enough of it to realize she was quite beautiful. Her black tresses fell through the parted folds of the cloak and her brown eyes flickered in the firelight. Golden snake amulets twined up her wrists. He squinted, realizing then that they weren’t ornaments; they writhed and twisted, lowering their heads to sense the air with their forked tongues.

“Gruoch,” he pronounced, propping himself up on his elbows and staring at her openly. “You live.”

The woman opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out. She stood there, clearly befuddled, for the longest time as she tried to talk. She hasn’t spoken to anyone in a thousand years, Tom realized then. She probably has forgotten how!

Finally, the snake on her right arm released its hold from her wrist and dropped down onto him. Tom watched, entranced, as the gilded creature slithered up his chest to curl around his neck. Its body was warm from the heat of Gruoch’s body and so soft, so sleek. Curiously, he felt no fear even though he knew these were probably the same snakes that had killed Legate Cerialis and the other Roman dignitaries. A moment later, when the serpent opened its mouth and sank its fangs into his neck, he realized that he really should have been more afraid, should have moved away when he had the chance..but he had never been terribly bright. Just ask Tristan. Or his father. Or Gruoch, for that matter.

His vision clouded and he descended into night.

***

Chapter 13

He awoke lying in bed, covered in cozy skins. A fire crackled in a nearby hearth and an immense, grey wolfhound lay curled up before it. The room was stone-hewn and round with tiny slits for windows through which a breeze was blowing, smelling of the sea. The dog lifted its great head to sniff the air when he stirred but then promptly went back to sleep.

His head was pounding but he didn’t feel sick. Far from it! He felt better than ever! Sitting up in the bed, he marveled at how good he felt. Who would have thought that being bitten by a snake would make one feel so good?

“Good morning, friend.”

It was a woman’s voice, raspy from disuse.

Gruoch.

She was seated at a small table, a handful of scrying crystals scattered before her. She was studying them with interest.

Without thinking, he asked the first thing that came to mind, only later realizing it was an odd way to begin a conversation with a witch who had been sealed in a castle for a thousand years.

“What do you see?” he queried, at the same time realizing that he was naked under the covers. He looked over and saw his harness, boots, cloak, and sword lying on a nearby stool. For some reason, being naked didn’t bother him, though. He didn’t understand precisely but something told him that, if he hoped to survive his encounter with the witch, there could be no secrets between them. His body–or rather what Tristan had done to it–needed to be seen.

Gruoch looked up from her crystals, pushing a strand of black hair behind an ear. As he gazed at her, he noticed with some surprise that she possessed a white forelock exactly like Maximus’. He also noticed that the snakes on her wrists tightened almost imperceptibly as he looked upon her. The one on her right arm–the one that had bitten him–was staring in his direction. He had a feeling it had been watching him steadily the entire time he slept.

“I see many things, thanks to you and your gifts,” the witch answered slowly. “Many things I like and many that I do not.”

“My…gifts?” he questioned. “But I gave you nothing.”

She looked over at him finally, her brown eyes seeming to bore right through him. She was not only beautiful, he realized then, but immensely powerful. Darkness–and lightness–seemed to radiate from her in equal measure.

“That is not true, Tom!” she chided, startling him with the knowledge of his name. “When my snake bit you, you gave me your tongue, for instance. I could not understand your language when you first arrived, much less speak it. And, more than that, you gave my snake–and then me–your memories so that I might understand you and your journey.” She paused then to take a breath; it seemed like speaking took a great deal of effort after so many centuries of silence. “You gave me your trust as well,” she added finally, “because you are the first man who has sought to enter my home without the intent of killing or tricking me. But, most of all, you taught me the secret to escaping my prison, although I fear the price is one too dear for me to pay.”

Tom lay his head back down on the pillow, trying to fathom the meaning of her words. He could only follow about half of what she’d said and had to ask her to repeat herself several times before he began to understand. She didn’t seem to mind explaining everything to him in detail, demonstrating the patience of one who has been alone for more than a millennium.

“Let me get this straight,” he murmured, feeling his pulse pound in his temples. “You were able to read my mind when your snake bit me?”

Gruoch nodded. “Quite so.”

“And you claim that you learned how to break through Sagitus’ barrier around the castle by reading my mind?”

She nodded again.

“But how?”

Gruoch smiled. “I can’t explain how but I can tell you what I learned.” She paused then and let out a low chuckle. “The Roman mage is a clever one, I’ll hand him that. The secret, it seems, is forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?”

“Yes, Tom. Forgiveness. That door–the one you walked through as if it were nothing–”

“It was hardly nothing!” Tom interrupted before falling silent again at a stern look from the witch.

“As I was saying,” she continued tersely before breaking off and fixing him with an imperious stare; she was, it seemed, still upset at him for interrupting. Between her aggrieved tone, her beauty, and her odd white forelock, she reminded him more and more of Maximus. No wonder the two didn’t get along, he thought with amusement. She narrowed her eyes just then, making him wonder if she was still able to read his mind and he pulled the covers up to his chin meekly, waiting until she deigned to speak again. “That door is hidden to all but those willing to forgive the one who has wronged them the most. That is the one thing that Sagitus knew I could never do. And I wasn’t alone! In all these years, not one person has passed through it until you came along.” She lowered her eyes back down to her crystals. “True forgiveness, it seems, is the rarest thing in the world.”

Tom’s head was pounding…and so was his heart as he finally began to understand. “I survived,” he breathed in wonder, “because I forgave Tristan for hurting me.”

Gruoch got up from the table and stood looking through one of the window slits. She was a slight woman, he saw then, standing barely five feet tall. Dressed simply in a homespun tunic of rough, undyed wool, she didn’t seem very imposing but there was nonetheless something in her bearing that relayed great power. He would never willingly go into battle against her because he knew instinctively that he would lose. No wonder Rome had never succeeded in taking the isle!

“Now that I know the secret,” she sighed, “I fear that I am doomed to remain here forever because I cannot forgive the Romans–and especially that damned Maximus–for what they did to my people. Or for what they took from me.” She turned aside but not before Tom saw that she was clenching her fist, the snake on her hand rearing up with its fangs bared.

Tom sat up in the bed, wrapping his arms around his legs and hugging his belly against his thighs. “If you have read my mind,” he said finally, “you know that Maximus is not evil. He is a good man, Gruoch! And he loves your son!”

The witch straightened, becoming rigid. He saw her jaw working up and down as she struggled to maintain her composure. When she spoke, she hissed like a snake that is getting ready to strike. “That man never loved Duncan! He deceived him and seduced him but never loved him!”  When Tom tried to object, she held up her hand, silencing him. “Tell me, Tom,” she commanded, her voice lowered ominously, “did your beloved tribune tell you what he did to my husbands?” (Husbands? he wondered. She had more more than one?) When he shook his head, she continued, “Or what he did to my army? What his men did to me? To my shieldmaidens? To my people? To every woman, man, and child on this island in retribution for my criminal–” she spat the word with contempt– “decision to defend my own land?”

“No,” Tom said in a small voice, “but I suspect that I won’t like to hear it.”

She glowered at him, her jaw clenched. “You suspect rightly,” she spat.

“Gruoch–”

She held up her hand, the little serpent staring balefully at him. “No!” she shouted, her tone full of steel. “Don’t try to talk me out of my outrage or my hatred or my anger! That is those men of Rome sought to do and I will not have it! I will not–” her voice broke off then and she sank into her chair, shoving the crystals aside and scattering them on the floor. She took her face in her hands and wept openly before him, sobbing with such pain and misery that he couldn’t bear to watch.

He didn’t remember doing so but he got up from the bed and, wrapping his cloak about his nakedness, moved to her side. When he reached down to lift her up by the elbows, she didn’t resist. And when he wrapped his arms around her, she lay her face on his chest and shook with tears. He put his hand on the back of her head and stroked her hair.

She cried for a long time, finally sniffling and turning to wipe her nose on her sleeve. She didn’t pull away from him right away, though. Instead, she stood there, rocking back and forth in his arms, as he whispered soothingly. After a while, she gently pushed away and padded back to her chair.

“You are like no man I have ever met, Tom,” she said finally. “Tell me, are all Roman men like you now? Has the empire grown temperate in the centuries since they murdered my people?”

He hung his head. “You have seen my memories so you know the truth. We are no better now that than we were back then. And I am no paragon of virtue, Gruoch.”

“None of us are, Tom.”

Shaking his head, he continued, “I have done…things…I am not proud of. Maybe that is why I forgave Tristan? Maybe it’s because I know in my heart that I am no better?”

Gruoch stared down at the empty table, absorbing his words. After some moments, she stood and walked back over to him. When she moved to lift the cloak off of his body, he didn’t resist. It fluttered to the floor between them. Tom closed his eyes, refusing to look at himself as the witch studied his naked form intently before kneeling to retrieve this cloak. She draped it over his shoulders and tucked it around his waist, patting his arm when she was through.

“You know what it’s like, don’t you?” she murmured, taking her seat at the table again.

“What what’s like?”

“You know what it is like to be treated as men treat women,” she clarified. “You know what it is like to be seen only as an object and to have men take…liberties…with your body. To use you for their gratification.”

This time, Tom had to sit down. He staggered back to the bed, collapsing down and holding his head in his hands. He didn’t speak; he couldn’t speak.

“In your place, Tom,” Gruoch whispered, “most people would not forgive. In your place, most people would become hardened, would seek revenge.”

She didn’t say it but it was clear that she wasn’t talking about most people; she was talking about herself. Tom could only sit there. His head was swimming for reasons he couldn’t quite figure out. Perhaps the witch had put her finger on something? He shivered, feeling suddenly alone and very cold.

“But you chose differently, Tom,” the witch said in a voice so soft he had to strain to hear it. “You chose the path of forgiveness and that makes you extraordinary.”

Tom hung his head, sighing, “There is nothing special about me. I am just a lowly bastard–”

“STOP!” she shouted, startling him with her sudden vehemence. “Never use that word again in front of me! It is a vile word, a despicable word! When you call yourself a bastard, you are disparaging both yourself and your mother. Was your mother a harlot, Tom?”

He gaped at her in shock, sputtering, “No! Of course not!”

“Then you are no bastard,” Gruoch pronounced. “In my lands, there were no bastards. There were only free women who gave themselves to worthy men. And their children were cherished by all.”

***

After a breakfast of honeyed oatmeal and ewe’s milk, Gruoch led him down through the empty keep (out of the whole, enormous edifice, she used but one tower) and onto the grounds between the walls and the cliffs to the sea. It was a surprisingly vast area, complete with a coppiced woodland, grazing fields, a sheltered garden, and an abandoned village. A flock of sheep roamed between the crumbling huts as the wolfhound bounded merrily about them. Gruoch led Tom through, angling toward a small rise beyond the village.

“Your only company all these years has been the sheep, your dog, and your snakes?” Tom asked, looking around in wonder as he pulled his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. The tumbled down walls offered some protection from the wind but he was still cold.

Gruoch smiled slowly. “Angus may look like a dog but he is my familiar and can take any form I deem appropriate. The snakes likewise are part of me in a way that is complicated to explain.” She put her hand on his arm when she saw he had gone pale. “But the sheep, yes, the sheep are descended from a flock my folk brought inside the keep’s walls before the Romans laid siege. They have been good companions…as well as food over the years. Between their meat and the vegetables and grain I grow in these fields, I have been able to survive.”

Tom was silent as he absorbed this information. “And like Maximus,” he mused, “you haven’t aged. Will you live forever?”

For some reason, the witch laughed at the question. “It depends on how you define life, I suppose,” she answered. “You already know I am a witch. For us, time passes differently than it does for you.”

She stopped walking then and Tom looked up to see they were standing before a huge, stone barrow. It was little more than three slabs of granite, two walls and a roof. Inside, he could see a torch guttering against the wind.

“This is where I buried the ashes of my people,” Gruoch explained. “The fortunate ones who were inside the keep when Maximus ordered his army to rampage across the isle and kill everyone in sight. There were about a hundred who sheltered inside these walls. After the Roman mage cast his spell upon us, though, they began to die slowly. In ten years, despite everything I tried, they were all dead.”

“I am sorry,” Tom said and meant it. As much as he loved Maximus, he also realized that Gruoch had good reason to hate the man.

“Thank you, Tom,” she murmured, leaning against his arm until he lifted it to put it about her shoulders. She was so slight! He had trouble imagining that such a small woman was capable of wreaking such havoc. “Would you mind leaving me here for a while?” she asked after nestling against him for a few moments. “I need to sit with my people. Sometimes, I feel like I can almost see them standing before me. Their memory has brought me comfort over the years.”

He hugged her against him before stepping away and wandering the castle grounds. The walls formed a huge semicircle that ended precipitously at the cliffs. Gathering up his nerve, he walked to the edge and looked down, swallowing hard. Far below, huge breakers crashed against the rocks. The water was the deepest blue he’d ever seen and the scent of the sea was almost intoxicating. Finally, though, he had to step back because he was feeling dizzy and the wind was wickedly cold.

When he returned to the barrow, Gruoch was filling a small flask with grains of sand from the earth before her. She looked up at him and smiled, placing a stopper on the flask and pushing herself off of her knees to stand beside him.

“You have inspired me, my friend,” she murmured after they had stood there for some minutes, “and made me realize how tired I am of clinging to the past and its wounds.”

“I am glad,” he said, bowing his head.

“I may never be able to forgive the Romans for what they did,” she continued, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t agree to a truce. Tell me, Tom, would you be willing to serve as an interlocutor and broker peace between us?”

Stunned by this request, he could only gape down at her.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, a small smile creasing her lips. “I am prepared to surrender the island to the dominion of Rome and lift the curse on Tribune Maximus and his legion if Sagitus lifts his spell on my castle, allowing me to go free.”

“My lady,” Tom sputtered. “This is great news if it is what you truly wish.”

Gruoch gazed up at him, a somber look returning to her face as she declared, “It is my wish. And I will keep my word if they keep theirs.”

“Then I will go to them now!” he said excitedly. “I will ask them!” He was turning to leave when he had a thought. “But, my lady,” he asked, looking back at her. “What of Duncan? Will you lift your curse on him as well? Will you allow him to be reunited with Maximus?”

“You already have it in your power to lift the spell I placed on my son,” Gruoch replied cryptically. “And, you alone among men can retrieve him from the cave.”

Tom’s brow furrowed. “Me? But how? I don’t understand.”

In answer, she lifted her head and sniffed the air delicately. When he still didn’t get it, she sighed and explained, “It is your scent, Tom. The curse laid upon you renders you irresistible to men, does it not?”

He nodded, muttering unhappily, “Yes, it does.”

“Rather like a young woman’s scent, isn’t it?”

“Gruoch,” he grumbled. “Is there a point to this or are you just trying to goad me?”

She laughed, an unexpectedly pleasant sound, and reached out to place her hand on his shoulder. “I am not teasing you, Tom!” she cajoled. “No man may enter the cave where Duncan lies asleep. The snakes will strike before he takes two steps.” She paused, clearly enjoying the chance to prolong his confusion. Finally, her lips curved upward as she said, “But a woman, on the other hand…”

Tom’s ears went red, only belatedly understanding where this was leading. “I see,” he grunted. “You’re saying that because I smell like a woman, I can go in there and get him?”

“Precisely.”

***

Tristan was so startled when Tom burst out of the hidden door in the keep that he didn’t have time to hide himself. He was packing his bedroll, standing out in the open next to Basil as he prepared to ride up into the hills. Because it seemed like Tom would be inside the castle for a while, he’d planned on investigating the cave again. He wanted to find out if there was another way inside that didn’t require going through the main cavern. All that changed when Tom came barrelling out of the castle, though. Tristan jumped, scrambling to hide behind the great war horse even as he realized how ridiculous this must seem.

It turned out that it didn’t matter.

Tom was so eager to be gone that he leapt upon his mare and tore off across the plain without so much as a glance in his direction.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, my love?” Tristan wondered aloud, watching the horse and pink-clad rider disappear over the scrubby plain. “And why I do have a feeling that you’ll bring the monster with you when you return?”

***

Chapter 14

Maximus’ tent had been raised by more than ten feet when he arrived back at the legion camp on a tired and sweating Faith. The mare had galloped the entire way, returning to the camp in record time. It was barely midday, Tom judged as he looked up in the clouded sky. He patted the horse fondly on the neck before handing her over to a couple of legionaries who promised to tend to her. He gave her a fond pat on the neck before making his way directly to the tribune’s tent.

The sentries’ jaws tightened as he approached and they acted like they wouldn’t let him through but a word from Sagitus brought them to attention.

“By Jupiter, Philo and Cassius!” the mage chided from inside the tent. “Let him in! Maximus is half-crazed with worry for him.”

The sentries scowled at this prompting but nonetheless parted their spears; Tom stalked inside.

Nothing prepared him for the monster that awaited him. He took an inadvertent step backward as he passed through the tent flap and his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness within. He recovered quickly but not before the tribune registered his shocked reaction. The…thing…that had once been Maximus towered more than a dozen feet high and was wider than a small house. It was immensely hulking and muscular but so misshapen that it would have been comical if it weren’t so abhorrent. 

The monster’s one arm nearly dragged on the ground, being bigger around Tom’s corpulent midsection. Its legs were squat and splayed, more ape-like than human. Its skin was a leathery, mottled greyish green covered with huge warts and other blemishes. Spiky, black hairs protruded here and the odor radiating from the beast was…unpleasant, to say the least. He swallowed, remembering all too well the disgusting maggot that lurked inside the tribune’s pouch. From the looks of things down there, it had only grown bigger and fatter…and more active. He couldn’t see it clearly, concealed as it was within a stained loincloth, but there was no mistaking the way it wriggled and writhed. He swallowed again, feeling ill.

Whereas the human Maximus was the picture of manly beauty with rugged and symmetrical features, this beast was the exact opposite. It’s face was swollen and lumpy with fat tusks thrusting up from its lower jaws. Its eyes were beady and nearly buried by its protruding brow. The thing’s pate was bald except for a thin, white strand of kinky hair that hung down over its fat, knobby nose. Its ears were long and pointed, adding to its overall demonic appearance.

Despite all of this, Tom only hesitated a moment before throwing himself at Maximus. He had to leap up to reach the beast’s bull neck but managed to score on the first try and hugged him fiercely, whispering in his ear, “Gruoch has agreed to lift the curse, Max! You will finally be free!”

The monster that had once been the handsome tribune went rigid in his arms at this news before slowly relaxing. Lifting his giant hand, he patted Tom on the back, rumbling, “Um iav iuk avrue, avhaav iuk mir newuk.”

His voice was harsh and grating, a mockery of the man’s formerly smooth baritone. Tom’s face wrinkled, feeling the tribune’s deformed body expand and contract beneath him as the beast breathed in and out. His body was hot as a furnace!

Sagitus cleared his throat. “He says that this is good news, if the witch isn’t playing another one of her games.”

Tom kissed Maximus’ ear and pulled back to gaze into his eyes. If he squinted, he could tell they were the same beautiful almond color. Deep inside his cursed skin, he knew the tribune was watching him…and loving him. Maximus lifted his gnarled paw and cupped the back of Tom’s head, pressing his face against his warty cheek.

“She is not lying, Maximus,” Tom said evenly. “I know it.”

The tribune-monster nodded and gently lowered Tom to the ground before straightening (sort of) and wobbling over to the stands of armor. He halted in front of one holding the immense set of steel plate armor that Tom had noticed the first time he’d been admitted into Maximus’ tent. As Tom watched, the monster began awkwardly trying to suit himself up.

“My lord Maximus!” Sagitus called out, hobbling on his staff over to the giant. “Please wait! This might be a trap! I beg you to hold until we have heard Tom out.”

The big beast hesitated, casting its great head over its shoulder to stare balefully at the mage. Tom tried and failed to stifle a laugh; the haughty expression on its ugly face belonged unmistakably to Maximus. At the sound of Tom’s laughter, the monster cast a stern look in his direction as well, causing him to laugh again.

“Sorry, Max!” he gasped. “You’re just, well, you’re just so you no matter what you look like.”

The monster gave him such a withering stare that this time even Sagitus had to suppress a chuckle.

“Let’s just all take a step back,” the mage suggested in a wavering voice after he’d swallowed his laughter, “and sort this out. I have questions that I need answered.”

Maximus nodded and Tom leaned back on his heels, registering for the first time the presence of more people than just the mage. The ancient scribe was sitting at his customary place at the desk, scribbling furiously on parchment as three other Roman officers, decurions from the look of their patched uniforms, stood off to the side. It seemed that Tom had interrupted a meeting of some sort and he flushed when he registered the disapproving stares of the officers.

“If you talked to Gruoch, then you found the way through my barrier,” Sagitus continued, “No one in a thousand years has done that. How did you succeed when so many have failed?”

Tom could feel all eyes in the room shift to him as he replied, “You already know how because you are the one who created it. Forgiveness is the key.”

Sagitus seemed taken aback by his response and had to steady himself on his staff to keep his balance. Finally, even the staff proved insufficient and he was forced to take a seat on the tribune’s giant bed. Lifting his grey head to gaze at Tom with rheumy eyes, he said, “If Gruoch knows this, then she can leave at any time. She doesn’t need me to lift the curse.”

“Except that she will never forgive you,” Tom pointed out. “Or Maximus or any Roman for that matter. She is, however, prepared to make a deal with you. She will lift her curse if you lift the barrier.”

“But that will allow her to go free!” Sagitus exclaimed. “We cannot agree to that! We were barely able to stop her before but now she’s had a thousand years to grow stronger. There will be no stopping her!”

“She doesn’t want revenge,” Tom explained. “She only wants to be free. Just like all of you.”

“Pardon me, my boy, but I think she has beguiled you,” Sagitus said in a patronizing tone. “She is a cunning woman who will stop at nothing for revenge.”

Tom sighed, pacing over to stand before the mage. “Think about it, Sagitus! She has nothing left to fight for,” he said, voice rising. “Her people have been dead for centuries! Even her son turned against her. Do you really think that she will seek revenge? To what end?”

Sagitus refused to look at him. He clutched his staff, clenching his jaw and looking unconvinced.

Tom knelt down and put his hand on the old mage’s arm, begging, “Haven’t all of you suffered enough? Is it really worth holding onto this hatred? It’s been a thousand years, Sagitus! The world has moved on, forgotten. Isn’t it time that you did, too?”

The old man hung his head, looking suddenly every one of his eleven hundred years. “It–” he began before his voice broke off. Tom noticed that his hands were shaking and it wasn’t simply from age. “It is not my decision,” he sighed finally, lifting his head to look over at the tribune-monster who was listening to their exchange with interest. “What say you, My Lord Maximus?”

“Agh whaav ro Duncan?” the brute rumbled. “Liwo ukhe lifav hiuk curuke auk nalal?”

Sagitus started to translate but held up his hand, saying, “No, I think I got that. He’s asking about Duncan, right?” The sage nodded and Tom declared, “Don’t worry about him, Max. Gruoch told me how to rescue him.” He paused, lowering his head as the back of his neck flushed pink. “Just don’t ask me how, alright? I don’t feel like talking about it.”

Maximus grunted in response, sticking his fist through the armhole of his armor and shrugging it on. Clearly, he’d made up his mind to trust Tom and nothing anyone said after that could convince him to stop suiting up. In a matter of minutes, he was clad from giant head to warty toe in the heaviest, thickest armor that Tom had ever seen. Maximus took a deep breath and, grabbing his great warhammer, sheathed it in an harness behind his head and lurched out of the tent.

Tom looked at Sagitus and the mage lifted his palms upward, explaining, “When Maximus decides something, no one can dissuade him. Now go, boy! And pray that the witch isn’t lying. I will see about lifting the barrier. It may take me some hours, though; it’s been a long time since I laid that spell and my memory isn’t as good as it once was.”

***

Tom borrowed a fresh horse from the Romans and tied Faith to the saddle, setting off at a gallop to catch up with the tribune-monster. In his cursed form, Maximus was ungainly to the extreme, yet somehow he managed to cover a lot of ground before Tom caught up with him. The huge brute had made it nearly halfway to the keep!

It was still early afternoon when they reached the castle and the sun was breaking through the clouds, casting weak shadows as gulls called mournfully above. Tom drew to a halt next to the very sweaty Maximus, pulling up on the reins and inelegantly toppling out of the saddle. Between fatigue and the way his body kept changing, he had trouble staying on his feet. He set discomfort aside, though, and focused on the task at hand: He had to free Duncan from the cave.

“I will go inside and let Gruoch know that Sagitus is lifting the barrier,” he told the tribune. “Then I’ll go get Duncan. Why don’t you rest here awhile?”

Maximus had other plans. Shaking his great head and letting loose a thunderous bellow, he shoved Tom aside and strode across the bridge to stand before the fortress. A moment later, he took a deep breath and commenced swinging his warhammer. The impact of the huge hammer was immense and yet the walls barely shook. Tom squinted and noticed the keep was pockmarked with thousands of little divots, the evidence of hundreds of years of Maximus’ rage.

“…Or you can pummel the hell out of the walls,” Tom muttered, rolling his eyes, as he made his way across the bridge and, dodging one of Maximus’ blows, pushed open the hidden doorway and walked inside. The door closed immediately behind him, leaving him with only the distant thuds of the tribune’s fury for company.

***

“I hear you brought Maximus with you,” Gruoch commented drily when he found her waiting for him in the tower. The wallops of the big monster’s hammer were audible even in that high room. “Every month for the last ten centuries, it’s the same thing. He shows up and thumps for hours on the damned walls. It’s enough to give one a headache.”

“It will be over soon enough, my queen,” Tom said, getting down on his knee and bowing his head. “The mage has agreed to lift the barrier. As soon as it’s down, you are free to go.”

A slap on his shoulder made him lift his head questioningly. “I am not your queen, Tom,” Gruoch corrected. “And you are to bow to no one, do you understand me?”

He smiled up at her. “No, I don’t. But I do get that you’re a proud woman and fierce.” He pushed himself stiffly to his feet, adding, “And I am standing only because I fear the consequences of your displeasure.”

“Finally, after a millennium!” Gruoch teased, lifting her head heavenward and shaking her fists, the golden snakes twining and hissing around her wrists, “a wise man!”

Tom’s laughter was joined moments later by the her own. Perhaps it was the impending end of hostilities and the glimpse of freedom at the end of the long tunnel or perhaps it was the fact that Gruoch had taken a liking to Tom, but she enjoyed this rare moment of levity before growing sober again.

“Tom, I want you to have this,” she pronounced, drawing a sword from within the folds of her cloak. “It belonged to my grandmother and served her well.” She brandished the blade, holding it out to him. Tom gazed in wonder as the razor-sharp steel captured and refracted the dim torchlight in the tower, filling the room with scintillatingly rainbows of light.

“My Queen!” he gasped, unable to believe that a sword so fine existed; it looked like a blade out of the legends. “This gift is too rich!”

“Silence!” came her sharp retort, her imperious tone returning. “If I go free, this is but a moiety of what I owe you. Besides,” she added, “that pretty blade you’ve got strapped about your waist will snap in two the first time you use it against a worthy foe.”

He looked down in confusion at the Mazzerine sword that he’d ‘won’ from Tristan, protesting, “But this is the finest blade I’ve ever seen!”

“Trust me, Tom,” Gruoch stated. “You need a blade that fits your status as a warrior and this one will never fail you. Take it now and be gone! I wish to await the fall of the barrier in solitude…it may be the last time I am alone for a while.”

Before he could stop her, the witch yanked the Mazzerine sword out of its scabbard and replaced it with her gift, pushing him down the steps and out of the tower.

***

He was so overcome by Gruoch’s unexpected and generous gift that he didn’t notice the thumping of Maximus’ hammer against the walls had been replaced by the clash of steel against steel. When he exited the hidden doorway in the walls, he stood blinking in the bright afternoon light, confused by the sounds of battle. Wait, he thought, is someone fighting Maximus?

He shaded his eyes and squinted, a stomach falling when he recognized the handsome knight in black armor attacking the monster. Tristan! Shit! It was Tristan! Tom had been so focused on freeing Gruoch and ending the curse on the legion that he’d completely forgotten about the man. Tristan, on the other hand, had never lost sight of the reason he had come to the island: To slay the monster and collect its head, thereby winning the Rite of Refusal and sealing Tom’s fate.

Tom kicked himself for his stupidity, yelling, “TRISTAN, STOP!” as he dashed across the bridge.

Tristan turned briefly to incline his head toward Tom before countering the vicious descent of Maximus’ warhammer. Lithely, he dodged aside and aimed a slash at the ogre’s unprotected rear flank. Maximus drew back just in time, though, and Tom marveled at his agility. In his overgrown form–and having only one arm!–he should have been an easy target but clearly he still possessed the human tribune’s preternatural grace.

“Sorry, Brother!” Tristan gasped as he rolled out of the way of the monster’s great hammer. “I can’t tarry just now!” His voice cut off and he thrust his sword upward, attempting to wedge it between a gap in the monster’s armor. Maximus countered and Tristan dodged a sharp kick, pausing to push his sweat-drenched hair out of his eyes as he panted, “But I will gladly fuck you silly after I’ve collected this beast’s head!”

Tom gritted his teeth, hand dropping to the hilt of his new sword as he pondered what to do. Should he protect Maximus and fight Tristan? But what if he ended up hurting, or worse, killing his beloved knight? Could he live with himself? Or should he try to slay Maximus before Tristan did so that he might finally be free of the Mazzerine curse? The mere thought of murdering the tribune, though, made his heart ache. He loved Maximus as much, if not more than, Tristan. He could never kill him!

Before he could decide, fate intervened in the form of a well-timed kick from Maximus, propelling Tom toward his true destination: The cave. He sprawled on the dirt as the tribune howled something unintelligible. One word, though, rang out clearly: Duncan. Tom lifted his head and his gaze landed on the dark opening to the cave on the hillside before him. Even in the full light of day, it glowed with an eerie green light.

He looked over his shoulder at the fighters, still struggling with indecision. Maximus caught his eye at that moment and Tom flinched; he needed no help interpreting the monster’s agonized stare. The tribune wanted him to retrieve his beloved. He had waited long enough; the time was now or never.

***

Tom was halfway up the rocky hillside when he realized what he was doing: He was helping to reunite the man he loved with his long-lost love. A boy who had captured the tribune’s heart. A boy who had, indirectly at least, played a role in creating this whole mess. A boy who manifestly was not Tom. In fact, if he succeeded in breaking the curse and the two lovers were reunited, he would lose the Rite of Refusal and face a lifetime of enslavement to the Mazzerine brotherhood. He would never get back his old body and never join the Emperor’s guard. In short, it was not in his best interest to rescue Duncan. If he were thinking clearly, he would turn around and lob off Maximus’ head with Gruoch’s blade.

And yet…

Tom drew to a halt, chest heaving as he fought back against the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He looked down unhappily at his bloated belly, huge nipples, obscene tattoos, ugly piercings. He hated what Tristan had done to him! He hated it with a passion and, as recently as two days ago, he would have done anything to free himself from the Mazzerience curse, even if it meant slaying a monster he loved.

But now…

It didn’t make sense but he knew he was doing the right thing by helping the tribune. He loved Maximus and wanted the best for him. He wanted him to be free. He wanted him to be happy even if that meant that Tom remained stuck with his own curse. Even if it meant that Maximus and Duncan were together and Tom never saw the tribune again.

He was crazy.

It didn’t make sense.

Or maybe it did?

Maybe there was a logic to love that didn’t hold up to scrutiny but was nonetheless truer than the most indisputable mathematical theorem?

He took a deep, shuddering breath and, squaring his shoulders, resumed marching up the hillside to the cave where Duncan slept a dreamless sleep.

***

The cave smelled of snakes.

Tom took a deep breath at the entrance and gagged. He’d never realized the creatures had an odor but now that he was standing there, the dank breeze of the cave exhaling over his body, there was no doubt.

Snakes stank.

He forced himself to ignore the sounds of battling knight and monster below and drew himself upright, examining the cave. The entrance was little more than a hole, barely large enough for a man to stoop through. If he squinted, he thought that the cavern opened up after a few feet inside, though. Hopefully enough for him to stand without his head touching anything…slithery.

Holding his breath, he ducked and took a tentative step inside. When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he froze. The floor, walls, and ceiling were crawling with snakes. He shuddered. The whole fucking place was alive with snakes! More than he’d ever seen in his life. So many that he had trouble spotting any bare rock at all. It was like the cave itself was made out of snakes.

Tom halted, chest tightening as he wondered if he could do this. Despite Gruoch’s assurances, he doubted he could take a step without being bitten. Where could he step? There wasn’t anywhere to put his foot!

Calm, Tom! Be calm! he told himself sternly. After everything you’ve been through, this is the easy part.

The voice helped. A little.

He tentatively put his foot out and leaned forward, lowering his toe to the cave floor.

The snakes parted without so much as a hiss.

He stared. How was that possible?

By then, his eyes had adjusted to the dim light and he realized that, if he didn’t breathe through his nose, he could almost appreciate the beauty of the writhing snakes. They appeared to be the same kind, varying in length between a foot to several feet in length. In the dim light, he could even see that their reticulated skins were patterned with brown, black, and silver diamonds. Beautiful and deadly, he thought. Much like Gruoch. It seemed appropriate that the witch would have snakes as her totems.

He took another step and the result was the same: Before the toe of his boot could touch the cave floor, the snakes slithered aside. He took a third step and smiled at his good fortune. Gruoch hadn’t lied when she told him that he could enter the cave unmolested. For once, his odor–the same one that made him the target of so much unwanted male attention–was working to his favor! He smiled grimly, thinking, Gruoch is alright for a witch.

He took another step and then another, gradually striding forward with more confidence until finally he couldn’t resist swaggering a bit as the snakes made way for him. He was a big man who could tame poisonous snakes! He was so powerful that even predators bowed before him! He was…

A snake dropped down from the ceiling and wrapped itself around his neck and Tom jumped, shrieking and flailing his arms in a most unheroic way. He was unable to shake the snake off, though. It merely tightened its hold and lifted its head to stare at him with glittering, ruby eyes. Tom flinched, preparing to meet his end at the fangs of the evil thing. But the snake didn’t bite. Instead, it leaned forward and caressed his cheek with its head.

“Aw, was that a kiss?” he wondered aloud as the snake unwound itself from his neck and dropped to the cave floor, slithering away until it was lost in the writhing mass.

The experience left him feeling both touched and unsettled. He was so distracted by it that he stumbled into the main cavern without noticing that he’d arrived at his destination. A vast chamber opened up before him, the roof of the cave obscured by darkness and the floor writhing with yet more snakes. In the center, Duncan lay enshrined within a crystalline sepulchre. The greenish glow permeating the cave was emanating from the emerald catafalque upon which the coffin rested.

He stopped, mouth open.

Gruoch’s son was interred within the most exquisite vault he’d ever seen. Hewn from flawless quartz, it rendered a perfectly unobstructed view of the sleeping prince. If anything, Duncan seemed more real, more perfect, more beautiful from within the crystal vault.

The prince lay there, ostensibly asleep, but his ashen color resembled the pallor of the recently deceased more than the living. Still, even deathly white, he was so stunningly beautiful that Tom fell to his knees in worship of the angelic youth. A reverential sigh escaped his lips before he could stifle it. Beholding the sleeping boy was almost a religious experience.

Duncan appeared to be about seventeen years old, perfectly balanced on the exquisite knife’s edge of youth and manhood. His expression of repose was so tender, so pure that he seemed to radiate a heart-piercing innocence that had not yet been defiled by the ugliness of the world. 

Laid out as he was, Tom could see that he was a tall lad, easily a foot taller than his mother, but while he might not have inherited his mother’s small stature, he most assuredly had inherited her beauty. His long, dark hair was arrayed about his face like a shaggy veil and his eyelashes curved upward, enticing the viewer while at the same time tormenting him because, seeing those lashes, Tom could only hunger for the sight of the eyes that lay concealed beneath those ghostly lids. And then there were his full, rosebud lips, parted as if in the midst of a kiss…

Shaking from a surfeit of desire, Tom crept up closer to the coffin and peered inside, feeling like the mere act of breathing upon such handsome creature would tarnish him somehow. As he gazed upon the splendid boy, he understood why Maximus had been distracted by him. It would take a man with balls of steel and a stubbornly closed heart not to melt in the presence of such a divine youth. Duncan haled from another place and time, one that was removed from the grime and indignities of today’s world. Tom half believed the boy would crumble to dust if he dared to touch him.

The lad was clothed in wolf skins that parted to reveal sculpted thighs brushed with a nuance of dark hairs. His chest was smooth and defined, the right balance of muscle and softness. His slender arms were crossed over his heart and his fingers were long and elegant. His face was heart-shaped with a cleft chin and high cheekbones. His nose was aquiline without being beaky. Everything about him from his parted brown curls to his sandaled toes was symmetrical in an almost unearthly sort of way.

Tom straightened, uncertain what to do. He knew he had to get Duncan out of the cave but he felt too gross, too awkward to touch the virginal creature. To do so felt like a violation and his will faltered even as he reached out to move the crystalline coffin lid aside.

Gripped by indecision, it took a snake to force him to act. A serpent the length of a horse reared up from the floor but, instead of baring its fangs, it turned around and slapped him across the arse with the back of its tail. He jumped, yelping in pain. How the fuck could a snake even do that? he wondered, rubbing his ample butt cheeks and staring reproachfully at the wicked creature. When the snake’s tail drew back, preparing to strike again, he acted without thinking. Reaching into the sepulchre and drawing the lad into his arms, he pulled Duncan out. The lid crashed to the floor, shattering into a thousand shards at his feet and he was left standing there, clutching the beautiful boy, his heart pounding in his chest.

What had he done? What had he done?!

He didn’t have time to think because the snake was already slithering forward and aiming its tail at him. He stepped backward, amazed at how light Duncan was. With the serpent bearing down on him, he turned and fled. Only when he had stumbled out of the cave entrance (and the snake) did he stop to admire his prize.

Duncan lay asleep in his arms, so willowy and thin that he barely weighed anything at all. In the full light of day, he was even more otherworldly and Tom froze as he studied him, noticing that his body was warm. If he concentrated, he could feel his chest expand and contract as Duncan took shallow breaths. So, the boy was still alive then. He wasn’t too late! As he stared, the boy stirred in his arms, a hint of color appearing on the his dewy cheeks. When he shifted almost imperceptibly in his grasp, Tom knew that he had succeeded in freeing the boy from the curse that kept him asleep.

Or maybe not.

Very gently, he shook Duncan, trying to get him to open those lovely eyes but the lad remained stubbornly asleep.

What should he do?

Afterward, he would wonder what came over him but at the time he didn’t think, he lowered his head until his mouth was hovering just above the lad’s pillowy lips and, with delicate care, kissed him. Even though it was a chaste kiss, almost brotherly, it still felt like he was kissing heaven because Duncan’s mouth was so soft, so sweet, so tender, so…

The world around them disappeared in that moment as Duncan’s eyelids fluttered open and he fixed Tom with his deep, brown gaze. His eyes were soulful and vulnerable, almost like a newborn babe’s. It was like Tom was seeing through Duncan’s wide eyes and everything was fresh and pure and unbearably new. He felt his heart bloom like a sun-touched flower and he immediately fell in love, not love of the erotic kind but love of a sort that is far less common. A love that scarcely ever shines in this darkened world of ours. A sublime love. A love akin to the love the Ancient Greeks called ‘Agape.’

The boy’s pupils contracted as he focused on Tom’s face and his lips parted enough to murmur something in a language that he didn’t recognize. When he was didn’t respond, the boy asked again, this time in archaic Latin.

“Who art thou?”

Tom smiled. Even his voice was angelic. Fuck, everything about Duncan was angelic!

“Who art thou?” he repeated, eyes widening slightly.

“I am a friend of Maximus,” he replied, feeling his conscience prick him; it should have been Maximus who kissed Duncan awake!

“Maximus…lives?”

God, that voice! It sent shivers down Tom’s spine. He couldn’t help smiling at the sound of it. 

“Yes, he lives and he longs for your touch but we must hurry,” Tom urged, awakening then to the sounds of the tribune’s battle with Tristan rising up from the plain below. He looked down just as Maximus raised his great hammer, letting loose a frightful bellow. 

Duncan heard it, too, and turned in Tom’s embrace, his face growing even paler when he registered the sight of the monster. His pupils dilated and his face wrinkled. “How long…?” he asked, voice full of confusion.

“Have you been asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Many, many years. Your mother placed a spell on you to keep you away from Maximus,” Tom explained as quickly as possible; there would be time later for more explanation. “And, well, she cursed Maximus. That monster down there, Duncan,” he said, inclining his head toward the combatants below. “That monster is him.”

The boy’s eyes went round and he pushed himself out of Tom’s grasp, exclaiming, “That is Maximus! My mother did that to him?”

He tried to run then but his legs were too weak and he stumbled. Tom caught him before he could fall, though, saying, “It is alright, Duncan. Don’t worry. Gruoch will lift the curse. You will have your Maximus at last!”

“I care not what he looks like,” the boy gasped, trying to shove Tom’s hands away. “I want only to be with him.”

Somehow, he managed to free himself from Tom’s grasp and stumbled down the scree-covered hillside. After several steps, he had regained his balance and was soon flying down to his beloved as Tom scrambled behind.

Tom’s heart expanded as the boy drew near to the fighters. Duncan began waving his arms as he moved into Maximus’ line of sight. The enormous ogre’s face contorted into a beatific grin as he saw his beloved for the first time in more than ten centuries. In an unexpected maneuver, he flipped his hammer in his hand, lunging out with the narrow handle and, catching Tristan in the gut, sent him flying. The knight landed heavily on his side, moaning and holding his stomach.

Maximus tossed his weapon aside and knelt down, opening his arm to catch the running boy and Duncan cried out, a sound of such joyful abandon that it brought a tear to Tom’s eye. He jogged up to the two lovers, a silly smile on his face, overwhelmed by shear happiness. Against all odds, the impossible that had occurred and love had won the day!

Or had it?

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement and turned in time to see Tristan’s hand lowering down to his boot. When he withdrew a dagger, Tom yelled out, trying to warn the pair of lovers.

He was too late.

 And Tristan was too fast.

The dagger zinged deadly and fast past Tom, barely a flash in the late afternoon light, as it zeroed in on its target. Before Maximus could blink–and before he could touch his Duncan–the dagger had buried itself inside his right eye socket.

Tom’s yell turned into a scream as the ogre collapsed heavily onto his knees and toppled forward into the confused Duncan’s arms. The boy braced himself, somehow managing to slow the giant’s descent. Maximus sagged, blood pouring out of his wounded eye, as Duncan finally registered what had transpired, his face contorting with hurt and rage.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

And then the battleground erupted with a heartrending keening that reverberated across the plain and over the walls of the fortress. It was a scream of agony and loss that devastated all who heard it. Ultimately, though, it faded out and was lost over the unending arc of an uncaring sea.

***

Chapter 15

Tom arrived at the scene to find Duncan cradling the fallen tribune-monster’s head in his lap. Maximus looked awful, mouth torn open in an agonized grimace as blood coursed down his cheek. Tristan’s dagger was buried up to the hilt in his eye. Blood stained Duncan’s wolfskins but the boy was beyond noticing. He was sobbing, calling out Maximus’ name over and over as if he believed that this would somehow bring his lover back from the brink.

“I will get Gruoch,” Tom gasped. “She’ll save him!”

Duncan lifted his head at these words, fixing Tom with a look of such torment that he couldn’t meet his gaze. “My mother would not help him even if she could!” he spat. “She is no healer! She only knows how to kill!” He lowered his face, tears fallingto mix with the tribune’s blood.

Surprisingly, Maximus stirred then, opening his good eye and raising a huge hand to cup his beloved’s cheek in his palm. “Duncan,” he whispered in a guttural tone, somehow managing to speak intelligibly. “My brave Duncan.”

“Maximus!” Duncan cried, hugging him fiercely about the neck. “Maximus! Please don’t die!”

Tom saw then that the tribune’s body was shifting, changing. As he watched, the man’s skin began to lose its greenish hue. Soon, his body was shrinking and his features gradually regained their rugged symmetry. His jawline hardened and his nose narrowed; his chest and torso realigned into muscular perfection. A mane of lustrous brown hair sprouted on his head, blending with his signature white forelock. The warts and blemishes disappeared from his face. Soon, he was the Maximus that Tom remembered so fondly…except for the dagger sticking out of his eye, that is.

The witch had kept her word and ended the curse but she had been too late.

Maximus took a shuddering breath, croaking, “At least I can hold you once more before I die. Duncan. My Duncan. My brave, strong Duncan. I love you.” He fixed the boy with his beautiful, almond-colored eye and drew one, last ragged breath before dying.

Silence.

Complete silence.

It seemed to stretch forever as Tom stared down at the pair of lovers, feeling his heart breaking. He didn’t even realize that tears were running down his face. He was too deeply buried in a state of shocked disbelief. Part of him couldn’t conceive of the bitter truth that he had come so close to reuniting the cursed lovers, so close to winning, so close…only to have it all ruined.

Duncan clung to Maximus’ body, wracked by a paroxysm of grief. Tom had never seen anything so terrible and he stood there numbly for a long time before kneeling to sling an arm over the lad’s shoulders. Duncan didn’t seem to notice. Nothing could touch him now. He was outside of himself. Lost.

A shadow fell across them and Tom looked up to find Tristan standing there, broad-shouldered and backlit. He was holding his ribs and covered in grime and sweat but his face split into a wide grin as he pronounced, “I win. You are mine forever, Brother Tom.” 

At another time, his words might have elicited a response but right then Tom felt so dead inside that he could only blink up at the knight. His mouth opened but there were no words. He was blank. Empty.

“Well?” Tristan prompted, seemingly oblivious to the carnage and devastation before him. He held out his hand impatiently, urging, “Come on, Tom! Move out of the way. I need to collect a trophy as proof of my victory.”

Tom’s brain refused to take in any of this. It simply would not allow him to believe that Tristan was capable of such incredible insensitivity. He sat there dumbly, mouth hanging open, unable to think or move. Tristan smirked down at him, drawing his blade and squatting down as he reached out to sever Maximus’ head.

Before he could touch the man, though, Duncan’s voice rang out, loud and terrible, rising with each syllable until he was screaming at the top of his voice: “Tha mi a ‘cur mallachd ort gu ifrinn agus nas fhaide air falbh. Bidh thu gu bràth a ‘coimhead coltach ris a’ bhiast a tha thu a-staigh!”

The skin on the back of Tom’s neck prickled and his body broke out in gooseflesh. He had no idea what the boy had screamed but knew instinctively that it was not good. Tristan, however, seemed amused. He was reaching out to push Duncan off of Maximus’ body when the boy suddenly plucked the dagger out of the tribune’s eye, brandishing it menacingly. Tom sprang forward, trying to snatch the blade out of the boy’s grip but he was too late. Before he could touch him, Duncan had plunged the dagger into his own chest. Blood gushed out. The boy’s aim was good; he had pierced his heart. Taking one last gasp, he collapsed on top of Maximus and died, his blood mixing indelibly with the tribune’s.

Tom froze in horror, mind once again going blank with utter disbelief. He stood there dumbly, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Trying to reconcile what his eyes saw with the way he wanted things to be. In his mind’s reality, Maximus was still alive and Duncan was there beside him. They were happy. They were free. They were in love…

But, no. 

In the end, there was no denying what had happened, no matter how hard his mind tried to disprove it.

Duncan and Maximus were no more.

***

Tom awoke from his grief-stricken stupor to find Tristan preparing to cut off Maximus’ head again. He instantly saw red and his hands were around the knight’s neck before he was fully aware of what he was doing. Squeezing hard, he felt Tristan’s larynx crush in his grip as he hissed, “You will NOT do that! I submit to the terms of the Rite. You have won and I am now a Mazzerine. Now get the fuck away from me!”

Tristan gurgled unintelligibly, nodding his head, and Tom released his hold. The knight dropped his sword and sank back on his haunches, massaging his throat and staring at him reproachfully.

Tom ignored him and busied himself with swatting the flies off of the ill-fated lovers’ bodies. With infinite tenderness, he lifted Duncan off of Maximus and withdrew the dagger from the boy’s stomach, wiping it off on his cloak and sticking it into the sheath in his boot. He then positioned their bodies side by side with Maximus’ arm cradling Duncan against his chest. In death, the boy’s beauty had become ethereal, attaining a radiance that tore at Tom’s heart with its holy perfection. Even Maximus was handsome, despite the fact that one of his eyes was no more than a bloody hole.

He sat there for a long time in silence, waving off the flies, until the lovers’ bodies began to tighten with rigor mortis. He looked away then, unable to bear the sight and wiped the tears off of his salt-encrusted cheeks. He had cried more tears that day than all the days of his life combined.

Tristan had retreated, wisely remaining silent while he grieved. Tom was pushing himself to his feet, reluctantly rising to assume his rank as shieldmate to Tristan of Eisenholt and brother in the Mazzerine order, when he noticed something peculiar about Tristan. He squinted, shielding his eyes against the slanting rays of the sun. Was it a trick of the light or was his skin tinged with green?

“Tristan.” 

The knight looked up at him and Tom’s voice died in his throat when the man’s face became fully illuminated in the sunlight. He took an inadvertent step backward.

“What?” Tristan demanded hoarsely. 

His voice was all wrong. Too deep. Too guttural. Tom took another step backward.

Tristan raised his nose to the breeze and inhaled deeply, grunting, “You smell good. Real good. C’mere.” He reached down and fumbled with the straps of his codpiece, releasing his manhood. Tom goggled, feeling ill. The organ that flopped out was grotesquely swollen and covered with knobby growths. It couldn’t be called a ‘manhood’ any longer’ because there was almost nothing human about it.

Tom went pale. Everything about the situation–and about Tristan–was wrong. Wrong! He was backing away when Tristan closed the distance between them with unnatural speed and grabbed Tom in his arms, roughly spinning him around. He paused, leering down at Tom and spitting into his palm.

“Tristan, NO!” Tom shouted, shoving back against the knight’s hold. The last thing he wanted was to get fucked.

“Shut up, cunt!” the knight growled, slapping him hard across the buttocks. “And lemme at your hole!”

Tom fought hard but found himself out-matched. Tristan, possessing an inhuman kind of strength, wrestled him to the ground, pushing him onto his hands and knees and holding his hips in hands that were too large, too paw-like to be human. 

“STOP IT!” Tom yelled, pouring all of his will and energy into getting free. 

It was no use. If anything, his resistance seemed to turn Tristan on even more. The knight backhanded him hard across the face and Tom’s head snapped back. He tasted blood. He regrouped, struggling mightily to free his backside from his assailant’s unholy grip. A moment later, though, Tom howled in pain as Tristan thrust his knobby, bloated tool inside him. He felt his insides tear, blood running down his thighs.

“FUCKING STOP!” he demanded, still fighting to free himself as the man (monster?) bore into him.

“Quieav, ukluav!” the beast roared in his ear, pummeling his arsehole with increasing brutality. Tom’s eyes rolled back in his head as he felt Tristan’s alien tool grow fatter and longer inside him. 

What the fuck is happening to him?! he wondered frantically, trying desperately to stay clear-headed despite the searing pain of the rape. It’s almost like he’s been cursed. 

He froze at the thought.

Cursed?

Cursed!

As the horrible beast slammed into his aching hole one last time and that grotesque clublike cock exploded, filling him with gallons of putrescent seed, Tom finally understood what Duncan had done just before killing himself. He groaned, partly from pain and partly from dread. Tristan sagged on top of him, his giant weight forcing him down onto his elbows. He didn’t need to see Tristan to know that his body had grown in proportion with his ridiculously bloated cock.

Tristan, he knew then with deadly certainty, was becoming a monster.

More specifically, he was turning into an ogre, just like Maximus; however, unlike the tribune, who had remained human inside even as his body morphed into a beast, it was obvious from his brutality that Tristan’s humanity was departing as his body changed. He was becoming a monster both within and without. Tom shook his head, his chest clenching. Duncan had cursed Tristan and sealed the curse with his own blood.

A curse sealed with the mortal blood of the caster, Tom knew, could never be lifted.

Tristan would be a monster forever.

***

His hunger for Tom’s hole sated, Tristan rolled off and sprawled out grunting on his back. Tom watched him numbly, seething with rage at being violated and revolted at the sight of his massively ugly (and now bloody) cock dribbling greenish semen. As he stared, thick, yellowed tusked emerged from the man’s lower jaw and his formerly handsome features distorted, growing brutish and dull as his forehead sloped backward and his brow sloped forward. His hair fell out, followed by his beard. His cock throbbed and grew thicker, longer, greener, and knobbier. His torso trembled and his nipples distended as his pecs expanded, pushing against the increasingly tight harness. Soon, Tom realized dimly, the knight’s body would be too big to be contained by its armor.

Soon he would cease to resemble Tristan at all.

Poor Tom. He was too slow to realize that his life was in danger. As the curse took hold and Tristan’s body ceased to bear any semblance to the knight he knew (and had sometimes loved), so, too, were the last traces of his humanity disappearing. His heart blackened, becoming nothing more than a heavy stone in his chest and he forgot entirely what it meant to love. All he wanted was to kill.

The Tristan-monster stirred finally, lifting his great, gnarled paws to tear the constraining armor off of his body. He tossed the pieces aside, his grotesque body now completely naked. Still, all Tom could do was stare. When the monster pushed himself to his feet and stumbled over to pick up Maximus’ discarded warhammer, Tom didn’t react. Only when the deformed creature stooped to tear the plates of armor off of the fallen tribune’s body did he begin to realize that he was in trouble. He edged away from the monster as it thrust its fists through the armholes and shrugged the enormous plates over his chest. Doing his best to become invisible, Tom cast about for Faith while the ogre was distracted girding his loins with the blackened steel. After fumbling with the buckles, the thing that had once been Tristan turned and Tom froze, his heart sinking as he watched a twisted leer split the beast’s face in two.

At that moment, he spotted Faith grazing in the distance and bolted, sprinting as fast as his heavy thighs would go…which wasn’t very fast compared to the inhumanly agile ogre giving chase behind him. He was only halfway to Faith, whistling to the mare in between ragged gasps, when the monster caught up. He could hear the beast’s heavy breathing and smell its fetid odor as it raised the warhammer over its head and prepared to smash him to pieces.

Tom accelerated but it wasn’t enough.

He drew to a halt and turned around, staring defiantly up at the beast and drawing his blade even though part of him knew that he didn’t stand a chance. The monster–now reduced to a disturbing caricature of Tristan’s former beauty–sneered down at him, the deadly hammer already beginning its descent. Tom’s fighter’s mind took over, examining the scene before him with lightning speed, figuring out the most logical and lethal strategy to defeat the monster.

Unfortunately for him, he found no vulnerabilities. 

He came up empty. In the split second he had before his life ended, Tom could see no way to survive. He didn’t even have time to dodge.

He was doomed.

With the great hammer only inches from his head, something big and fierce smashed into Tristan, sending him off kilter. The hammer whistled past Tom’s head and buried itself in the rocky ground at his feet. Tristan howled and Tom turned, stunned, to see the huge warhorse, Basil, rearing up again to lash out at the monster with steel-tipped hooves. The ogre, bleeding ichor from twin gashes on its head where those hooves had just connected, tugged savagely at his hammer. It came free and he hoisted it over his head, spinning around to attack the horse.

Tom didn’t wait. He sprinted over and lunged at Faith, scrambling up into the saddle and urging her into a gallop even as he heard the stallion scream and then fall silent. He lowered his head, burying it in Faith’s mane, as more tears poured down his cheeks.

Basil had just sacrificed his life to save him.

***

Faith flew across the plain and up into the hills, her hooves pounding and her flanks heaving. Tom had no idea where she found the strength to run so fast. She had already made the trip from Gruoch’s fortress to the Roman camp and back that day. How much more did she have left in her?

As fast as the mare ran, though, she could only maintain a small lead on Tristan. The ogre ran with uncanny speed and never seemed to grow tired. When Tom dared to look behind, he saw that the horrible beast was scarcely a quarter mile back. He wanted to urge Faith on but knew that she was already galloping as fast as she could. All he could do was hope that the mare had enough stamina to stay ahead of the monster.

They made it to the legion camp about an hour before sunset but any hope that they would find safety was dashed when they entered the front gate. Tom groaned as Faith pulled up, her nostrils flaring and foam dripping out of her mouth. His shoulders contracted as he took in the grisly scene before him.

The ground was littered with the bones of Roman soldiers.

Every last man had collapsed, his body withering to dust where he lay. Tom stared down at the scattered remains, choking on the bitter understanding that the legion’s curse had been tied to Maximus’ fate. When the tribune had died, so had they. And now all that was left were a bunch of old bones and the empty shells of rusted armor.

The Ninth Legion had disappeared again, this time for good.

Tom’s resolved wavered. As much as he longed to fall off the horse and seek shelter, he knew there was no refuge for them inside the camp. His only choice was to move and to move quickly. He forced his disappointed away, pulling on the reins and urging the mare out of the gate. Already, he could feel the ground tremble with the impact of Tristan’s footfalls.

Where can we go? he wondered, feeling desperate. Is there anywhere on this island that is safe from that beast?

He thought frantically, realizing they were not far from the beach where he and Tristan had come ashore. (Was it really only three days ago?) He knew there would be no boat waiting for them because the captain had refused to make a return trip to pick them up. The only hope–and it was a slim one–was to get to the sea ahead of the monster and swim toward the distant shore. He doubted the monster would be able to swim in its heavy armor and it was possible that, like Maximus and the legion’s curse, Tristan’s curse kept him imprisoned within the boundaries of the island. The question was: Did he and Faith have the strength to swim across the straits? 

He sighed, feeling the heaviness of despair settle over him. He was so tired. Why was he even trying? What did he have left to live for anyway? Life as a slave to the Mazzerine Brotherhood…if he was even able to get away from Tristan. It didn’t seem very appealing.

Fortunately for him, Faith’s will to live was stronger than his own and she pushed onward, galloping toward the sea.

***

The rays of the setting sun were filtering through the clouds on the western horizon when the mare crested the dunes on the southern shore of the island. The breeze off the water was bracing, helping to wake Tom from the malaise that had settled over him. He lifted his head and peered blearily about. Empty sand and waves. That was all there was for as far as he could see.

Emptiness.

Hopelessness.

Faith lifted her muzzle and smelled the air before letting out a long, excited whinny. He had to grab for the reins when she broke into a mad gallop, her hooves finding better purchase now that she was on wet sand. She sped off down the beach, heading into the sunset with Tom clinging to the saddle and wondering where the hell she was going.

After a quarter of a mile, he shaded his eyes and was able to discern a black speck in the distance. It was too far away yet to tell what it was but the small, black dot appeared to be the mare’s destination. He studied at it as they approached, realizing at last what it was.

A sailboat.

A sailboat!

Faith lengthened her stride, pushing harder, giving everything she had to increase her lead over Tristan. Her coat was drenched in sweat and her chest was heaving. He knew that she was exhausted and yet she kept going. Her will to survive–and to protect him–inspired him and his flagging spirits lifted. If Faith had faith, then he did, too.

When they drew nearer, Tom saw he hadn’t been mistaken; it was most certainly a small sailboat. They were about a quarter mile away when the silhouette of a man detached itself from the boat, casting a long shadow down the sand. The figure lifted its arms and waved.

Tom gaped when he recognized him.

It was Eowin.

“Ho! Tom!” the young blacksmith called out as they drew closer. “You be alive!”

Faith drew up alongside Eowin and Tom all but fell out of the saddle into the young smith’s muscular arms. Eowin hauled him up, his eager mouth finding Tom’s.

“I…I thought you got married,” Tom murmured, lifting his head to gaze into Eowin’s autumn-brown eyes. Why had he ever thought that the youth was plain? At that moment, Tom had never seen a man so handsome or so true. “Why are you here?”

Unexpectedly, Eowin laughed. “Why, t’ save you, ‘course! Why else? ‘Sides,” he added sheepishly, “my bride kicked me out o’ the chapel when she found out about us.”

Tom was about to reply when he felt the sand vibrate ominously beneath his feet. The two men turned to behold the arrival of the Tristan monster atop a dune not far down the beach. His green form was stained red by the setting sun, armor glinting dull black.

Eowin followed his gaze, commenting drily, “Now that be a monster or I dinna know me own mum!”

“Yes, that’s a monster alright,” Tom muttered, grimacing. “And he wants me dead. The only problem is that he’s too big and too fast for me.”

Eowin grunted dismissively. “Too big? Too fast? Pffft. You can take him!”

“But–”

Eowin held up his big hand (It was such a beautiful hand, too!), forestalling Tom’s protest. “You can take him and win!” he assured, motioning behind him to the boat. “All you need t’ do is put this on and you will not fail.”

Tom turned toward the small boat questioningly and caught his breath when he saw the package lying in the hull. The finest armor he’d ever seen lay carefully arranged, gleaming strong and sure in the fading evening light. He looked back at Eowin, full of questions.

The smith laughed again, a boom of infectious delight. “I tole you I was designin’ armor for you in me head, dinna I? Well, after my bride left me, I set to makin’ it. Now try ‘er on!”

Dazedly, Tom reached into the boat, holding the armor up in wonder. Appearances were not deceiving; the handsome smith had fashioned a set of the strongest and lightest armor that Tom had ever seen. Even more incredibly, he soon discovered that it fit him perfectly, right down to the reinforced mail over his big belly. He admired it breathlessly as the young man finished strapping it to his body.

“There you be!” Eowin exclaimed as he surveyed Tom proudly. “Now wipe away those tears and go get that monster!” He reached up and swiped the back of his broad hand across Tom’s cheeks before leaning in and kissing him sweetly. He then helped Tom cinch his belt, sliding the sword that Gruoch had given him into the scabbard.

They weren’t a moment too soon because the Tristan ogre was already bearing down upon them. He roared deafeningly, raising the deadly hammer above his head as Tom dropped and rolled out of the way. The hammer whooshed past his ear, its momentum sending the monster staggering when it failed to connect. Tom used this miscalculation to his advantage, spinning on his heel and setting off at a run in the attempt to lead Tristan away from Eowin and Faith. The monster bellowed in outrage and gave chase, catching up before Tom had gone a hundred paces.

It was far enough; Tom had enough room to work. He dropped to his haunches, fighter’s mind engaging once again. Eowin (and the armor clinging to his body like a second skin) gave him fresh resolve. He was not going to lose this fight! Setting his jaw, he forced away all thoughts of Maximus and Duncan and his focus narrowed down to one thing only: Defeating Tristan.

This wasn’t an easy proposition because, in his monstrous form, Tristan may have lost traces of humanity but he retained every bit of Tristan’s training. This, coupled with his newly-enhanced, massive form, meant that Tom had met his match and then some. He knew with the grim certainty of a seasoned warrior that this fight could very well be his last because he could see no hint of vulnerability as he stared down the enormous beast.

No hint of physical vulnerability, maybe, but Tom already knew that the brute had other, less obvious weaknesses. He could be baited, for instance. All he had to do was get him to lose focus…

The dance that followed was the finest, most intricately choreographed piece of guile, will power, and athleticism of Tom’s life. He used every trick in his devious playbook as he tried to draw out the beast’s weaknesses. Tom’s body might be heavy and ill-suited to combat, thanks to Tristan’s Mazzarine curse, but the new armor rested lightly upon him and his heart was charged with a new passion, thanks to Eowin. He was determined not to fail and delved deep inside himself, finding untapped reserves of strength and endurance.

Gruoch’s blade was a true wonder. Fitting his grip like a deadly extension of his arm, it went a long way toward evening the odds. He managed to score a series of short, sharp stabs early on that inflicted only superficial damage but enraged Tristan so much that he began making mistakes. Soon, the sand was stained green with his ichor and he had worked himself into an apoplectic rage. Yellowish foam dripped from his jaws and his eyes glowed red.

Gruoch’s sword may have been the perfect weapon but Eowin’s armor was its perfect complement, proving over and again during the fight that the smith knew his craft. While Tom managed to avoid any direct hits, Tristan did succeed in landing glancing blows here and there when he miscalculated. The armor absorbed the impact, though, leaving Tom bruised but otherwise whole.

Tristan became even more enraged.

Tom smirked, quickly working to leverage this rage in his favor. He realized that if he slowed down slightly, Tristan would expend more energy winding up for an assault and then have to work harder to pull the buried hammerhead out of the sand when Tom dodged out of the way at the last instant. While this strategy left him at risk to more blows from the hammer, his armor protected him and Tom was able to stay relatively fresh. Over time, his tactics began to pay dividends as the monster became fatigued.

So, he thought as he backed away from Tristan, narrowing his eyes as he watched the monster’s chest heave. You do have limits after all.

He redoubled his efforts, trying to see how long he could prolong the fight. If he was lucky, Tristan would eventually become sluggish enough for him to land a mortal blow.

If he was lucky…

The tipping point of the fight came just as the crimson orb of the sun was sinking into the ocean. Tom had cleverly manipulated the ogre into the path of the setting sun. When Tristan was momentarily blinded, he launched himself into the air, employing his signature move. It was the same maneuver he’d used against Tristan during the Challenge of First Blood and more recently against Maximus in their fight on the practice grounds. It had worked twice before, how could he fail now?

He failed.

Anticipating his leap, Tristan managed to sidestep just in time. Tom went sailing past, frantically trying to adjust his trajectory. He might have succeeded if he’d still possessed the athletic physique (that Tristan had stolen from him) but, in his current form, he was too heavy and awkward. Rather than landing on his feet, he toppled to the ground, splayed out on his face. His sword went flying, landing several feet away. He barely had time to flip over onto his back before Tristan was on top of him again.

Spitting sand, he watched with grim resignation as the ogre’s hammer arced through the air, aimed directly at his chest. He didn’t have time to move, didn’t even have time to flinch. All he could was stare at his impending death, soon to be etched on the sharpened head of that damned hammer.

The blow never landed.

Eowin’s roar echoed over the beach as he lunged for Tom’s buried sword and, grabbing it deftly, catapulted toward Tristan, aiming the blade at the ogre’s jugular. Tristan had to pivot to counter his assault and his hammer spun crazily through the air. Unfortunately, Eowin was not a trained fighter and failed to adjust his position. He went flying past Tristan, Gruoch’s blade glancing harmlessly off the monster’s plate armor. 

He landed heavily, the sword flying out of his hand. Far from giving up, though, the blacksmith staggered to his feet and rounded on the beast, springing at him and grabbing the head of the ogre’s hammer. There was a crazy moment when Tristan hoisted the hammer in the air, the blacksmith dangling haplessly off the end. Tristan smirked, his tusks jutting luridly from his lips, as he casually flicked his wrists. Tom cried out as Eowin went flying, landing with thud in the sand more than fifty feet away. The blacksmith groaned, rolling over onto his side before lying still.

Tristan sensed his imminent triumph and turned back toward Tom, lifting his head to bellow thunderously. Tom looked around. He was weaponless; his sword lay more than twenty feet away and there was no way he could move fast enough to grab it before the ogre caught up to him.

Quite simply, he was fucked.

He scrambled backward, trying to get out of range of the ogre’s weapon but Tristan took one giant step and he was right there again, looming over him. He lifted his fearsome hammer high over his head and prepared yet again to end his one-time lover’s life. Tom clenched his jaw, hands digging into the sand, hoping to fling it into Tristan’s eyes but the ogre was too fast; he lunged before Tom’s fists even left the sand.

For the third time that day, fate intervened to save Tom’s life. Fate or, more specifically, Faith. The mare careened into Tristan from behind, throwing him off balance just enough to skew the hammer’s arc. He missed Tom’s chest….

…and shattered his arm instead.

Tom screamed in white hot agony as he both felt and heard his bones pulverize under the savagery of the blow. Eowin’s armor might be tough but it was no match for a direct hit from the beast’s hammer. Tom’s vision went black. When he opened his eyes again, the ogre had just finished flattening the mare. She was writhing on the sand nearby, blood pouring out of her flank. Tristan paused to square his misshapen shoulders, hefting the hammer in his huge paw.

He turned back to Tom.

Tom lay there, his blood staining the sand and seeing red hot stars of pain burst inside his skull. He was completely helpless and knew that his luck had run out. There was no one left to save him. He stared, head swimming with excruciating agony, as the ogre strode up to halt before him. The beast paused, savoring Tom’s defeat, as he almost casually lifted the great hammer over his head. The wicked weapon gleamed red both with Faith’s blood and the light of the setting sun. Before slamming it downward, Tristan made eye contact with Tom to make sure that he knew he had lost. He grinned, tusks jutting out and lips sneering.

He hunched his great shoulders and swung the great hammer down…

…only to fall backward, dropping the hammer and clawing at a dagger lodged in his eye.

Tom’s dagger.

The very same dagger he’d pulled from Duncan’s belly and stashed in his boot.

The same dagger that Tristan had used to kill Maximus.

It is fitting, Tom thought grimly as he laid his head down in the sand, feeling his life pouring out of him. It is a fitting end.

***

EPILOGUE

It was nearly dark when he awoke to find his head cradled in Eowin’s lap. The lad was smoothing the hair away from his eyes and murmuring in a soothing voice as tears slid down his face. Tom was so overwhelmed with happiness at seeing his lover again it took him a few moments to realize that the miraculous had occurred: Not only was he still alive but he had hair on his head again. The Mazzarine curse had been lifted!

“Eowin…I’m…alive?” he whispered as the boy lowered his sweet lips down for a kiss.

“‘Tis true and ‘tis ever so lovely!” Eowin replied, pulling back and grinning broadly. “And I pray you, my lord, dinna ever do a thing like that again! I was afeared you’d been taken from me a second time!”

Tom wrinkled his face at the use of the term ‘my lord’ but broke out into a smile again a moment later. He couldn’t help it; Eowin was a sight too precious for the eyes! 

He shifted then, remembering the battle and the wicked events of the day, and his heart grew heavy. “And what of Tristan?” he begged, lifting his head to look around. “Did I kill him?”

Eowin pulled a face, pushing Tom’s head gently back down on his lap. “Aye,” he grunted, turning to spit in the sand. “And good riddance to th’ bastard. ‘Twas naught but a monster, that one!”

“He wasn’t always so,” Tom murmured, trying again to sit up on his elbows when for a second time Eowin prevented him. Tom’s brow was knitting in confusion when he felt it–or rather didn’t feel it–and finally understood why his lover was trying to discourage him from sitting up.

He only had one elbow.

Which meant he had only one arm.

A dark cloud settled over him as he remembered: Tristan’s final blow really had succeeded in severing his arm. He screwed his eyes shut and sank back down into Eowin’s lap, bitter tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. Fuck! His arm was gone! And his sword arm, too! It almost didn’t matter if he was no longer a Mazzarine thrall if he couldn’t be a swordfighter. The sword was his life. Without it, he was just a worthless bastard.

A fucking worthless bastard!

Sweet, sensitive Eowin let him cry. He sat there silently, holding Tom’s face between his calloused hands and staring down at him with an expression of such tenderness that it broke Tom’s heart to look upon him. He closed his eyes and wept.

***

After a long time, his tears ran dry and he stirred. He was still inwardly devastated but he had no more tears. Plus, being alive, with his lover and free of the curse assuaged the loss somewhat. And there was something else, too. Something he’d missed as the grief of losing his livelihood (and a big part of his identity) had overwhelmed him. Using his left arm, he pushed himself upward. This time Eowin did not try to stop him and, as he was sitting up, he finally got it: He wasn’t in pain. His arm had just been crushed and yet he felt no pain! Why? Was he in shock?

“Why is it numb?” he gasped. “My arm’s gone but the wound doesn’t ache. How–?”

“You have Gruoch to thank for that, you do,” Eowin cut in. “She may not’ve been able t’ save yer arm but she could heal yer wounds.” When Tom started to ask more questions, he soothed, “Rest, my love. Rest. All will become clear in th’ morning.”

Tom, however, refused to stay put and Eowin had to wrestle to keep him lying in place. Finally, he consented to lift Tom’s head so he could take in the scene on the beach. The sun had long since set but the moon had risen and cast a silvery glow over the island and the sea. Waves lapped quietly on the nearby shore and the air was still. 

Further down the beach, Tom could see Gruoch’s spare form leaning over Faith’s body. As he watched, the witch whispered something and a white glow limned her hands, gradually pouring outward until it covered the mare with radiance. When it had dissipated, Gruoch helped the mare to rise and the beautiful, loyal creature swished her tail before trotting off down the beach–apparently none the worse for her wounds–to join an immense stallion who stood waiting nearby. For a moment Tom thought the stallion might be Basil but then realized that this horse was all white, not chestnut brown. It is Gruoch’s familiar, he thought, remembering the witch had hold him the wolfhound could take any form.

Perhaps feeling his eyes on her, Gruoch straightened and turned toward them. When she saw Tom was awake, she smiled and paced over to them. He gazed upon her, tears coming back to his eyes but he blinked them away as she pronounced in a low voice, “I am glad you are alive, my friend, and sorry I could not save your arm.”

Tom regarded her, this small woman brimming with untold powers of life and death, and bowed his head. “I am alive and I am with Eowin,” he said with sincere gratitude. “I have no reason to complain.” She nodded, looking down at the sand, and he continued in a voice thick with regret, “It is I who am sorry because I failed you. I hoped to save your son but now he is gone and you have lost everything: Your realm, your people, and now Duncan.”

Surprisingly, his words brought a smile to the witch queen’s face. “You forget that you have given me my freedom, Tom,” she reminded him. “And in doing so, you have given me hope. That is something I haven’t had in a very long time and it is a gift most precious.”

***

Gruoch had brought the bodies of Duncan and Maximus with her, hauling them on a small cart behind her stallion familiar all the way from the keep. After another draught of healing elixir, Tom felt good enough to rise, staggering to his feet with Eowin’s aid. He leaned heavily upon the lad’s shoulder, trying to ignore the ghostly emptiness on his right side, and was startled to discover that his armor no longer fit like it had before the battle. Apparently, the fading curse had restored more than just his hair; it had given him back his old body, too. 

Or at least some of it.

He frowned when he reached behind himself and felt his still burgeoning buttocks. And then scowled when he clapped his hand over his codpiece and discovered it was barely half full: His ‘restored’ cock and balls were barely half their previous size. His scowl deepened and he cursed under his breath. Not only had he lost his sword arm, he’d lost his muscular prowess as well. He knew with grim certainty he would never be fully free of the Mazzarine curse even with Tristan dead.

Reading his disappointment, Eowin stopped and hugged him tightly, grabbing his giant arse and squeezing. “Just you wait, my lord, til I get you alone! I will have yer big arse singin’ my praises til my cock crows inside ye!”

“Ugh,” Tom grunted, trying to shove the boy off of him. “Do you have to rub it in?”

“Aye, my lord,” Eowin teased. “And I’ll do more than rub it in. I’ll jam it in good and rough!”

Tom scowled even as his little cock perked up in his codpiece. “And stop calling me ‘my lord’! I’m a bastard! A worthless bastard who cannot even hold a sword!”

Eowin laughed at this and was preparing to reply when Gruoch cut in. “Tom,” she said in a warning tone, “I believe I’ve already told you how I feel about that word, haven’t I?” He froze, embarrassed that she had overheard him, and hung his head. The proud queen laughed at his contrition, adding, “Besides, I believe my grandmother’s sword still hangs from your side, does it not? She was left-handed and now you are, too. Do not assume your career as a swordfighter is over just because you lack an arm.”

She grew silent again as they turned to look down at the bier where she had laid out Maximus and Duncan. With Eowin’s aid, Tom limped closer and gazed down upon them. The rigor mortis had worn off and their bodies were relaxed. In the moonlight, it almost looked like they were sleeping. Maximus’ eyes were closed and Gruoch had cleaned the blood off of his face. Likewise, Duncan’s wolfskins were pristine, his self-inflicted wound hidden beneath. The boy’s unearthly beauty still radiated from him just as it had when Tom first laid eyes upon him in the crypt. In a further acknowledgement of the lovers’ bond, Gruoch has nestled Duncan within the shelter of Maximus’ arm. It may have been a trick of the light but Tom swore that contented smiles graced both their lips.

“Do you think less of me, Tom,” she inquired as she came to stand by his side, “if I confess I feel almost nothing looking down at my dead son? He is like a stranger to me, a young man who departed my life over a thousand years ago.”

Tom blinked, stiffening before he demanded, “How can you ask me that, my lady? As if I were equipped to judge you? I cannot even begin to understand everything you have been through and yet I know you are a good and true person. If you feel nothing, then it is not because you lack morals…or a heart.”

Gruoch was silent, contemplating his words. When she spoke, he felt a shiver pass through his body with her words. “Sir Thomas of Erlewine,” she intoned. “You began your quest a feckless boy and have ended it a man. Whatever may befall you from here, know that you are wise and you are worthy. I bow before you.”

With that, she knelt down and lowered her head to him.

***

Under the watchful moon, the witch sent a flare heavenward. It arced through the sky before falling precisely atop Duncan and Maximus, setting them ablaze. As the blue flames rose upward, consuming the bodies in a smokeless fire, Eowin slung his arm over Tom’s shoulder and kissed his ear. Tom hung his head and cried.

Gruoch remained motionless the entire time, her face an unreadable mask. Tom wanted to reach out to comfort her but sensed that this would not be well received. Instead, he stood there silently, watching the lovers’ bodies disintegrate into ash.

Farewell, Maximus, he whispered to himself. I knew you only a little while but I did love you very much. And farewell, Duncan, the most loyal and beautiful lover a man could ever want!

When only a pile of white dust remained of the two lovers, Tom knelt one last time and offered a prayer for their souls. Then he stood and surprised Eowin and Gruoch by rising and staggering over to Tristan’s body. The monster’s giant form lay black and bloated amongst the dune grass perhaps fifty feet away, Duncan’s dagger still lodged in his eye socket.

Unlike Maximus, Tristan did not revert to his human form upon death. He was even uglier and more deformed than Tom remembered and he suppressed a shudder. Somehow, though, he made himself stay and gaze down upon his former lover and frequent tormentor. His heart twisted inside his chest as he tried and failed to recognize the once rakishly handsome man in the hideous ogre’s visage.

Tears fell anew, trickling down his cheeks as he settled on the sand and cradled that great, ugly head in his lap. “Tristan, my knight. I forgive you and I love you.” Closing his eyes, he pulled Duncan’s dagger free and replaced it in the sheath in his boot before lowering his head and kissing those twisted and warty lips. “May you find peace.”

He sat like that for a long time, the soft ocean breeze ruffling his hair–He had hair! He had hair again!–and crying over Tristan’s body. When he looked up, Eowin and Gruoch were standing over him with awed expressions.

Eowin was the first to recover. “I dinna know anyone like you, milord! How ye can forgive that monster is beyond me!”

Gruoch nodded but offered no comment. Instead, she waited until he had risen and rejoined Eowin before sending forth another brilliant flame heavenward. It arced blue-white into the sky before descending to engulf Tristan, incinerating him to ash. When Tom looked over his shoulder as he hobbled away, the wind was already scattering his knight’s remains to the four directions.

***

Tom and Eowin settled in Northrup for a time after returning to the mainland. While there, Tom found work training the local lord’s sons in swordcraft while Eowin’s renown as a master armorer spread gradually throughout the land. After a few years, they were invited to Rome where Eowin was awarded the position of Emperor Hadrian XI’s personal armorer. By that time, Tom had recovered enough of his natural ability to win a place in the Praetorian Guard. As far as anyone knew, he was the first one-armed swordsman to ever hold the title. Life in the Eternal City was challenging in many ways but the pair benefited from the more tolerant attitudes. In Rome, at least, no one looked twice at a male couple holding hands on the street and they enjoyed a happy, peaceful life together.

The Mazzerine curse had dissolved with Tristan’s death and Tom’s body was (mostly) restored to its former glory. He was never able to quite lose his belly fat and his arse would be forever on the generous side, verging on corpulent, but at least his proud cock regrew somewhat and his tattoos disappeared. After Eowin pleaded with him, he consented to leave the piercings on his nipples and his glans. The blacksmith, it turned out, was quite fond of playing with them. And, finally, Tom’s shaggy, brown hair regrew thick and full just like before. For the rest of his life, though, he had bright, white forelock just like Maximus. He smiled at it whenever he saw himself in the mirror, remembering the handsome tribune. As long as he lived, he was both haunted by and grateful for his experience on the cursed isle. In that small way, he thought when he woke at night, regretting his failure to save the lovers, Maximus and Duncan lived on in his and Eowin’s love.

It wasn’t much but it was something.

And, really, in the end, isn’t it the small things that add up to make a life well-lived?

***

Gruoch stayed long enough to officiate Eowin and Tom’s wedding, telling them that she felt like it made up in some way for her past sins against her son and Maximus. After the ceremony, she departed without revealing a word of her plans. Only after many years did they learn of her meeting with the emperor and how close she came to bringing the entire Roman Empire to its knees. That, however, is a tale for another day.