Men of Anderas II: Dak the Protector Read online

  THE MEN OF ANDERAS

  Dak, the Protector

  By

  C.J. Johnson

  ( c ) Copyright January, 2014, Cheryl Johnson

  Cover art by Jenny Dixon

  Smashwords Edition

  New Concepts Publishing

  Lake Park, GA 31636

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my own personal DAK: Douglas Alan. Knestrict. You are an amazing young man and excel at whatever you attempt--you dance, you kick-ass in martial arts, you even climb walls and jump from tall buildings. Your writer’s imagination knows no bounds and I have no doubt we’ll see your name in print in a few years. What makes you truly special is your strength of character and steadfast loyalty to those lucky enough to be held within your light. Aunt Cheryl loves you very much.

  Prologue

  JarDan rolled from the bed and reached for his sword before the fist pounding on his door struck the third blow. Jerking the door wide, he was surprised to see his Chief of Security.

  "I apologize for disturbing you at this time of the night, your Highness, but there's a man downstairs demanding to see you and I believe you should hear his story."

  JarDan trusted Kord without question. If he thought it was important enough to wake him in the middle of the night, JarDan had no doubt he was right.

  "Give me two minutes to dress then bring him to my study.” JarDan closed the door knowing Kord was already gone.

  "What's happened?” Melodie asked from their bed. "Is it the baby?"

  "No, love," JarDan soothed his wife, "Elizabeth is fine. I have an unexpected visitor, that's all. Go back to sleep. This shouldn't take long.” JarDan smiled at the sight of her in his bed. She was the other half of his soul, this farmer's daughter from Earth who was now his queen.

  Dressed in a pair of knee-high boots over soft, black leather pants and a loose white tunic, JarDan, King of Falcon Tor, slipped quietly into the hall.

  Kord and the unknown visitor were already waiting for him beside the door to his study. JarDan ushered the men into the room before pinning the stranger with his unrelenting gaze. "Who are you and what do you want with me in the middle of the night?"

  "I beg pardon, King JarDan. Name's Orlyn. I've got me a little energy ore mine way back in the mountains. I don't like people much so I don't get into town real regular. My brother, now, he's different. He likes to spend time with the females. Course, with the plague and all, he has to go elsewhere to find his women."

  JarDan raised an eyebrow at Kord, silently asking him if this was the reason he wasn't upstairs in bed with Melodie. Kord's grave expression didn't fit with the rambling of the grizzled old miner. Tension tightened the muscles across JarDan's shoulders causing the hair on his neck to bristle.

  "When Syras--he's my brother--when he got back, two days ago now, and I seen what he had with him, I recognized it right off. I tried asking him where he got it but that good-for-nothing don't remember a blasted thing about nothin' but the females he mounted. Too drunk to know his own mind, most like. Anyhow, I left at first light and only stopped to rest my bura. I just couldn't get here any sooner. I'm real sorry I got you outta bed, but I knew you'd want this."

  JarDan's heart stumbled before setting up a painful thunder in his chest. The miner held a slender circlet of gold cradled in his dirt-encrusted hands. The crown belonged to the heir to the House of Tor. The crown JarDan himself had placed on Dak's head.

  "Where did he get this?" JarDan demanded, snatching the golden ring from the old man.

  Any hope he carried that this might belong to someone else, died when he read the inscription along the inside of the band. The language of the Ancients proclaimed the recipient to be a member of the royal family of the House of Tor for as long as he lived.

  For as long as he lived. No!

  "I-I don't rightly know, K-king JarDan."

  "I'm sorry, Orlyn," JarDan apologized stiffly when he saw how his actions frightened the miner. "You will be well rewarded for bringing this to me. Lord Dak disappeared more than eight months ago without a trace and now…this. You did the right thing and I thank you."

  With a deep breath, JarDan shook off any negative assumptions. Dak wasn't dead! He refused to believe it…not until he had facts, not fears, to prove otherwise.

  "Kord, see that Orlyn has a comfortable place to rest and assign someone to see to his needs until he's ready to return to his mine. I would like you, personally, to teleport to this mine and bring Syras back here as soon as possible. He is to talk to no one except me. Someone took this from Dak's head and that someone knows where he is now. I won't believe he's dead until I see his body with my own eyes--and kill the man who took my brother from me."

  Chapter One

  Doesn't anyone see a naked man chained to a rock in the middle of town? How many men in chains does it take to turn an entire town deaf, dumb and blind to evil?

  The powerful Lord Beldon Dak, adopted son of King Zeth of Falcon Tor, second-in-line for the throne, stood with nothing but his pride to shield his body. He fought against the humiliation and despair that filled his nightmares and spilled over into his daylight reality.

  Focusing on thoughts of revenge, he let the rage consume him until he could stand straight and tall in the face of this latest attempt to break his spirit. Why staked out in the sun?

  What is that lousy bastard up to, now?

  He hurt everywhere, but he welcomed the excruciating pain in his body. For the past six months, every few days at least two of Murdock's guards would drag him from his cell and amuse themselves by beating on whichever part of his body looked like it might be healing. Lips, split and swollen from the latest round of punches, now cracked and oozed in the unrelenting heat. The only areas of his body not marked with bruises in shades of blue-black to greenish-yellow were his groin and his feet; and the rats constantly nipped at his toes while he slept. With nothing to protect his back, every breath he took scraped more flesh against the razor-sharp texture of the stone pillar anchoring the chains.

  Yes, the pain was necessary. It was proof he still lived and life meant another chance at escape. A chance to find the rest of his crew before he came back here and blew this miserable hellhole out of existence. He sought the anguish of six months of abuse; wrapped his conscience in memories of brutal guards and hungry rats. Even the sting of tender flesh burned by the searing desert sun gave him strength.

  Whatever it takes, I will survive and escape.

  Dak flexed his bare toes against the wooden floor of the platform. A shiver of unexpected pleasure skittered up his spine at the feel of the wood. Year after year of fierce desert winds had polished the surface to glassy smoothness. He closed his eyes, relishing the sensation against the soles of his sensitive feet.

  Get a grip! You're bare butt naked and playing footsie with the floor! Has Murdock finally driven you over the edge?

  Running his tongue over his cracked lips, he dreamed of a cool goblet of rich, Anderan wine. He could almost taste the heavy sweetness.

  Stop thinking about home or Murdock will win!

  Taking as deep a breath as his cracked ribs would allow, he carefully rotated his head until it rested against the rough surface behind him. Forcing his mind away from thoughts of Anderas, he surveyed the desolate area around him.

  The sun, just beginning to appear above the horizon, blazed across the barren wasteland, the heat already oppressive. Within hours, on
ly the desert dwellers would be above ground. By midday, the small hamlet would be virtually abandoned as the merciless winds blew through the streets of the market, driving every living creature below ground. For now, the place was packed with people. The stench of unwashed bodies, animal dung, and disease hung in the air as thick as the powdery dust of the unpaved streets. Peddlers with their stalls of exotic spices, fabrics and precious gems, hawked their wares amid the chaos.

  A small group of men gathered in front of him. No one said anything about him being there. They just looked him over before conferring among themselves in hushed whispers. As the crowd grew larger, half-dressed whores worked their way among the men while their pimps kept careful account of the coins changing hands. Thieves, murderers, smugglers, the lowest dregs of a hundred different species filled the market of Safe Haven.

  Safe Haven. Dak sneered at the farce. The twisted bastard who picked that name had a really sick sense of humor. Nothing was safe here. He and his crew found that out the hard way. Law didn't exist in the underground maze of rat warrens unless you counted the primal law of kill-or-be-killed. Everything had a price on Safe Haven and the right price bought you anything.

  The sound of harsh, too-loud laughter jerked him back to his reality. He felt the platform shake under the ponderous tread of the heavy jailer. The gathered crowd began to push and shove each other, jockeying for a better view.

  "Well, looks like you ain't so full of piss 'n vinegar, now." Murdock's fetid breath washed over Dak in a nauseating cloud, causing his stomach to churn dangerously. "You wuz mouthy enough earlier."

  "Piss off,” Dak drawled in a bored voice.

  "Watch yur tone wit' me, boy, or I'll cut that fancy tongue right out!"

  "And break your mother's heart?” Dak purred. The crowd roared their approval of the insulting comments.

  "You friggin' bastard," Murdock growled under his breath, "I'm gonna enjoy seein' you sold like a side of smoked meat."

  A slave market? Is this what happened to my crew? Dak closed his eyes to shut out the other man. It was too easy to antagonize his captor. The fat slob may have come unarmed to a battle of wits, but he had unerringly hit the very heart of Dak's aggravation.

  A cold sweat added to the sheen already coating Dak's body. All six feet six inches of exposed flesh dripped sweat in the blistering sun of this cursed, dying planet. It dripped from his matted hair into his eyes. It coated his lips with salt. It oozed like corrosive acid into the hundreds of lacerations on his back from contact with the abrasive rock. By the Beard of the Prophet, he could feel the sweat dripping from his manhood.

  His physical discomfort was minor compared to the rioting emotions threatening to rip him apart. Never had he felt such rage--and such impotence. He failed to protect his crew, and in failing his men, he failed his King and he failed himself. His humiliation at the hands of Murdock's slave market was negligible when tallied against the loss of his ship and crew. Were any of them still alive? Would he ever find them?

  A sharp jab in his solar plexus brought a swift end to Dak's soul searching. Breathing deep and slow, he fought against the rush of pain from ribs cracked in a previous encounter with Murdock.

  "Pay attention, boy," Murdock grinned, "things is fixin' to get real interesting."

  He watched Murdock work the crowd like a first-class carnival barker. Within minutes he had the rowdy crowd in the palm of his hand. Drawing a deep breath, Murdock bent over and belched in the face of a woman standing at the front of the crowd. Having been the recipient of that noxious breath, he fully expected the woman to faint or puke. She just stared at the slave master. When Murdock jerked to an upright position, the woman's lips curved in what could have been a smile, except it never reached her eyes.

  This is interesting. Dak watched with growing curiosity as she slowly reached up and removed her hood, never breaking eye contact with Murdock.

  "Blast me to hell 'n back," whispered the guard on Dak's right. "She's a crystal witch!"

  One-by-one the people in the crowd noticed the woman with the silver-white hair. Dak heard witch and white witch whispered in awe throughout the crowd. No. Not awe. Fear. The kind of fear you can smell. The kind of fear that could turn a menacing mob into a pack of sniveling slugs.

  Very interesting. Dak grinned as the last of his guards backed behind the stone pillar. What the hell is a crystal witch? Anyone who can make Murdock and his pack of mongrels piss themselves in fear can't be all bad. Wouldn't do her any good to put a curse on Murdock's miserable life, though. The bastard would take it as a compliment.

  "A-all r-right," Murdock stuttered while backing away from the strange woman, "you maggots listen close. I only gots me one pet today, so's ya better dig deep fer coin."

  Dak tensed, the strange woman forgotten, when Murdock turned and pulled a short-handled, braided leather whip from beneath his sleeveless shirt. When the first blow struck his chest, he clenched his jaw, waiting for the pain that never really came. After six months of Murdock's abuse, the whip was little more than an annoyance. The convulsive jerk of abused muscle was the only visible indication that he felt the blow.

  "E's built right fer heavy work."

  Murdock laughed as he flicked the whip against Dak's chest and arms. With his arms stretched tight above his head, anchored to the top of the giant X-shaped stone and his feet secured against the wide-spaced bottom, he couldn't escape the lash. That knowledge didn't keep him from trying. Grasping the heavy chains in his hands, he pulled at the confining chains until muscles bulged and veins distended with his effort. Struggling to keep his breathing even, he sought the anger that was his constant companion, giving it free rein over the pain and humiliation.

  "An' wit' legs like these, he don' need no mount."

  "Hey, Murdock," yelled a drunken heckler from the crowd, "after spendin' all this time as a guest o'yurs, can he go the distance?"

  Before the slave master could answer, Dak raised his voice above the din of the crowd. "Ask your wife," he taunted in a tight, harsh voice.

  The mob laughed and applauded Dak's insult. Whatever pleasure he got from delivering his verbal volley ended when Murdock began to stroke the tip of the whip along the inside of Dak's leg. He sucked in a hissing breath, silently cursing his foolhardy insults.

  "I tol' ya ta watch that tongue, didn' I?"

  Every muscle in Dak's body stiffened when Murdock traced a path up his leg with the vile leather until it rested against the very heart of his masculinity.

  "Now, any of you females out there who might likes a bit of action," he raised the whip until Dak's penis was exhibited for the crowd's perverted pleasure, "this 'uns more 'n enough fer ya. Ya all heard him braggin' 'bout his abilities."

  Dak twisted violently against his restraints. All he accomplished was to further mangle the abused flesh of his back against the sharp rock.

  With a careless flip of the leather whip, Murdock laughed. "Claims to be a bloody Anderan lord. We even found his prissy little crown. Now what's the first bid?"

  Dak closed his mind to the rapid bidding. That was really stupid. Your temper damn near got your balls sliced off. The sudden silence of the mob around him brought his senses to full alert.

  "'Ere now," Murdock yelled, "I ain't gonna let this prime piece of meat go fer no pissin' sixteen hundert gold coins. Jes' think of the ease ya can have with 'im doin' all yur work."

  "Ain't nobody here got work to do, you tight-fisted slop bucket. Now finish the deal."

  Kierin shuddered at what she was about to do. She had no other choice. Thanks to Draagon and his Phantom Riders, the alternative was death. The horrid slave trader just confirmed the rumors. Her quest would soon be over. She had so very little time left. The cost of tracking the source of the tale to this desolate place had been staggering, but she would pay whatever it took. The stories were true!

  Months ago, an Anderan Travel Craft with a full crew of seventy-five men developed engine trouble and landed here for repairs. Tricke
d by the false welcome of the landing station, the crew was captured and sold at the slave market.

  A healthy Anderan male would solve her problem, but she had feared she would be too late. Her life would be worth nothing if all the men were sold--or dead. Sighing with relief, she allowed herself to hope. An Anderan lord. She must bid on him, no matter the cost.

  Kierin felt the sweat trickle down her neck, between her breasts and under her arms. She pulled at the damp material clinging to her body, knowing there would be no relief from the mounting heat. She closed her eyes and imagined herself back in her valley with its towering trees, bubbling stream and gentle breezes. The image cooled her body, as she knew it would, and she fought a smile at the reactions of those around her. They believed in witch magic, but she knew the mind was the source of true magical power.

  Before Murdock could end the bidding, Kierin interrupted in a strong, clear voice easily heard above the din of the drunken crowd.

  "Two thousand gold coins."

  "That's more like it. Come forward and les' see the color of yur coin."

  Kierin maintained her eye contact while she removed her robe. The earlier sight of her distinctive silver-white hair had driven the crowd back until she was virtually alone near the center of the platform. Her father would never approve of her using her appearance and reputation in such a theatrical manner, but she intended to have that Anderan. She needed him no matter the cost.

  Dak watched as the woman, the crystal witch, removed her cloak and climbed the shaky ladder to the platform. The cowering guards gave up all presence of courage and stumbled over each other trying to get away from the approaching woman. She was a tiny little thing. Pretty, too, with her fairy-like appearance. Definitely no one to cause fear in grown men. The most impressive thing about her was that heavy mane of silver-white hair. There were blondes on Anderas but never had he seen such totally white hair on someone so young. Even her skin complimented her hair with its pale translucence. Pretty just didn't do her justice but she wasn't beautiful, at least not in the way he pictured beautiful women. Exotic. Yea, that's what she is … exotic.