Princeps’ Fury

Amara shivered, staring at the son of High Lord Kalarus, the young man whom she had last seen weeping and running for his life on the slopes of some fury-forsaken mountain near his former home, stumbling over the corpses of hundreds of recently deceased elite soldiers. Brencis was dressed in fine silks of pure white, unsoiled by any mud or blood. His long dark hair curled gorgeously, as if freshly touched by hot curlers and a brush. His fingers were crusted with rings, and chains lay in looping ranks upon his chest.

They didn’t conceal the silver collar around his throat.

Fascinated and repelled, Amara gestured, willing Cirrus to carry the words on the stage, dozens of yards distant, to her ears.

“My lord,” said one of the scantily clad girls. Her words were slurred with wine or aphrodin or both. “He is ready, my lord.”

“I can see that,” Brencis said testily. He reached into an open chest that lay on the stage and drew out a handful of slavers’ collars, shaking them in careless irritation until only one remained in his grasp. He settled in front of the dazed soldier, slipped the collar around his neck, drew a knife, and cut his thumb with it. He shoved his bloodied thumb viciously against the catch of the collar, drawing a choking gasp from the young man.

Amara shivered.

She watched as the collar went to work on him. She was familiar with the basic theory behind the device. It used multiple furycrafted disciplines to flood the targets’ senses with ecstatic euphoria at first, pacifying them completely. Not that the collar needed much help in the case of the young soldier, dazed and drugged as he was. Even so, there was a visible arching of his body, and his eyes rolled, then fluttered closed.

That would go on for a while, Amara knew. Long enough that when the sensation ceased, it would almost seem like pain, all on its own. When the brutal agony the collars were capable of inflicting at their owner’s will set in, it would seem that much worse by comparison.

“This is the truth, soldier,” Brencis said, wiping his bloodied thumb on the man’s tunic. “You serve the Vord queen now, or her highest representative. Which means that for the moment, you serve me, and anyone I choose to place over you. Take any action you know is against your new loyalty’s interests, and you’ll hurt. Serve and obey, and you will be rewarded.”

By way of demonstration, Brencis idly shoved one of the half-naked girls across the soldier. She made a purring sound and nuzzled her mouth against his throat, sliding one of her thighs over his.

“Listen to her,” Brencis spat, contempt in his voice. “Everything she says is true.”

The girl pressed her mouth against the young man’s ear and began whispering. Amara couldn’t make out much of what she was saying, beyond the words “serve” and “obey.” But it seemed simple enough to work out-the girl was emphasizing what Brencis had already told the soldier, reinforcing the commands while his mind was being bent out of shape by the collar and the drugs.

“Bloody crows,” Amara whispered, feeling sick. She’d known that the collars had been developed for the control of even the most violent criminals-and she’d heard it argued many times that the potential for abuse in the collars was far greater than most of the Realm realized, but she’d never seen it before. Whatever was going on down there, it must have its roots in the techniques High Lord Kalare had used to create his psychotic Immortals.

And, Amara thought, it gave them control of previously free Alerans. It worked. Or at least it worked often enough to give the Vord queen an Aleran honor guard. Those who had never really been motivated by anything higher than self-interest, it seemed, were easily turned, if the men accompanying Rook were any kind of measure.

“Brencis!” came a croaking cry from one of the cages. “Brencis, please!”

Amara focused on the source of the voice-a young woman in the Citizens’ cage, probably attractive, though it was difficult to tell through the mud.

Brencis sorted through various collars in the chest.

“Brencis! Can’t you hear me?”

“I hear you, Flora,” Brencis said. “I just don’t care.”

The young woman sobbed. “Please. Please, just let me go. We were betrothed, Brencis.”

“It’s funny, life’s little twists and turns,” Brencis said conversationally. He glanced up at the cage. “You always did like to play with aphrodin, Flora. You and your sister.” His mouth twisted into a bitter sneer. “A pity there are no Antillans around to complete the evening for you.”

The young woman started sobbing, a broken little sound. “But we were… we were…”