The Owl Prince Read online

  He turned his focus back to Viturian. The boy was too young for a rough post like this, Darius thought. And with his dark lashes and soft curls, he was also far too pretty. Darius wondered if he had let anyone into his bed, then shook himself. It wasn’t the time to be distracted by such thoughts.

  “Wait.” He held up a hand for silence, turning back to Marcus. “Glyncalder. You said it was quiet?”

  Marcus nodded. A bead of sweat stood out on his brow.

  “But that’s impossible.” Darius set his cup down. “It’s nearing their solstice celebration. The Robogdi have been gathering at Glyncalder from the smaller settlements for days.”

  Atticus rubbed his brow. He, too, was sweating—it was too warm in the room; the open window let in no breeze at all. “Our scouts saw little activity. All seemed abed, apart from the odd woman or child.”

  Darius felt the hair rise on his neck. At the same moment, Marcus let out a soft sound, sagging forward as if his stomach pained him.

  “Excuse me, Commander,” he murmured.

  Darius nodded—Marcus’s face was the colour of a dead fish. “Something you ate, Captain?”

  Marcus only grimaced in reply and hurried out. Darius watched him go, puzzled. He turned to Cassius, who had served in Britannia with him and often shared his instincts. But Cassius, to his astonishment, was sliding a hand along Milo’s thigh in full view of the other men.

  Darius stared. “Are we keeping you?”

  “Excuse me, sir.” Milo’s face was red. “My stomach.”

  “Your—”

  But Milo was already out the door. Cassius, after murmuring something inaudible, trailed behind. Darius hadn’t dismissed them. He turned to Scipio, expecting to see his own astonishment mirrored in his face. Instead, Scipio was gazing at him with something entirely different in his eyes.

  Despite himself, Darius flushed. He had known that Scipio was attracted to him—he always knew, having been on the receiving end of more advances than he could count—but neither had openly acknowledged it. Darius had nothing against dallying with his men—at least, those he knew could remain professional afterward. But Scipio, with his round belly and broad shoulders, was not his type. He had thought Scipio guessed that too.

  What was going on?

  Scipio was not the only one gazing at Darius in a new way. Viturian was suddenly standing much closer to him—Viturian, with his slender build and fawn-like eyes. And Atticus, bulky and conspicuous, kept transferring his gaze from Darius to Viturian, with the disconcerting appearance of a man trying to decide which choice of meat suited his preference.

  “Can I refill your wine, sir?” Viturian said, his voice soft and eager. He placed a hand over Darius’s where it rested on the table.

  Darius jerked his hand back, but not before his pulse gave a thrum. “I—no.” What was wrong with him? Suddenly, Viturian’s eyelashes were exceptionally distracting. What had they been speaking of?

  “Glyncalder,” Darius said. It was as if he were pushing the word past a wall. “Tell me again what our scouts saw.”

  Viturian’s hand touched his arm. The boy’s eyes were fever-bright, his lips parted. Darius drew back. In response, the boy lifted his hand to his own chest, and ran it down towards his waist in an unmistakeably seductive gesture.

  “Viturian, I—this foolishness is beneath your dignity. You will comport yourself in a manner befitting…” Viturian’s hand slid inside his own skirt, which was pushing out at the front.

  Atticus, meanwhile, had grabbed Scipio by the shoulders and forced him to his knees. He lifted his skirt, revealing an extraordinary erection. Scipio’s lips parted as if in polite surprise, and then Atticus’s cock was in his mouth. Scipio moaned deep in his throat, his hands lifting to cup Atticus’s buttocks. The man was already thrusting, his hand tangled in Scipio’s hair, his eyes closed.

  The sound of their pleasure triggered another wave of desire in Darius, even as he fought it with the twinned desperation and despair of a man battling a lion. Viturian’s hands were on him now, moving over the planes of his chest through his uniform. Darius grabbed his wrists, intending to force him back. Instead, Viturian leaned in and pressed their mouths together.

  It was a shock, feeling Viturian’s tongue in his mouth. Darius’s own tongue responded instinctively, twining itself with the younger man’s, as Viturian made a soft, enticing sound of pleasure. He pressed his erection against Darius’s thigh, and Darius felt himself hardening so quickly that it took his breath away. He fumbled with Viturian’s clothes, again intending to catch hold of him, contain him, so that he could force him back. Instead, he found his hands loosening the belt that held up Viturian’s skirt, letting it fall to the floor. Viturian removed his own tunic in one smooth motion, and stood naked before him, save for his boots. Just like Gaius, as he was taken by Evander in the corridor.

  That memory brought a shudder of self-awareness back to Darius, and he realized the madness of the scene—Scipio on his knees with Atticus in his mouth, Viturian displaying his naked body to his commander with wanton lust in his eyes, and the table in that matter-of-fact briefing room, where they had gathered for countless discussions of dry strategy, spread with maps requiring their attention. But then Viturian was on his knees, lifting Darius’s skirt, and then his mouth was on his cock, and Darius lost himself to the lust expanding in his body like the petals of a dark flower.

  He cupped Viturian’s head as the man took him. For all his youth, Viturian was no novice. His tongue swirled around him, exploring, before sliding up in the most delicious way to press itself into the head. Viturian lingered there for a moment, and a moan escaped Darius’s mouth. Someone else was moaning—Atticus, he assumed, and for a moment, the sound of their separate pleasure in that small room mingled and twined together.

  He came in an explosion of light and warmth, and Viturian swallowed it all. Darius was panting, breathless. Viturian rose. He had come himself, perhaps at his own hand. Yet he began to harden again as he pressed against Darius. And Darius’s body, to his amazement, responded.

  Darius let out a low sound. He pressed Viturian into the wall and kissed him, so fiercely their mouths bruised. He didn’t care, and neither did Viturian. They were moving rhythmically against each other, and though Darius had so recently taken his pleasure, his desire had barely ebbed with his orgasm. Now it was a swell even more powerful than before, and it was drowning him. He had to have Viturian. He had to plant himself inside him, deeper than he had ever fucked someone before.

  He broke free, dragging Viturian away from the wall and turning him, wrapping his hands around his waist. Viturian responded, eyes glazed and half closed, bending over and pressing into Darius before he was even inside him. The young man was emitting an almost animal sound now, guttural and entirely involuntary. Darius found the place where he wanted to be, and thrust himself inside. Though Viturian was unprepared, he opened smoothly, the muscles relaxing, expanding, drawing Darius in as if his body were hungry for him. It was dry and rough, but Viturian made no protest.

  Atticus looked up. He had finished fucking Scipio—once in the mouth, and then elsewhere, judging by Scipio’s posture. The older man seemed half asleep as he sprawled against the table, as if drunk with pleasure. Atticus came forward, his eyes wide and febrile, and gripped Viturian’s hair. Then he pressed his enormous cock into the young man’s mouth even as Darius pounded him from behind.

  They fucked him together, the three of them finding a rhythm that forced Viturian back on Darius’s cock, and then forward onto Atticus’s like a pendulum. Viturian was still moaning, but deep in his throat now, his mouth entirely engulfed by Atticus’s cock. Darius tightened his grip on the boy’s hips as he drove into him. His eyes met Atticus’s, and he saw his own fierce yearning reflected there, the sight only deepening his lust; they held each other’s gazes, and it was as if they, too, were inside each other’s bodies.

  Viturian broke first, his senses overpowered by the doubled assault on hi
s body, his come spattering against the stone floor. Darius was next, the spasms from Viturian’s orgasm overpowering his control. He came deep inside Viturian, the force of his orgasm almost toppling him to his knees. Atticus drew himself from Viturian’s mouth at his climax, spraying his seed across the boy’s face.

  Darius sagged against the wall. His mind had emptied of thought, of everything but his desire, which, after briefly surrendering itself, flared up again with a heat like wildfire. Viturian was drawing himself up, somewhat bandy-legged, offering himself to Atticus as he had to Darius. Atticus leaned against the table in only his tunic, breathing hard, his cock—still flushed from Viturian’s attentions—beginning to swell again.

  Darius strode forward. He pushed Viturian out of the way, then shoved Atticus onto his back on the table. One of the cups overturned, spilling its contents over the map of Hibernia. Darius didn’t care. He wanted Atticus’s cock in his mouth, the tremendous weight of it thrusting against the back of his throat. Perhaps that would dampen the fire inside him, would do what Viturian’s body couldn’t, and rid him of this monstrous desire.

  Darius knelt, suckling the tip. Atticus moaned, and Darius sucked harder. His hand went to his own cock as he did, stroking it in time to the attention he gave to Atticus, his mouth sliding up and down the shaft. Atticus was enormous, so enormous that Darius couldn’t fit all him in his mouth, though he tried, a moan vibrating in his throat that began to echo Viturian’s.

  Atticus grabbed him roughly by the hair, drawing Darius to his feet again before either of them could come. He bent Darius over the table, lifting his skirt. Darius drew in a sharp breath. He didn’t usually receive a man’s attentions; he preferred it, generally, to be the other way around. Despite this, he found himself spreading his legs for Atticus, craving the feel of him.

  Darius’s eyes, glazed with lust, drifted towards the maps. The spilled cup lay on its side, and before it spread a dark stain that covered the lower half of Hibernia, its coastline and Roman forts. It was the wrong colour for wine. It had a green, brackish tinge, as if overlain by a film of algae. The smell wafted to Darius’s nose. It didn’t smell like wine, either, but like something mossy. Something he had smelled before, in the forests of Britannia.

  Nightfire.

  Darius staggered backwards, dislodging Atticus from his body in mid-thrust. He felt his own shock like a slap, briefly returning him to his senses. Atticus growled his protest and reached for Darius again, but then Viturian was there, pressing his body against Atticus.

  Darius reached for the pitcher of water on the table. It tipped over beneath his unsteady hands. The water, tinged with green and scented like moss, spilled across the floor.

  It was in the water.

  Darius breathed in and out. The sound was a rasp. Behind him, Viturian and Atticus were moaning. Scipio’s voice joined them—he was not participating, but watching the scene from the floor, pleasuring himself. Darius felt the surge of desire again, and with a monumental effort, forced it back. He stumbled to the door.

  Nightfire was a rare plant in Britannia, but with an infamous reputation. Some of the Celtic tribes used it as a means to commune with their gods, gods of growth and fertility and life, at their spring festival. Darius had witnessed such a “communion” himself—when boiled and drunk, nightfire brought about total abandonment and unchecked virility. But the drug was controversial even among the Celts—many tribes, those of a more civilized bent, forbade its use out of fear of its effects, which could induce a permanent state of madness if consumed in sufficient quantities. In most instances, the drug wore off after a few hours. Darius had never sampled it, having little need for aphrodisiacs and no desire to humiliate himself in front of his men.

  How had the drug ended up in the senior officers’ water?

  Darius’s addled mind struggled to form the thought. Was this some sort of dark prank, or something more sinister—mutiny, perhaps? A means to incapacitate the senior officers and take control of Sylvanum? But who were the mutineers? And how had they obtained the drug?

  He had to find the highest ranking soldier, and warn him that the Sylvanum’s leaders were not, at present, compos mentis. Someone else would have to take command for the night, to hunt out the perpetrators of this act of sabotage. And, ideally, set up a guard on Darius and the others, to ensure that, in their delirious state, they did not take advantage of any of the soldiers.

  Darius passed Cassius and Milo, fucking in broad view on the floor of the hall, which would soon be crowded with guardsmen heading for their shifts outside. They had evidently not been able to make it to a place of privacy before the drug overcame them. Darius picked his way around their striving bodies and discarded clothing. He forced his mind to focus on his anger rather than his lust, and it worked, but barely. He was close, too close to losing control again.

  Whoever had done this would pay dearly.

  Darius finally made it to the door. What he saw froze him in place.

  Light flickered throughout the fort, but it was not the faint, orderly light of torches. It was a lurid red, and it was everywhere. Smoke stained the night sky.

  The warehouses were burning.

  Darius staggered onto the lawn. He nearly tripped over a knot of soldiers sprawled across the grass, fucking. Men ground against each other, moaning and panting, amidst the fearsome play of light and shadow and smoke. Choking, Darius kept going, his mind reeling. He spied another pair coupling against the well, located near the epicentre of the fort. Not ten yards away, a storage shed had begun to go up in flames. A hail of lit arrows streaked across the sky, originating from the darkness beyond the walls of the fort. One of these arrows hit another storage shed, and flame began to gather in the roof. The couple fucking against the well did not even look up.

  The water. The well.

  Darius heard Scipio’s voice in his mind describing the capture of the Robogdi earlier that day. Marcus came upon them standing in a clearing, staring through the trees at our men like startled owls. He thought of the Robogdi steadily gathering over the last few days at Glyncalder, the settlement nearest to Sylvanum, supposedly for their midsummer festival. He saw the captive Celts lined up before him, their manner quiet and docile, saw one of them, uncharacteristically graceless, stagger and fall against the well, and pause there. Long enough—yes, more than long enough to remove something, perhaps a bottle, from an unseen pocket and pour its contents into the water.

  It was not a mutiny. It was an invasion.

  A cry came from the forest beyond the fort’s walls, ringing and terrible. The battle cry of the Robogdi. Then they were inside the fort, the burning gate toppling inwards in a blaze of sparks. The Celts’ pale hair shone in the flickering light as they ran with their bows and daggers brandished.

  Not every soldier had been inebriated by the drug—a small group raced to meet the Celts, swords at the ready. Darius took a step to follow them before another wave of lust almost sent him to his knees. Someone was grunting nearby—a soldier had pushed another man against the wall, and was fumbling with his cock, preparing to enter him. But it was clear this was not a willing coupling—the man about to be fucked was held in place in a headlock, and seemed to be struggling. Darius came up behind them and rammed the hilt of his sword into the attacker’s head. He went to the ground, where he lay unmoving.

  “Are you all right?” Darius said.

  The other man—a boy who looked to be in his late teens—regarded him with wide, terrified eyes. Recognition and relief filled his face. “Commander! The fort is under attack—somehow half the men have been drugged—”

  “I know.” Darius winced. The boy’s cock was on full display, as were his long, well-muscled legs. “Compose yourself, soldier.”

  The young man, flushing, pulled his skirt back up. “I was on duty on the wall, sir, when it happened—not thirty minutes ago. Men began abandoning their posts and everything was in confusion. And shortly after, our scouts rode up with news that the Robogdi w
ere advancing through the forest, positioning themselves to surround the fort.”

  It was all so neat—so efficiently, brutally planned and executed, that for a moment it took Darius’s breath away. He had not seen such planning from the Celts before, though he was not, like many of his men, of the belief that they were incapable of strategy. He had seen enough evidence of their cleverness in Britannia, though it expressed itself in more focused ways than the Roman intellect. The Celts were unused to war strategy, to the sort of big-picture thinking that accompanied empire-building, because it was not how they lived. They were a race whose conflicts were settled through contained skirmishes and raids on their small, tribal neighbours.

  Who among them had devised such a calculated plan to overthrow an entire Roman fort, manned by over two thousand soldiers? The Robogdi king Culland, fearsome as he was, was a man known for simple brutality, not complex schemes.

  Darius ran a hand through his dark hair, trying to sort through his tangled thoughts. The boy peered at him, and seemed to recoil slightly.

  “Sir, are you—? Have you—?”

  “No,” Darius said shortly. He had no intention of adding to the boy’s panic. “But the rest of the senior officers have succumbed to the drug. It’s in the water—the well. Tell me, who was head of the guard when the attack began?”

  “Aurianus, sir,” the boy replied. “But he—the last I saw him, he was in the hall, bending over for one of the servants.”

  Darius’s mind raced. The sounds of fighting floated toward them, along with the crackle of the flames. Even if they defeated the Robogdi streaming through the broken gate—unlikely, with so many men incapacitated by nightfire—the fort was no longer defensible. They needed reinforcements.