Divine Torment Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Janine Ashbless

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 The City in the Desert

  2 The Malia Shai

  3 Foreign Cods

  4 Jilaya

  5 The Slave

  6 The Devouring Earth

  7 I Saw Smoke and Gold

  8 Spoils of War

  9 Desecration

  10 The Mask

  Copyright

  About the Book

  When Veraine pulled her to him, she opened her lips in a gasp and he smothered them with his own. His hand was on her jaw, her cheek, pulling her in closer, the callused thumb smearing the dew of perspiration across her skin. And his mouth was on hers, taking possession with a soldier’s brutal efficiency.

  In the ancient temple city of Mulhanabin, the voluptuous Malia Shai awaits her destiny. Millions of people worship her, believing her to be a goddess incarnate. She is, however, very human and consumed by erotic passions that have no outlet. Into this sacred city comes General Verlaine – the rugged gladiatorial leader of the occupying army. Intimate contact between Veraine and Malia Shai is forbidden by every law of their hostile peoples. But she is the only thing he wants – and he will risk everything to have her.

  About the Author

  Janine Ashbless is a well-established writer of fantasy, horror and erotic fiction.

  By the same author:

  Cruel Enchantment – Erotic Fairy Stories

  Burning Bright

  For more information about Janine Ashbless’s books please visit www.janineashbless.com

  Divine Torment

  Janine Ashbless

  Textual Note:

  Two passages in this novel are quotes from ancient Sanskrit sources. They are:

  In chapter 2 the paragraph beginning,

  ‘Everything rests on me as pearls . . .’

  And

  In chapter 6 the paragraph beginning,

  ‘Come, come in haste . . .’

  To Jules,

  who came to my rescue

  1 The City in the Desert

  On the second day after the river crossing the army reached the pass through the barren hills beyond. And shortly after noon General Veraine, Beloved of the Eternal Empire, son of the Glorious General Morin – may his star look down upon us – and Champion of the Irolian People ordered his chariot to be stopped at the very highest point of the road so that he could relieve his bladder.

  Having performed this office, Veraine took the opportunity to walk about and stretch his legs. Standing upright in a chariot as it is driven over unpaved tracks is harder work than it looks, and his throat felt furred with the dust raised by the two horses. He thought, not for the first time, that he would far rather have ridden for the last fortnight. But a general was considered too dignified to ride, at least on imperial business, and his recent promotion had forced him from the saddle and onto the footboards.

  Around him his officers and aides were allowing their mounts to draw to a halt, the horses blowing and snorting from the long and tedious climb through the hills. Veraine looked back to the east. On the track below him the main body of his army, composed of foot soldiers who had inevitably lagged behind the horses on this terrain, was snaking up towards them on the twisted road. The fierce sunlight flashed on their bronze armour and long spearheads. Veraine was pleased to see that they were holding formation well.

  Behind the rearguard, so far in the distance it was almost swallowed by dust, the silver gleam of the huge Amal Bhad river could be glimpsed. The Eternal Empire had no officially defined boundary on this, the western frontier, but there was no arguing with the Amal Bhad. Once you had crossed it you were beyond civilisation. On that side lay cities and roads and cultivated fields. On this were deserts, a half-savage people and their ancient gods of blood and stone. Veraine pushed his hands back over his hair and mentally bid farewell to the bright river. He turned again to his officers.

  ‘Let them rest when they reach the top,’ he told his second-in-command, a rugged professional soldier named Loy. ‘It won’t be for long. They’re to keep their armour on, but they may drink.’

  Loy, who had been waiting impassively on horseback, nodded without speaking and dismounted. Veraine strode back to his chariot, where Arioc, his driver, was wetting the horses’ muzzles from a leather waterbag. He took his own wineskin from its hook inside the chariot and walked forward, past the scattering of men and beasts, until he could see down the western slope of the hills into the open land beyond. That way lay their destination. That way lay the sacred Yamani city of Mulhanabin.

  Veraine’s gaze searched the terrain below him. Dust and movement on the coils of the road betrayed the position of the army’s advance guard, scouts mounted on sturdy, fast ponies who would, at the first sign of danger, race back towards the Eighth Host with their warning. Not that trouble was expected here on the pilgrim road; even this barren fringe of the Empire rested at peace under the Irolian yoke. Yet it would not have done for Veraine to be complacent, nor to be seen to be so – not on this, the General’s first command. And, he was aware, it would be a bloody, terrible place to get caught in an ambush. His soldierly instincts leered and bristled at the narrowness of the road, worn out of the close-crowding hills by the feet of pilgrims over ages that no scholar could even begin to count. He wanted to be out in the open where he could see what was coming towards him.

  His eyes still ranging over the landscape below, he took a sip from the wineskin, but the tepid liquid tasted more of goat than of grape. Beyond the hills lay a great flat plain which, from this height, looked silver with heat haze and featureless, the sparse stippling of desert vegetation invisible. In the middle of that shimmer, barely visible to the eye at this distance, was a tawnier smudge which Veraine knew denoted a bank of hills. Clinging to those hills, chiselled from the living rock, was the temple-city of Mulhanabin, home of the Malia Shai. His future as a soldier and a shaper of the Empire would be decided there, carved out among the sandstones and the scree. Despite the wine his mouth felt dry.

  Beyond Mulhanabin there was nothing but desert lands for hundreds of miles. And somewhere out there were the Horse-eaters. They were getting closer with every passing day.

  Veraine sat down on a rock in the shade of a boulder and idly weighed the soggy wineskin in his hands, his imagination racing forward to the task ahead and backward into memory. He was peripherally aware of the officers behind him talking and moving about, and anyone watching him would have seen the new general sunk in the sombre contemplation that was already becoming his hallmark. He might have risen to this rank because of his paternal connection, but he did not take his command lightly.

  He was young, though, for a man in command of an army. Still young enough that the hard lines had only just begun to etch his face. Yet though the stubble that shaded his jaw was dark, as dark as his eyes, his hair was so streaked with grey that the original blackness of it was half lost. Like every Irolian warrior he wore it long and tied back, but it looked strange, that old man’s hair on a young man’s head. He knew that one of his nicknames among the soldiers – all officers had nicknames, though some were obscene and never voiced in front of them – was ‘Greyhead’. It had been his father’s name years before. He did not know yet whether this was an honour or a burden.

  Dressed in the knee-length, short-sleeved Irolian tunic of bleached linen and high, many-strapped sandals, his bare arms and calves hard with muscle, his skin browned by the sun, Veraine looked every inch the combat-hardened warrior of the Eternal Empire planning the tactics of battle. No one could have guessed the direction in which his thoughts drift
ed.

  A month ago, Veraine had entered the house of the Glorious General Slaithe and been ushered into a room on the upper floor by a slave who had bowed and retreated, leaving him to look around him and wonder what whim of fate had brought him here. He had no idea what the Glorious General’s intentions were and had never met the man personally but, nevertheless, orders bearing Slaithe’s seal had been brought to him at the Imperial Barracks. He had abandoned the drilling of his cohort and hurried across the city to this immense house on the Procession Way without even stopping to change his tunic or wash the dust of the parade ground from his face. It would not do to keep the Glorious General waiting.

  Now he stood in a cool room in the strange and uneasy silence that falls on hot afternoons. Even the sounds of the city of Antoth, capital of the Eternal Empire, were muted in this place.

  Unable to keep still, Veraine walked slowly around the room, taking in his surroundings. Through the carved wooden trellis that covered the window he could see the ziggurat of Shuga, the sun god, at the end of the Procession Way, towering above every other building in the city. It was faced in marble and shone blindingly white in the summer glare. Even a moment looking at it left a blue imprint on the inside of his eyes and meant that they had to grow accustomed to the shade of the interior before he could see again. He blinked to clear the dancing spots and stared at the floor, which he then realised was laid out as a mosaic map of the Eternal Empire. Chips of semi-precious stones delineated the rivers, cities and roads of the vast territory. Seen like this, the totality of Irolian conquest, the result of bloody invasion and tyrannical control, was a beautiful and intricately crafted whole.

  Two of the walls were painted with figures and he looked idly at them to pass the time. They depicted the gods at rest amidst vineyards and orchards, handmaidens waiting upon their every whim. The walls which were not painted were draped in hangings of patterned silk, the stirring of which betrayed the presence of doors or archways beyond. There was one low table flanked by two couches. It was a pleasant, informal room. Veraine wondered why the Glorious General had chosen to meet him here.

  One of the curtains lifted and two slave girls came into the room, bowing as they saw him. Both smiled shyly, though their eyes did not meet his. Veraine watched them as they carried wine glasses and bowls to the table, feeling the same uneasy admiration for them as he had done for the rest of the palatial house and its furnishings. They were an extraordinarily lovely pair, and quite unlike any woman of the Empire that he had ever seen. One was small and slight, with almond-shaped eyes, a tiny snub nose and the sheerest black hair, glossy as oil, that fell so far it brushed the back of her calves as she walked. The taller woman was even stranger, with pale skin and thick locks the colour of wheat-straw. They must have originated in far distant lands, countries he could hardly guess about. They both moved deftly and silently in their work, casting each other little glances as they moved about as if speech were too gross a medium for communication. Veraine found himself unable to look away. They wore simple shifts of the thinnest cotton and narrow leather collars, stitched with silver beads, about their necks.

  He could feel the dried sweat itching on his scalp. Their presence made him feel even filthier and more unprepared than before. It was also very arousing. Lust like a serpent began to uncoil slowly within him. Those white dresses sheathed and yet somehow hinted at every hidden curve, making it impossible not to imagine how the warm flesh would feel through the gauzy fabric.

  The yellow-haired slave must have felt the intensity of his stare, because she turned, caught his eye quickly and then looked away, biting her lower lip. She put both hands on her companion’s waist from behind, an intimate gesture that made Veraine’s pulse jump, then leaned in to breathe a whisper in the darker girl’s ear. Pink lips brushed golden skin. Both girls, still clinging delicately together, turned to face him.

  At that moment a man pushed open the door and strode into the room. Veraine swung round instantly, his attention snapping onto the newcomer with a soldier’s discipline.

  The Glorious General Slaithe, thickset and balding from the front, his tunic edged in scarlet, opened his hands in greeting. ‘Veraine!’

  Veraine raised his palms to his forehead and bowed a short military salute, replying, ‘General Slaithe.’

  With the barest hint of sound the slave girls withdrew.

  ‘Commander Veraine.’ The jowled and grizzled officer surveyed him enthusiastically. ‘You couldn’t be anyone other than your father’s son! Ha – look at you!’ He slapped the younger man on both shoulders. ‘Sun’s blood, my boy, but you’re the spitting image of him, you know?’

  ‘I did not, sir. But thank you.’

  The General stared into his eyes from less than an arm’s length away. ‘We were the greatest of friends, myself and Morin,’ he said. ‘Your father – may his star look down upon us – and I met in the barracks on our first day of training. We shared salt and beer and blood over the years; and I tell you, I never met a greater man.’

  ‘I am honoured to hear it, sir,’ Veraine said.

  Slaithe released him. ‘And if you’re cast from the same mould as Morin, my boy, it’s my honour to meet you,’ he growled. ‘Come over here and take a drink.’ He led the way to the table and with his own hands poured wine for both of them into the fragile blue glasses waiting.

  Veraine took a mouthful of the wine, feeling like a lion standing on the edge of a pit-trap. He trusted flattery like he trusted a snake. ‘You summoned me with all urgency, sir,’ he enquired obliquely.

  The General’s eyes flashed. ‘Yes. I’ve been following your career, Commander Veraine. People say good things about you.’ He smiled a cold, hard smile; a soldier’s smile. ‘You fight well. You ride well. Your men respect you. You were loyal during the army unrest last year. You’ve acquitted yourself on the Northern Rises with courage.’

  Veraine nodded very slightly, but felt it better to say nothing.

  ‘But you stand in a long shadow, Commander. If you are going to prove yourself a worthy successor to your father then you’ll need the opportunity to demonstrate your ability to lead men in battle. I’ve been watching for this moment. Now it’s my pleasure to offer you that opportunity.’

  The younger man felt the hair on his arms rise, but he made sure he betrayed no sign of emotion. He bit back his impatience and merely said, ‘Sir?’ as attentively as he could.

  ‘Come over here.’ The Glorious General motioned him over into the centre of the room, so that they were both standing on the mosaic map. ‘We’ve had news from our spies in the west. The Horse-eater horde has failed to invade the Empire of the Blue Bull. King Darsid met them in battle on his north-eastern frontier and threw them back. The barbarians have turned aside and are heading this way.’

  ‘We anticipated that, sir,’ Veraine said. ‘We’re ready for them. The army is mobilised.’

  ‘Yes.’ The old soldier looked at him keenly. ‘If you were attacking the Eternal Empire, where would you take your armies?’

  ‘The Northern Rises,’ Veraine said without hesitation. The northern border straddled an area of hills that were notoriously difficult to defend, especially from fast mounted troops like the Horse-eaters. The army for years had been pressing for further expansion of the Eternal Empire in order to establish a securer frontier, but His Radiance the Emperor had refused to take their advice.

  ‘Right. But the Horse-eaters are taking the more direct route, it seems. They are coming up the Western Spice Road through the Twenty Kingdoms. Apparently they have sacked a number of cities already. It is slowing them down, but they’ll hit us from the west.’

  Veraine raised his eyebrows. This was better news than anyone had hoped for. He was aware that the two slave girls had re-entered the room and were discreetly placing dishes of food on the low table. He could smell hot bean sauce. ‘That’s no problem, sir,’ he said guardedly. ‘We can hold them on the western border far more easily.’

  ‘Hm
m,’ Slaithe grunted. He looked down between them at the map. ‘Where?’

  Veraine moved one foot to better reveal a line of lapis-lazuli tiles. ‘The Amal Bhad,’ he said. ‘They’ll never be able to cross the river once we drop the pontoon bridges. They’re not boat-builders, and there is nothing to sustain an army of that size in the hills beyond. They are barbarians. Once they lose their impetus they will break up.’

  ‘Good,’ said Slaithe, in a voice that implied anything but. ‘We have a small problem though.’ He pointed with the toe of one foot at a stud of inset red coral, across the Amal Bhad. ‘There. The city of Mulhanabin.’

  ‘It’s a Yamani city,’ said Veraine flatly, searching his memory for what he knew of the place. ‘It has no strategic value and no resources. The land is nearly desert anyway.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So let it fall.’

  Slaithe shook his head. ‘Mulhanabin has no value to us,’ he said, ‘but to the Yamani it is sacred. In fact it is one of their oldest, greatest temples. They believe that one of their gods is physically incarnated in the high priestess there; the Malia Shai.’

  Veraine considered. ‘We have time to move her,’ he suggested.

  Slaithe smiled wearily. ‘It wouldn’t do, Commander. The temple at Mulhanabin marks the place where, in their ignorance, the Yamani believe that the first humans were created by the gods. It is sacred earth. If it fell into the hands of the Horse-eaters, then the horror and fury among the Yamani would be immeasurable. We could be facing insurrection on a wide scale. We cannot afford that when there is an enemy outside the door too.’

  Veraine realised where this was leading. ‘I see,’ he said, not sure whether to be elated or appalled.

  ‘We as rulers have a duty,’ Slaithe said with a twisted smile, ‘to protect our subjects. To protect even their foolish superstitions.’