The King's Secret

The King’s Secret By Wayne Mansfield There had been no time to react. Pan had been on his way back to the palace after having spent a pleasant month with his family on their farm by the Great Forest. His two Hapsid escorts, great lumbering creatures, half-man, half-beast, were riding on either side. Had they continued riding, they might have avoided trouble. As it was, Pan, eager to present himself at his best to his beloved sovereign, King Seronisis, ordered his two armed escorts to stop by a small pond not a mile from the palace gates. After dismounting, the Hapsid troopers helped Pan out of his clothes and escorted him to the water’s edge where they waited while Pan bathed, washing the dirt and sweat of a long ride from his smooth, toned body. Seeing the troopers deep in conversation, Pan turned and began to swim towards the centre of the pond, with leisurely but powerful strokes that had him slipping through the water at quite a rate. When he turned he noticed the two Hapsid guards were nowhere in sight. The observation didn’t particularly bother him. Probably having a piss, he thought. Or pleasuring each other. Yet the moment he stepped from the water he noticed a small spot of blood on the rock where one of the guards had been sitting. The mud was busy with footprints and there were large patches of crushed grass. It was only then he noticed the birds had stopped singing and the orchestra of insect noises had ceased. Over by the large Banton tree the horses were snorting nervously and stepping restlessly from side to side on their tethers. He walked towards them, his heart racing, pumping dread into his veins. Despite his senses being heightened, despite his heart skipping a beat at every tiny sound, he failed to hear someone approach him from behind and pull something down over his head. A sack. He could feel the rough texture of its weave and smell the earthiness of its fibres. After it had been secured around his neck, he felt his wrists being bound by leather thonging. There were at least three men—one holding his arms, another with his arms around Pan’s waist, holding him steady, and a third doing the tying. It had all happened so fast there had been no time to struggle. By the time he realised what was going on, it was too late to kick and fight, though he did what he was able to. “What are you doing? Why are you doing this?” he asked, knowing the questions would likely go unanswered. He was not incorrect. “Please, if it’s money you want, I can arrange it. I can give you whatever you want.” In the back of his mind he knew there was nothing he could say to persuade his captors to abort their task. There was obviously a purpose to their actions, and money, it appeared, was not it. Yet there must have been some psychological benefit to his protestations because he continued with them. “Please, if you let me go now, I can promise you the matter will be forgotten. No one will ever know. I swear.” They were at the horses. He could hear them snorting through the sack, hear the dull thud of their hooves on the ground. Immediately there were hands all over him—lifting, pulling, manoeuvring, and once he was astride the mighty beast, they were off. Two thick, muscular arms held him in place as the hands at the end of each limb held the reins; behind—a wall of hairy muscle, hard and solid. At the back of his legs he felt his captor’s legs, the muscles like rock and the hair, scratchy. The smell of fresh sweat, of manly odour, was strong in his nostrils. With the wind whipping across his wet, naked flesh Pan could do no more than give thought to his possible destination, and to King Seronisis, his handsome, adored Seronisis, who would be expecting him at any minute. They rode long and hard for seemed like hours. Pan could tell by the laboured gallop of the horse and the sound of hooves on sand, they had come to the desert, which meant they had ridden quite a distance beyond the palace. Grains of sand whipped over the exposed flesh of his feet and legs. The only benefit of having a sack over his head was that it prevented any sand from getting into his eyes and mouth. Small mercies. The sun, too, was a trial he had to endure. Its harsh, unrelenting rays seared his flesh till he could feel it start to burn. He was sweating profusely. So was the man behind him. The skin of his back and the skin of his captor’s chest and stomach were glued together in a clammy mix of each other’s salty perspiration. To add to his woes, he was also parched. His lips were so dry he could feel them start to crack. Initially he’d been able to lick them, coating them in saliva and offering himself a few seconds of relief before they dried again. But whatever moisture remained in his body had become sweat. His saliva eventually dried up and his mouth and throat became bone dry to the point where attempting to swallow made him gag. The sun must have been close to setting when they finally came to a stop. Pan had felt the heat abating for a while and now there was even a hint of the desert night chill in the air. He felt hands on his legs and the powerful arms of the rider working in unison to lower him roughly from the horse. As his feet touched the ground, his muscles failed him and he fell to the sandy ground, grimacing as the weight of his body came crashing down onto one elbow. “Get up, boy!” one of the men growled. He struggled to right himself and used his bound hands to push himself upwards, but again he failed. He felt a hand at the back of his neck, and grabbing fingers. Someone pulled him up by the scruff of the neck as though he were an errant puppy. “Walk!” Pan put all his concentration into placing one foot in front of the other while trying to stay upright; not such an easy task on sand. Yet after no more than half a dozen paces, he was walking as well as he ever had and in doing so escaped any further manhandling. After only a short way, the ground became hard, like rock. And cold. The rapid change in temperature made him shiver and he could feel his flesh contracting. There was a knocking sound and the squeaking of a gate or a massive door opening, then more walking. More doors opened until finally they came to what must have been a large room for the sound of the guards’ footsteps echoed. “Is this him?” The voice was loud and deep, and strangely familiar. “Yes, my lord,” came the reply. “Show me.” Pan felt suddenly alert. His weary body flooded with adrenalin. My lord? Who could warrant such a title? There was no other king but Seronisis. The bag was removed and standing in front of Pan was a slightly older version of Seronisis. The man’s hair was dark and long, though his face was devoid of hair. His torso was slender and toned. The desert sun had tanned it a deep brown, which accentuated the whites of the man’s eyes and teeth. He wore a simple robe, which flowed to the floor and was open at the front so Pan could see the shaved pubic area above the man’s pendulous c**k and balls. “So you are Pan, consort to Seronisis?” Pan nodded once. The man stepped forward. “My brother has chosen well,” he said, tracing the palm of one hand down the length of Pan’s torso. Brother? Never before had Seronisis mentioned a brother. Often he had spoken fondly of his mother and father, now with the gods, but never a brother. “I am Bathor, brother of Seronisis. Exiled brother.” Bathor grabbed Pan’s c**k and squeezed it. “No doubt you’ve heard of me?” Pan bowed his head and backed away. “No, sir,” he croaked. His c**k slid from Bathor’s hand. “I guess that’s to be expected. I’ve no doubt the shame my brother feels for treating his own flesh and blood in the unfortunate manner he has gets to be quite overwhelming.” Pan remained silent. While he listened to Bathor, he wondered why the king had never mentioned his own brother before. Why had his beloved Seronisis banished him? Knowing the king as intimately as he did, he knew without any doubt that whatever the reason, it must have been a damned good one. Still, he would listen carefully to this man and reveal nothing. Whatever had happened between Seronisis and the man claiming to be his brother was between them. There was no question of him betraying the man he loved. “You!” Bathor pointed to one of the guards. “Why are you standing there like a dog without a tree to piss on? Go and fetch my guest some refreshment. And you, and you! Go and prepare a bath.” Bathor placed a hand on Pan’s shoulder. “I’m afraid these savages are incapable of having a single original thought of their own. Alas, those beneath the table must be thankful for crumbs.” The sound of footsteps hurrying across the floor towards them had Pan’s attention. The guard had returned with a tray containing a large pitcher, two glasses and some grapes. In the blink of an eye Pan had downed two glasses of fresh water and had plucked a trio of grapes from their stems in readiness to eat once he had finished the water. “Careful, my friend,” said Bathor. “You don’t want to make yourself sick. There’s plenty of food and refreshment here. You shall have more than enough, but for now I think it best if you follow my guard to the bathroom.” Without a word of thanks, Pan plucked a few more grapes from the bunch and pushed them into his mouth as he followed the guard across the white tiled floor of the large room.