Disclaimers: as before.

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Warnings: This chapter contains scenes of violence and non-consensual sexual situations. Nothing too explicit with regards to the latter, but please take note before reading. Thanks.

Hmmm, after Aryea's stunning 'Letter's of Love' it must be an international torture Nigel week…

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

'Leave me alone, you ugly great brute!' yelled Claudia. She turned and kicked the guardsman, who was trying to direct her from the tent with a big, clammy hand, which he had placed on her shoulder. The edge of her sandal caught him hard on the shin.

The man grinned peevishly. 'Your master wants to spend some time alone with you. I suggest you save your kicks for him.'

It was then that she screamed. It had little obvious effect other than to give the guard the beginnings of a headache.

He took her to the front of another, larger tent and lifted the flap of a large, square tent, made of thinly hewn animal skin. Claudia twisted to look away – anything but to look in. The camp was full of big, armed soldiers and brightly lit by camp-fires and torches. She could see nowhere to run.

She never knew what terrible force animated her to step into the tent. She could scarcely feel her limbs. But step in she did, as if overtaken by some awful nightmare-like trance.

The flap closed silently behind her.

It was hardly luxurious tent. Like her own, the only furnishings were a couple of sheepskin rugs, which lined the floor of the far side. Kafka was standing in front of them, stooping a little. He was so tall his head brushed against the sloping ceiling. To Claudia, he seemed impossibly, horrifically large.

Claudia felt his eyes scan her up and down and, despite her flimsy, ornately embroidered chiton and the jewels clasped around her neck and fingers, she felt naked already. She shuddered to her core.

'I hope you're going to behave, my pet.'

His glacial stare probed her for an answer.

'Oh…uh…yes?' she offered quietly. Her mind was screaming - she knew what he wanted: but of all the things that simply couldn't happen to her, Claudia, this was the worst.

'Sydney will come,' she pleaded to herself, the words drifting dreamily across her lips.

Kafka was on her in a flash. His hand clamped around her upper arm and he crushed her little form against his, hugging her so tight she could scarcely breath. She could feel his hardness, his virulent masculinity, and every contour of his body digging into her. There was a predatory glean in his eyes as toyed with her golden curls with that terrible hook. She squeezed her eyes tight shut - then opened them again with a gasp.

The cruel, cold metallic hand was now digging into the soft flesh below Claudia's chin, forcing her face upwards.

His gaze claimed hers in her terror, rendering her helpless to even look away.

'I cannot wait any longer,' he husked. 'Tonight you will not deny me.'

She wanted to scream again; all that escaped from her throat was a blighted, high-pitched moan that spoke to Kafka of an exquisite fear. Encircling her tiny waist with a single arm, he lifter her little body clean off the ground and his lips descended ever closer to hers…

Suddenly, shouts sounded from outside the tent. There was a scuffle, a quick cash of steel and cries.

'Sydney!' squealed Claudia.

Kafka snarled with rage, repulsed by the very mention of the name. He cast her aside and pulled open the flap of the tent.

However, the sight that greeted him afforded him only surprised laughter.

There, struggling half-heartedly between two large soldiers, who held him fast, was Nigel.

It only took one glance at Claudia's petrified face, more childlike than ever, for Nigel to find his voice and a vicious determination: 'Let her go, Kafka!'

'I don't take orders from slaves.'

Nigel fixed Kafka with a forced, venomous stare. He was no longer struggling, and he could feel himself beginning to tremble with fear. He tried to focus on what mattered - saving Claudia - but he knew he could not control his emotions in such a way for long.

The firmness of his voice was already beginning to waver: 'I can get you what you want: the branch from the Tree of Life. I will give it to you in exchange for her freedom… and that of the Sybil of Camae, if you keep her in captivity.'

Kafka moved swiftly, seizing Nigel by the front of his clothes and lifting him up so that his feet dangled some way above the ground. Even then, their faces were not level. Nigel flinched as the metallic fabric of his tunic cut into his back and tightened around his neck.

'The branch! You will tell me where it is now.'

'I… I haven't got it yet, but I can fetch it for you, if you let them go. If you don't… I'll die first and it will never be yours.'

Kafka glanced back over his shoulder, observing the little blonde, now cowering at the back of the tent, weeping uncontrollably. He looked back at Nigel, equally scared but still possessed of a pathetic dignity, the kind of worthy, fragile resilience that was such a pleasure to break.

Most conveniently of all, there was some truth in the boy's offer. If the old Sybil was correct, only Nigel could get give him what he wanted.

Grinning, he spoke to one of the guards over Nigel's head.

'Give the girl back to her father. I tire of her anyway.' His eyes flitted back to Nigel, still dangling from his grip. 'There, it is done. Of course, I will ask if the Sybil wishes to leave the camp as well, but I suspect she would prefer to stay with me.'

Nigel didn't believe him, but it still felt like a kick in the stomach. 'I…I don't believe you… she is still free then?'

'Free to love me as she chooses,' laughed Kafka. Nigel wanted to punch him hard, but somehow it hardly seemed worth it. He had to believe that Sydney was still true.

The next few moments were a whirl of confusion for both Claudia and Nigel. Nigel was left standing, alone but guarded, by the tent as Claudia's father was summoned and she was relinquished into his arms. Citizen Agaue gave Nigel a long, hard look devoid of any gratitude or pity. He was given a chariot and told to set off back across the desert to Neapolis.

It was then that Nigel realised that everybody in the camp was looking at him, staring and pointing. Most were laughing at him; he could already hear the jibes and crude jokes about what fate held in store for him. He willed the ground to open and swallow him up – and even more so when he saw a woman, the only one he had seen in the camp beyond Claudia.

She was standing apart from the soldiers, dressed in a long, dark gown with a hood that swept graciously over her head. Her face was cast in shadow, but somehow he could tell she was young and very beautiful, just by the way the firelight danced in her eyes. 'How low she must think me', he mused dejectedly.

Claudia was lifted on board the chariot. She alone, looked at Nigel with confusion, gratitude and an inkling of guilt.

'Thank you,' she mouthed, forming the words only with difficulty through her tears. 'Sydney will sort it all out…'

Then the wagon trundled off, the night closed in around her and she was gone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Kafka seemed to emerge out of nowhere and with a single, effort-free swipe he pushed Nigel into the tent, causing him to tumble backwards onto the sand. He stepped in and pulled shut the flap behind him.

The warrior towered over Nigel, feeling like a God about to bring down his wrath upon the meekest of mortals. Nigel, propped up on his elbows, was quite still. His eyes, which shone a vibrant hue of emerald green, peeped up at Kafka from under a shock of errant fringe; his cheeks were flushed, almost feverish.

He looked so deliciously meek and so blatantly terrified that Kafka almost felt pity. Had the boy really resigned himself to what he knew must be a terrible fate just to save that little blonde, and on the off-chance he might help his beloved Sybil? How hopelessly heroic, he thought, how pathetically romantic. It would not save him. This time, satisfaction was necessary.

'Now,' he began, folding his arms, and looking down with a terrible smile. 'You will tell me where the branch is. And, before the night is over, you will more that compensate me for the temporary loss of my bride.'

It was only then that Nigel's fear began to overwhelm him. 'Why didn't I think this through?' He thought desperately to himself. 'How did it get to this stage so quickly? How did I end up back here with him, of all men…'

As Kafka leaned forward to scoop him up again, Nigel lurched sideways, his crazed dash akin to that of a senseless cornered animal, and tried to make for the exit.

It was a plan motivated by panic, not sense. Kafka's hooked hand sounded a metallic crunch as it ripped through the back of Nigel's tunic, skimming the top layer of his skin. Nigel cried out, even as Kafka backhanded him across the face with a casual pleasure.

Nigel was sent sprawling across the sand, his senses reeling and black dots sparking in front of his eyes. He was incapable of resisting as he was roughly hoisted from the floor. A single hand captured both his wrists, forcing them straight up above his head. Kafka's knee, thrust hard in the small of his back, pushed him forward two fumbling steps. Nigel found himself pressed up against the thick wooden pole that held up the centre of the tent.

Kafka crunched Nigel's wrists together painfully as, once again, he barked out orders above his head. Moments later somebody else, a guard Nigel assumed, used thick, leather straps to tie his wrists to the pole, stretched high above him so his toes only just brushed against the sand, and then swished from the tent again.

He heard Kafka laughed darkly as he leant over him, the sweat and heat of the brawny man's body already mingling with his own. Kafka placed a hand on his shoulder, sending a tremour of icy dread down his spine.

'Do you remember that little promise I made to you outside the walls of Neapolis?'

Nigel said nothing, and pressed his face into the coarse, wood post - the last faltering fashion in which he could deny that his worst fears were about to come true.

But silence was not an option. Kafka grabbed his hair, jerking his head back. Nigel's eyes flew open involuntarily and he stared, wildly terrified, up into the warrior's angular face.

'Do you remember that promise, slave?' This time he articulated slowly and clearly, with a sinister, gloating kindness, as if he was speaking to a child.

The word 'slave', however, ignited a spark of anger amidst Nigel's general despair. It was further fuelled as he shut his eyes defiantly and the image of the woman who had never doubted his status flew into his mind.

Sydney. She would never just take this…what would she do…?

But then Kafka yanked his head hard again and pressed the hook to his throat. The image in Nigel's mind was gone, although its message was not, despite his fear. He couldn't fight, but he had to try something.

'I'm… I'm not a slave,' he stuttered, his own voice sounding distant and foreign to him. 'And, to be honest, I still don't know quite where the branch is, but I, err, might be able to get it. Maybe we could negotiate… come to some sort of agreement…?

Kafka laughed, warm spittle striking Nigel's glowing cheeks. 'There are no negotiations for slaves! You will simply obey me… but first, I think I'll give you a little taster of what happens when you don't obey me!'

He pushed Nigel forward again so his head hit hard against the tent pole. Once again, white stars flashed in the blackness - and once again, he saw a face. This time it was his mother, pale and kindly but, in its way, every bit as vivacious and determined as Sydney.

Then he saw them both and they spoke to him as one: 'You must fight him. You can do it!'

Nigel let out a stifled sob, burying his face in his now aching arms as a warm trickle of blood seeped from above his hairline.

'How can I fight?' he pleaded silently. As his full-consciousness returned again, the women were gone and his panic burgeoned irrepressibly again.

He could not repress a whimper as Kafka ripped his tunic apart at the shoulders, tearing through the metallic fabric as easily as if it was fine linen. The sleeves were left hanging in rags from Nigel's bound wrists. His torso was completely bare. For a terrible moment, Kafka's hand snaked all over him, squeezing his arms and thighs and slapping his backside, as if testing his malleability. Nigel felt sick with degradation as Kafka grunted his approval and stepped away. Yet he could not even find the spirit to spit out the words of defiance he so desperately sought.

He knew it was coming, but the first bite of the belt still took him by surprise.

The leather burned red-hot into his back. His skin had healed since the previous bout but, newly torn by the hook, it hurt even more then he remembered. His whole body flinched at the first shot of pain.

On the second switch however, Nigel anticipated, trying – pretty much in vain - to twist out of the way. He heard Kafka growl - a low rumble of macabre pleasure - and the third swipe caught him harder than even before, expertly locating the places where the skin was rawest. Then Kafka struck him again.

Nigel bit so hard into his lip he tasted the bitter tang of blood. His own breath came in ragged gasps; he could hear Kafka panting even heavier. The warrior was enjoying himself.

But worst of all, just like before, he just couldn't control angry, humiliating tears. They blinded him, and continued streaking down his bloodied cheeks even once the blows ceased.

He felt the hand on his shoulder again, the mocking caress. Then the meaty fingers grabbed Nigel's chin, twisting his tear-stained face so their gazes met.

A smouldering, pain-addled hatred met a glassy, violence-born lust.

'I will enjoy breaking you all myself,' whispered Kafka, his thumb skimming across Nigel's cheek, mindlessly smearing the blood and tears.

He leaned in, his lips close - far too close - to Nigel's. 'Then, before sunset tomorrow, you will kneel at my feet as you watch your beloved Sybil and her little blonde friend meet a more painful ends than was ever described in the myths of their dying gods!'

As Kafka's words faded to a malicious chuckle, he saw something new flame in Nigel's eyes: a singular revulsion. But he thought nothing of it - the boy had not even strained against his bonds so far. Then, as he took a step back and deliberately turned the belt over, to use it, for the first time on the side with its cruel metal studs, Nigel began to struggle.

He tugged hard at the straps. Blood began to well from his wrists.

Kafka paused. Nigel's face was now twisted towards him, but the boy's eyes were not on him - rather, they had met something, or someone, beyond. The prisoner murmured a single word: 'Mother?'

Kafka swivelled, his fist raised. He thought he saw a woman – pale and unfamiliar - but he blinked once and she was gone. He turned back to Nigel, then froze.

Somehow, the boy had managed to free himself. He was kneeling on the sand, gazing in apparent awe at his bloodied wrists and muttering strangely to himself.

'I'll have that guard punished for doing a shoddy job', he ruminated. But now Nigel was loose, he had a new idea. Casting aside the belt, he pulled Nigel up by the arm.

'Maybe I'll flog you again later, but there are other ways you can entertain me...ooomph!'

Kafka flew back across the tent and then doubled over, clutching his stomach in agony and surprise. Nigel rubbed his elbow and looked up at his mother. She towered, her hair and skin glowing like arctic ice, over her son and the fallen giant.

'Now do you believe me, darling?'

Nigel fell forward into her arms. He was still trembling hard and fighting waves of pain, nausea and shock.

'Ssshhh. All will be well.' She smoothed his hair and dabbed away the blood and tears. 'You're so strong, my love. Like I once was, but my time on earth is at an end. What power I have left, I bequeathed to you long ago.'

Nigel eyes widened as the vague remembrances of dreams crystalised into knowledge as solid as a diamond: 'Mama! You… you're the Winter Goddess! You're Moreana!'

She smiled, brushing back a lock of hair from his eyes. 'But my time is over.'

'Please don't say that. What am I supposed to do… about everything? To save our people? To help Sydney?'

'That's for you to decide. I know you will make the right decision, my son. You're so stong, now.'

'But…'

Nigel broke off as he noticed that Kafka, sprawled on the floor, was regaining his puff and glowering darkly at Nigel. There were only moments left before the demon was upon him again.

He did the only thing his panicking mind allowed him to do: he gave one last, longing look at his mother and burst from the tent.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

For an instant, nobody saw him apart from the hooded woman who had scrutinised him earlier. She peeped at him, silently and curiously, through a crack in her tent.

Nigel, still trembling violently, never saw her. He scrambled his shredded tunic back up over shoulders, gritting his teeth as the fabric chafed against his wounds, then picked up his weapons from where the guards had dumped them. His eyes darted about wildly, trying to identify a place to run to.

They were soldiers everywhere. He was sidling - almost aimlessly - down the side of the tent when one of Kafka's heavies spotted him.

''Ere; how did you get out?'

There were three of them surrounding him before he knew it. Nigel went quite still, his mother's voice ringing in his ears: 'Fight, my son. Fight!'

'Fight? But how?' squeaked Nigel out loud. Then he thought: 'What would Sydney do?'

She was always so confident, so prepared, so instinctual. She seemed to have the power to push her fears aside and go with the currents of the elements, the flow of fate, and play it to her advantage.

Nigel knew he must do the same.

He drew his sword. One of the approaching soldiers drew his at the same instant - although he expected the boy to surrender before he hit home.

Nigel glanced at the weapon warily. Then, for only the third time in his life he physically fought back. He threw the weight of his whole body into a retaliatory blow, much as he had seen Sydney do when she fought off the Harpies.

Steel clashed against steel. The soldier was blasted clear from his feet by the impact and smashed straight into the two men behind, incapacitating all three.

Nigel gawped at the groaning heap, but had little time to rest on his laurels.

Kafka was at the door of the tent roaring that somebody should grab him and a dozen men were now closing in around him.

Resisting the temptation to allow his legs to buckle beneath him, Nigel swiped wildly around him with the sword - once again, picturing Sydney in combat.

The briefest clash of his sword slashed two of the men's weapons clean from their hands. Nigel took his chance as the murmur of amazement grew around him. He dodged between the two fallen soldiers and sprinted off through the camp.

It was as if time had slowed down. Aggressive shouts filled the air. Men ran at him from all angles. One he smashed from his path with his rounded shield - pretty much accidentally. He fought two men off at once - both were twice his size, but he all but shattered them by the fly of his fist and the thump of his knee. Another he parried aside with a sword technique he didn't know he possessed.

As strength surged within him, he was convinced he saw lightning flash from the strike of his sword. 'Surely an illusion?' he thought amazedly. 'Surely?'

Then he just ran like the wind - outpacing all chasers until the lights of the camps were mere smudges of reddish-yellow in the distance.

It was only then that his limbs finally gave way. As Nigel, aching from head to toe, sank thankfully into the cold night-drenched sand, he thought himself: 'I never thought I could do any of that. But then again, I've never been so highly motivated….and I certainly never realised I was a demigod before.'

He fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

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