Page 93 of The Satyr's Guilt
He nodded. “It’s a slave mark.”
“I’m not the same person I was.”
“No. You’re stronger.”
“A fucking cow. Now I’ll carry this piece ofhim always. You don’t know what I did. I’m dirty.” Her fingers flewto her neck. She clawed at the brand, drawing blood.
Jarek approached to sit beside her, the beddipping from his weight. He captured her hands in his, holding bothof them away from her body. “You escaped. I can have someone alterthe slave mark. Make it something else. Something which tells thestory of your bravery.”
Lizette calmed when this gargantuan warriorwith the feral, deadly eyes warmed her hands. She was safe withhim. When he released her, cold seeped into her bones. Lizettegrabbed Jarek, burying her face against his chest, sobbing for thefirst time since her rescue.
The djinn’s huge hand cupped the back of herhead, his fingers intertwining in her hair. He soothed her,speaking in quiet, hushed tones, rocking her. To. Fro.
Lizette’s hands swiped along his shoulders,trailing downward, savoring the bunching of his biceps.
Still, he didn’t realize what she had doneto stay alive. “You. Don’t. Know.” She sobbed, pulling her head offhis chest, wiping away useless tears.
“A great Persian poet wrote, ‘The moment youaccept what troubles you’ve been given, the door will open.’ Let itopen, Lizette. You will never heal until you let the dooropen.”
“Someone as strong or powerful as you couldnever understand.” She gulped down her sobs.
Jarek stared vacantly beyond her. “Iunderstand cruelty and slavery better than you think.”
****
He was born into a family with powerfulenemies.
The preparation for his Awakening began atfourteen, an early age for a djinn, but he was a valiant, strongyouth. On his fifteenth birthday, the Varior Dalir, his trainer,announced he was ready to assume the mantle of battle, to become afully matured breed. Three years younger than usual.
Males in Jarek’s lineage held the highestranks among the djinn because of their fighting prowess. Hisgrandfather, a fighter with the famous Ten Thousand Immortals, hadtaken Egypt for Cambysis II in 525 BC. Later, he invaded India forDarius. When the time came to produce offspring, his own father,also a fierce warrior, mated a strong Amazon to ensure his son’sdestiny was to be the most powerful Rostamian ever born. Jarek wasjust that.
Be warned, though: When the gods bestowimmense powers, they can also take them away.
Another djinn family on Scath, theFarahmands, possessed a rabid jealousy when it came to theRostamians. Their obsession became the tool of the gods.
Abbas I of the Safavid Persia Empire decidedto attack the Ottomans to retrieve territories lost in a previouswar. He petitioned the djinn to assist in the march on Tabriz in1603.
Jarek volunteered along with other youngfighters from the Encampment on Scath. The breed regularlyparticipated in Earth battles to feed their hunger for war. Theyfavored Persia whenever possible. Hassem Farahmand, the son of hisfather’s greatest enemy, also joined. Jarek feared nobody. He wasstronger than his nemesis, despite their age difference.
On the road to Tabriz, the djinn andPersians kept in shape by sparring. When put opposite Hassem, thewarrior Jarek defeated him seven out of seven times. The youngFarahmand’s anger grew while the journey proceeded.
At night while Jarek slept on the cold,unforgiving ground, he awoke with a knife at his throat.
As the blade scraped his neck, Hassem said,“When the battle begins, watch your back, golden boy. I’ll be therewith my sword.” He disappeared, slipping away quietly.
Jarek lay still, unafraid though knowing hemust keep an eye on his cowardly enemy. One day soon, Hassem woulddie. By his hand. No Aeternal threatened him and lived.
When they neared the city, they encounteredOttoman Janissaries. Though fierce, the infantry fighters were nomatch for young Jarek, who took pride in killing his attackers.
Jarek fought with a shield and a scimitar, asword meant for slicing not plunging. The curved blade with a sharppoint was all about close combat, moving in with a deadly slash.The design of Jarek’s weapon allowed him to use it one-handed, butto be effective he had to keep his wrist loose, flexible.
The young warrior quickly learned somethingabout himself. Not only was he talented at killing, but he enjoyedit. Adrenaline shot through his veins as he sliced an opponentbefore moving on to another. His sword was a melody. It sang to himas he spun, locked blades, and slashed. He excelled at theelaborate dance of death.
On the field of battle, already covered inthe blood of his enemies, he turned to meet an attacker, a fighterwho wore a knee-length tunic with the unique bork hat atop hishead. A jeweled ornament at his forehead, the long tail of materialtrailed down his back. Jarek blocked his opponent’s first attemptto slice his chest open, countering by swinging his blade at theattacker’s neck. Though the soldier jumped away, the move wascostly. It allowed Jarek to twist his wrist and whip his weapon ina figure eight. He connected with his enemy, slicing through hisneck.
As the young djinn stood over the deadJanissary, wiping the blade of his scimitar on his fallenopponent’s pants, he fell to his knees, weak, shaking. His thoughtswere muddled. He ran his hands over his body, checking for wounds.Anything which could cause this strange reaction.
Five Syrian males surrounded him. Jarekcould not lift a hand to stop them while they dragged him from thebattlefield and threw him onto a litter behind a horse.
