Malus Darkblade’s Humiliation – Malus/Hauclir Fan Fiction

The Darkblade Humiliation

Malus mumbled in his sleep, lost to the foggy dreams that only a hard night of Clar Karond’s cheapest could produce. He was sprawled on silk sheets, an unusual luxury but one necessary for the preservation of what little sanity he retained; after the chaos, and the battles against said chaos, of the sea-borne expedition against the Skinriders, a scheme-riddled venture which had successfully claimed the life of his beloved brother Bruglir but failed to deliver the heads of either Urial or Yasmir, after all that time on the cursed water, Malus needed a day or two of true, pure rest. He dozed on in this questionable flesh house, still groggy but, after a steaming bath, at least no longer grimy.

He didn’t stir at all when the door to his private chamber opened and a hooded figure slipped inside. The shadow who’d entered the room seemed to pause at the sight of the splayed-out highborn and cocked its head. Malus let out a cranky snore and muttered some ancient curse, giving the figure a start. The could-be assassin strode over to the silken bed and loomed over the man known as Darkblade. The hooded person began to fumble in the folds of their cloak, perhaps rooting out some poisoned dagger or some other weapon of murder.

Malus groaned and suddenly thrashed out at some invisible enemy, then bolted upright, sweating. The shadow was taken by surprise and stumbled back, cursing in unison with the highborn. Malus’ sleepy eyes widened in alarm at the sight of this intruder. He instinctively reached for his sword, but it wasn’t where he’d left it. His legs were already swinging out to make contact with the ground as he prepared to shout for his retainers.

The figure threw back their hood. “My lord, it’s me!”

Malus narrowed his eyes, the cry for Hauclir dying in his throat. The dead word still came out regardless, now edged with anger. “Hauclir.” It managed to be as much a question as a threat or a command. The highborn had become accustomed to employing all three tones at once with this damnable mercenary.

“Aye, my lord.” Hauclir gave a curt bow.

The highborn eased himself back onto his bed. It must have been the hour of the wolf or there abouts; this was no time to wake a resting noble. Facing the ceiling, where, to the flesh house’s credit, fine human skins had been hung from short hooks to cover the brickwork, Malus addressed his retainer. “What in the Dark Mother’s name are you doing in my chamber? I expressly odered you to guard my door and leave me in peace until dawn.”

Hauclir grimaced, as if unsure what to say. After a moment he cleared his throat. “I brought the… goods you asked of me, my lord.”

“What goods?” Malus barked.

“You know…” Hauclir looked over his shoulder at the open door. He hadn’t thought to close it. “The private goods.”

“Speak clearly man!”

Hauclir took a deep breath. “The lubricant.”

Malus paled and craned his neck to look at his retainer. “What did you say?”

“The lubricant, my lord.” The former captain produced the vial from his robes. A clear liquid glistened in a little glass bottle, lit by the crackling light of two low-burning braziers in the expensive chamber.

“I didn’t ask for any… such things.” Malus swallowed hard. He had no memory of asking for such an indecent thing. Even with his head still buzzing with drink, he felt something stir deep inside his body.

“Perhaps my lord has drunk too much of the house wine. You asked me not four hours ago. Told me you wanted the finest human spit.”

Malus could have sworn something was tickling him playfully beneath his ribs, slithering about his vital organs.