Chapter 1

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.