Chapter 14:

Braith hadn't known what had happened to Dylan.  He knew he had been captured.   Tomos had told him that he had.  Weeks had passed since then. 

All the boys in the stockade had been castrated with golems made from their cocks and balls.  Braith had no reason to believe that Dylan -- the essence of Dylan -- wasn't already a golem, too, Dylan and all the market boys.

Braith knew, too, that Trista was dead.  He'd seen her atop the pole on the way back to town -- Trista next to Llywellyn. 

She hadn't been dead when Braith had seen her, but her eyes had been glazed over.  In Trista's world then, pain had been the only reality.

He had become a jilly boy in truth, first raped by the soldiers that had captured him, the first to fuck him other than Dylan and Emrys.  Many had since, though. 

He'd become one of several jilly boys for a barracks of soldiers.  Several had used him each night.  Not so many any longer. 

Most of those soldiers had been replaced by their golems, and although golems always had erections -- always -- their cocks were always hard -- they only fucked when told. 

They raped and pillaged when they attacked a town, but that was for the terror it induced, not because any of them wanted sex.

Braith was glad they didn't.  He would kill himself before letting himself be fucked by a golem.  He wondered, though -- would he feel the same if it were Dylan's golem? 

Yes, he thought it would.  It would look like Dylan.  It would even be Dylan's cock, but the creature behind the eyes -- he had seen the eyes of other golems -- wouldn't be Dylan.  It would be a creature right out of hell.

With the soldiers gone, Braith only had to fuck a sergeant, one of the few not a golem -- and he didn't have to fuck him often.  The man was so afraid that he'd become a golem, he couldn't usually get his cock hard. 

Well, if he were a golem, his cock would always be hard.  A golem even fought with an erection 

Braith could imagine how frightening it must be to fight a golem, who didn't feel pain and who could only be stopped by cutting off its legs or head.  It did no good to pierce its heart.  It pumped no blood, anyway.

Braith didn't know why he hadn't killed himself.  Without Dylan, he didn't want to live; and Dylan must be a golem by now.  All those Braith had known must be golems now. 

Then Glendower -- the traitor -- had told Braith that he'd seen Dylan's golem shell, wondering around the compound, unseeing and unhearing. 

If Braith could get into the stockade, he could release Dylan from his torment.  If he took a knife with him, he could kill the thing that had been Dylan, freeing him from his torment -- although that wouldn't free him from Nysrough. 

Dylan's soul -- whatever Braith did --belonged to Nysrogh.  Still it would be better for him to be dead than to be a golem shell. 

Braith would kill Dylan -- then kill himself.  He would want Dylan to do the same for him.  First, he had to get into the compound.

Finally, he had an opportunity.  With so many golem shells, all available slaves were needed to feed them. 

Braith was one of over a hundred slaves sent to feed and water them -- over two thousand of them. 

Would Braith be able to find Dylan among so many?  He took a knife, hiding it in a loaf of bread.

He had wandered about the compound for over a half hour before he saw him.  Dylan had been cut -- so long ago that he had healed. 

The cock Braith had loved, was gone.  So were Dylan's balls.  His crotch was as empty as Braith's but it was horribly scarred. 

He looked like all the others, shuffling, taking small, mincing steps around the yard, looking, but not seeing.

Braith circled behind him, pulling the knife from the loaf of bread.  He would stab him from behind, knowing he wouldn't be able to do it, if he looked into his face -- into his unseeing eyes. 

He would kill Dylan, then cut his own throat.  Dylan's golem would die at the same time.

Dylan's hair had grown out since he'd been in the stockade.  He had his man hair again, marred as it was by the scar where his cock and balls had been. 

Braith had seen that, but had been careful not to look into Dylan's eyes.  He hadn't wanted to see the same blank stare that the others had.

Dylan was covered with ordure, lice and fleas.  All of the golem shells were. 

The stockade was covered with shit, since the shells shit wherever they were, then walked through it, scattering it about.  It seemed that every inch of the ground was covered with it.  Braith's feet were already were. 

Surely the Dylan he'd known would rather be dead than to live like this -- if it could be called living.

Braith crept up behind him, even though he knew the shell couldn't hear.  Dylan was thinner -- dirty -- but otherwise still looked like Dylan from the back, the same broad shoulders, the same protruding ass. 

Stabbing him would be the hardest thing he'd ever done, harder than killing himself afterward -- but it had to be done.

Close behind Dylan -- so close he could hear him breathe -- Braith raised the knife  -- pictured where Dylan's heart must lie.  He took a deep breath.  In a moment, it would be over.  Forgive me, Dylan.