Bellabel’s delicate long nailed hand reached around Kyra’s hips. Her fingers covered the rosebud at the top of Kyra’s slit, a hairbreadth above where my manhood was plunging into her. She began caressing that spot, in waves, in circles in twists and curves. Even my cock felt the ecstatic motion of her fingers, and I only imagined what Kyra felt as she began crying out, “Mmmmmmhhh...by the gods, I have never felt such….such…. such—Mmmh!!” She threw her head back, her golden locks bouncing, tossing.
Kyra’s body went on riding mine, her inner walls pulling me deeper and deeper into her. There was a rhythm to her bouncing hips, at once unpredictable, at once like an expert war drummer, as she gave a slight twist or turn now and then so that my cock drove into her at different angles. “Ahhh! Bellabel! Rothan!” Her pleasured cries made my body sing with arousal. I could not hold back. My hands clamped around her thighs. I began bucking my hips so that I met her own falling hips with a thrust of my own. The impact drove me so far into her so that I reached the walls of her womb. My pleasure, my desire was maddening. “Rothan! Unnngh! Rothan! I’m going to…”
“Huhhhh,” my hot breadth rushed out of me, barely being able to keep from spilling my seed into Kyra. “Ahhh,” Bellabel’s fingers kept rubbing, flicking, circling, and I held on for just one more moment so that we would come together.
Kyra’s hips went into wild spasms, thrusting up and down on my cock like a kicking horse. Had I not been a Fenrir, she might have broken something, but instead I only shuddered with pleasure as well. Some inner muscles inside her clenched tight around my manhood, and this combined with our crazed thrusting was too much for me, even if I had wanted to go on holding my seed in. I felt a feather of pleasure run through my chest, grow like a flooding river as it ran down through my core and then explode as hot seed spilling into Kyra’s womb. I groaned so hard I felt the veins pulse on my neck. My hips bucked up and down like a crazed stallion’s, now carrying her weight entirely and jostling her up and down on me by their own strength.
“Ahhhh!” she moaned, letting herself be carried aloft as my hips convulsed wildly. “Ro—Rothan!” Her eyes closed. Her face seemed like she was seeing visions, or was on some great drug that had taken her to some realm beyond that of mortals. “Ah…. ah…. ahhh...,” she gasped out as the final shudders of our climax ran through our bodies and her canal muscles squeezed every drop from me. My bucking ceased, and her hot torso was pressed entirely against mine, yet I was still spilling seed into her. I pressed the back of her head into the crook of my neck with one hand, cupped the full swell of her ass with the other as each spurt sent a small spasm through my hips. She gave a pleasured whimper with each spasm, until they slowed and finally ceased entirely.
We lay there, our breaths mingling together, her wild mane covering part of my face, feeling her hot torso against me. Then she drunkenly slid off my cock, fell slightly to one side, eyes still closed, still breathing like she had just sprinted for an hour.
Finally catching her breath, she opened her eyes and looked at Bellabel, then me, “I... never felt anything like that. Never knew… you could do that.”
Bellabel reclined back next to me, opposite of Kyra so that all three of our faces were near each other.
“Does that mean,” Bellabel said, pulling a strand of her dark maple hair from her brow, “does that mean that it will not bother you anymore, that Rothan have both of us as his own?”
Kyra laughed, her eyes still drunken. “Bother me?” she said, putting a hand over the slim, delicate waist of the Sarathean, “Bell, I’m of a mind to marry you.” A shudder of laughter ran through Kyra. I couldn't’ help but laugh too, as I could not remember the last time I had seen her truly laugh with such joy.
I did not say it, but at the moment, I had a mind to marry both of them.
23
The morning sun was high. Sleep had kept me under its grip an entire night and nearly the whole morning.
“Beast, you truly enjoy your sleep,” I muttered to myself.
“You’re finally awake,” Kyra said. She was clothed in a simple gray tunic with a necklace of blue Emerite stones adorning her neck, and was sitting on a resting chair in the room as she munched on an apple. “Thought you might hibernate now as part of being a wolf man, but that’s bears not wolves, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” I said, scrubbing my face with my hand. “But I hope I don’t fall into a sleeping sickness every time I make use of him.”
“Who knows, your beast might not be what left you so drained.” Kyra grinned at me and took a bite of her apple.
“I’m surprised you didn’t sleep as long.”
“Nearly. I just woke myself not long ago.”
“By the gods, I’m starving.”
“Bellabel’s taking care of it. She thinks of everything. I won’t blame you if she’s your favorite. I know she’s mine.” We chuckled silently. “Bellabel! Rothan’s awake!”
Moments later Bellabel came into the room followed by Eliette. They held trays of food, a jug of ale.
“I knew you would be up soon,” Bellabel said, and laid a feast before us.
Having eaten, washed and dressed myself, I strode into the hallway, looking for my father. I had not spoken to him these past days, and I wanted to counsel with him before I approached Siv, the dying Jarl Bardawulf, or even Dorgramu—for I had many questions to ask the wizard. My father was not in his chamber. If he was in the manor at all he would be in the weapons room.
“Father?” I said as I peered in. The weapons room was silent. I paced inside. There were four suits of armor laid out on their frames, spear racks, arrow racks, swords and axes, maces on the walls. Yet there was a strange feeling from the room, as if someone was watching me. I walked about the room, my fingers outstretched, touching the steel of hammerheads and sword hilts. My eyes roamed. The feeling of being watched was so strong. Then at the end of the room, I saw my trophy: Ghazrak’s black blade.
We had hung it there on the wall. We had yet to have the sheath we had modified from the tanner, and so we only kept a faded leather cover over it. Yet something called me to gaze at it, some uneasy feeling. “Does the ghost of your wielder stare at me through you?” I muttered to the sword, half a challenge, half a jape. I reached out, my fingers grasping the graininess of the leather. I pulled the cover off and stepped back in confusion. The blade’s runes were glowing. They pulsed a lava red as if the blade breathed heat—gone was its once green hue. Not only that, but the runes… moved. They ran up and down the blade, like a banner of ancient writing running along its black metal.
“By Fenris,” I muttered, “is this a weapon, or a demon?”
I entered the guest chamber where Quistainn had made his quarters.
“Quistainn, we must speak with your father.”
“He’s not my father anymore,” Quistainn answered without looking at me.
“You know my meaning. We must see Dorgramu at once.”
“Yes... of course, Rothan.” He was reading a parchment, and so looked at me half-distracted. He always shot up with such attention at my every command, that I was intrigued at this unusual half-mindedness of his.
“What is it you read there?”
“It is…. a summons. To the Citadel of Thrawn. There will be a hearing, to consider me for full priesthood.” I was confused whether this was good or bad news, until I saw a grin pull his cheeks into tight balls. “As soon as a moon from now, I might take my final vows and serve Thrawn the rest of my life.”
I clasped his forearm. “I am glad for you, friend.”
Quistainn’s armor reflected in the sunlight, and it shone nearly as bright as his smile as we walked toward his father’s house. I had intended to speak to Dorgramu soon enough, but the glowing black blade made it all the more urgent. Here and there, townsfolk waved to us with content admiration, and we waved back.
“So you wager they’ll make you a paladin then?”
“By Thrawn’s will, I think they just migh
t. I’ve proven myself, helped you defeat an Orc warlord. Not just an Orc warlord sorcerer, but an Orakaag—what they call the ancient red Orcs, I have learned. And I was able to receive many blessings from Thrawn on the journey. I don’t see how the priests in the citadel can deny me. I will take my final lifelong vows now. Surely the High Priests will see that I grow in favor with Thrawn.”
“I don’t need to be a high priest to see that you are.” We walked in silence for some time, and the mention of his god and his miracles suddenly took me back to the stream in the Lantern Forest. “Tell me Quistainn, what does Thrawn look like?”
“What he looks like… that is hard to answer. He can take many forms. But his principal three are that of a great sea of light, which scintillates between gold and white, in which they say when witnessed one can also hear the sound of the great sky river rushing in all its glory. There is also his form as a great three-eyed golden eagle. Then there is his form of his exalted human form, a seemingly mortal’s body, which he took after he left his incarnation as the prophet Omas Thrawn.”
“And have you glimpsed him, in that form?”
He shook his head. “Even if I had, we priests do not speak much of such things. We hold such visions close to our heart, and only speak of them if called by Thrawn to do so.”
I pondered this silently, thinking back to that vision above the stream.
We negotiated the stairs leading up to Dorgramu’s. The wooden door resounded with my knocks. The door opened then, and it revealed the thin scholarly figure of Dorgramu in his gray and crimson robe.
“Please, come in Rothan, Quistainn.”
We walked through the swirling contours of Dorgramu’s home.
“You are victorious,” Dorgramu said over his shoulder.
“At a great cost. But yes, by Fenris.” I made my way up the stairs. We entered the very chamber where we had set out on our journey, where Dorgramu kept his many tomes and arcane items.
“By Thrawn,” Quistainn said, bowing his head.
The courtly wizard turned and beheld me and his son. “For ordinary men, the names of the gods are only pleasantries and every day curses. But for you two, I see they truly are divine evocations.”
“Dorgramu,” I said, “there is something troubling I must ask you, but first you must tell me of any news of One Eye. My father said that if anyone would have word of him, it would be you.”
“What word can I give you, child.” Dorgramu shook his head.
“Any. Tell me, tell me something of him. How does he fare?”
“I trade in knowledge with some wind and sea spirits. They saw him board an imperial ship as a prisoner.”
“Where do they take him? To Kenessos?”
“No, not Kenessos. Many of the Empire’s ordinary prisoners—thieves, rapers, cutthroats—these type of prisoner are taken by that route, many are sold there for entertainment or other kinds of slave. One Eye however, was considered a prisoner of possible interest to the Imperial military and so he was taken aboard a ship sailing for… the Black Tear.”
“The Black Tear? Isn’t that some fabled island sailors tell ghost stories of?”
“Unfortunately, it is a very real place. It neither trades nor involves itself in wars, but keeps to itself with its black sorcery. There is a great black cloud above it that shrouds it in perpetual night.”
“There must be something we can we do to free One Eye. We could speak with Siv, or King Albrecht himself. They might be able to negotiate.”
“I’m afraid, Rothan, that prisoners taken to the Black Tear never return. Their minds are… taken from them using the dark arts known only to those on the island. The Empire can then access all their knowledge, their secrets. The Empire uses the Black Tear’s services now and then, for these kinds of prisoner. The Empire keeps the mind, the Black Tear keeps the body for its… experiments. It is the only kind of trade the Black Tear involves itself with. You are fortunate that the war ended in the same battle when you were captured. You might have been taken there yourself and you would have been… twisted beyond recognition.”
“There might be time to rescue him. I will do it myself if I must.”
“It would mean sailing into imperial waters and into the fortress on Black Tear. And it would all be for nothing. He has been gone for weeks. By now the process is complete and his mind is gone, and his body used for unspeakable purposes. I’m afraid, he is beyond our help. Men fall in war, and in politics, Rothan. As a leader of men, you must learn to face these harsh realities.”
“I have faced them! I have faced them all my life. My brother, One Eye, Eric…” I grit my teeth and felt my fangs grow. “Someday, Dorgramu, I’ll repay the empire a thousand times over.”
“First, you must not let anger cloud your thoughts. To see justice done you must make sure there is a Skald to face the Empire someday, and not a Skald that is shattered into burning rubble. There are other threats to our people, besides the Empire, as you have seen yourself.”
“Damn you, Dorgramu. You speak true.” I breathed in and felt my fangs withdraw. My friend One Eye was gone. He would never let me repay my debt to him. “That is why I have come to speak with you, about those very threats.” I drew Ghazrak’s sword from its leather covering. “This was the Orc warlord’s blade. And now it is mine. But it is no ordinary blade.”
The old wizard took the black sword in his gnarled hands. “This,” he gasped in a stuttering way, “this sword is made from dragonsteel, one of the divine metals.” He ran his hands along the sword in wonder.
“There are runes written upon it. Runes that glow like the heart of the earth, and move as if the blade itself was sending its message.”
“Truly, they glow.” Quistainn added. “They glow bright red or green when wielded.”
Dorgramu’s heavy eyes rounded. “Show me, show me what you mean.” He held it out to me.
“I’m not certain I can summon them. They glowed of their own will it seemed.”
I took it in my hand and stared at it. “When last I saw the runes it was as if I… challenged it, questioned it. Perhaps…” I summoned up all the anger in me, felt my beast stirring in its fleshly prison. Eric. One Eye. My brother Gannon. It was these lives that tugged at all the pain in my soul. The runes caught fire. I felt my beastly strength rising and the flames in the runes did as well. They began moving then, stirring like a fiery snake slithering along the blade.
“An elder tongue…” Dorgramu said, his wrinkled face lit by the sword’s fiery writing. “It is true then.”
“What is?” Quistainn asked.
The hoary wizard trembled as he walked back toward his table, the blade in his hands and his eyes fixed upon it. “These runes are written in Dracna… the tongue of dragons, ancient before all men.”
“Who could have forged it then, if men were yet to live?” I asked.
“You do not understand, Rothan. Did you not learn how the world came to be in grammar school?”
“I hardly learned grammar in grammar school. All I know about the creation myth is something about dragons flying across the sky and setting the sun on fire, or some such thing.”
“It was the three cosmic dragons who laid eggs all across the night sky, and when these hatched, they became the stars. And so you see, the cosmic dragons predate any other beings who live by the light of the sun, and so do their offspring the dragon kings.”
“So it was a dragon king who forged the sword.”
“Yes.” He went on in his croaky voice. “And so this sword must be Glauroth the Black Fang, one of three swords created by the old dragon kings. And it must also mean that it was not Ghazrak who was summoning the great Orc horde in the North. It was another.”
“Who is it then?”
Dorgramu’s face was twisted with concern bordering on fear. His words became hurried, almost rambling. “The Orc warlord, he went by, he went by, he called himself...”
“Ghazrak.” I said, trying to speak sense. “He called himself
Ghazrak Thousand Fangs.”
Dorgramu’s cloak fluttered as he hurried for a tome on his bookshelf. His fingers ran over the book spines like a spider. He found what he was looking for and slid it out, a billow of dust coming with it.
The book slammed on the table as he hurriedly looked through it.
“Ghazrak, do you know what it means in the Orc tongue?”
Quistainn and I only glanced at each other then back at him.
“It means servant.”
“I don’t know what you mean, wizard.”
“We…” Quistainn said, almost to himself, realizing something, “we did not slay Thousand Fangs, we slayed… the servant of Thousand Fangs.”
Dorgramu gave us a grave nod.
“Which means the orc invasion,” I thought aloud, “was not commanded by Ghazrak at all, it was commanded by this Thousand Fangs?”
“Yes.”
“And who is he? Another Orc warlord?”
The loose skin on Dorgramus’s cheeks trembled as he shook his head. “No, he is no Orc. Don’t you understand, Rothan? The one who commanded the invasion was the owner of that blade, its creator. Thousand Fangs is one of the many names of the ancient dragon king of the north, another name for the ‘serpent who gnaws at the roots of the world.’ For it has long been told in legend that there is a mighty dragon who sleeps below Skald, having been condemned by the gods, stripped of his wings and doomed to live a life of darkness below the earth. Now it seems, perhaps he wakes and stirs those who would worship him as a god.”
A silence fell over us. My mind searched for what all this ancient lore meant for Wolf Rein. “This Thousand Fangs, he will command the Orcs to continue invading?”
“I do not know. But I do not think it is in a dragon king’s nature to cower after losing a battle.”
“I will face him then. Orc, dragon, man or beast, I have sworn to protect Wolf Rein with my sword and life.”
“Facing an Orc warlord is one thing. Facing a king is another.”
Wolf Blade: A Sword and Sorcery Fantasy Harem Page 29
