by Aaron Crash
She folded her hands on her belly, covered by the blue robes of the Moons College, with the three moons symbol—full, half, and crescent—in a pattern covering the chest. On her right ring finger was a blue-and-white ring. “Yes, we decided to push you. You wouldn’t want it easy, would you?”
“Damn the Ax,” he snapped, “but I would.”
“A curse,” she said. “The Ax is holy, and yet, you would damn it. Did your mother approve of your language?”
He wasn’t going to talk about his mother. He’d done enough of that with Jennybelle Josen, and even that bit of truth haunted him. He ignored the question.
“The Princept doesn’t want me here,” he said. “What are the thoughts of the other professors?”
He waited for an answer.
It took a bit to come. “I can’t speak for anyone else, and you aren’t wrong about the Princept. Her duty is to create a world here, at the Majestrial, and you might disrupt that world. You are very unique.”
“Fine. Do you want me here?” he asked.
“Very much so.” Her eyes were soft on him. “Many believe we are coming to the end of an age. Do you know about the Ages of Thera?”
He shook his head.
“You’ll learn. Suffice it to say, things are changing. The Knowing Guild is giving us new machines weekly, it seems. The demons and dragons of far-gone ages haven’t been seen in centuries. Even the monsters are waning, and it has never been safer to travel the four roads that could take you to every part of Thera. Yes, some places are riskier than others. And yes, sea travel is still dangerous, from the beasts, and the merfolk, but with sand letters, business can be done from a distance. That has allowed us to open trade with the Wingkin of Reytah. The Withering seems to be getting better; more babies are being born, and more boys, and not just for the dwarves. A new age is dawning. I believe you are a sign of a new epoch.”
He laughed. “A single man can’t change the world. It takes many hands to build anything meant to last.”
“You mean Lost Herot, the Hall of Clans, at the center of the tundra.”
“That and other things.” He was surprised at how much the Moons professor knew about his people. “My life doesn’t mean much now. Not to the tundra clans and not to you Therans. Actually, Thera has never been interested in the Ax Tundra. Never.”
“Never is a strong word. History itself loathes the word never. What has been lost will be found. The sleeper will wake from the dream.” She said that last sentence casually.
The words made him shiver. He waited for the ice to crawl up his spine and lift the hairs on his neck. Nothing happened. Did she know something? “What does that mean? The sleeper will awake from the dream?”
“Old books. Old stories,” she said.
No, she didn’t know anything about his encounter with the Lonely Man. “I’ll have to look into these old stories.”
She continued. “My point is, Thera has ignored your people for a variety of reasons. Partly out of malice, partly out of fear, but mostly because a few thousand people living so remotely meant little. When the world was wide and dangerous, we could afford that luxury. But as a new age dawns, as the world shrinks, every person alive becomes far more important.”
Malice. Fear. Distance. He thought about that. “What do you mean by fear?”
“If the clans came together and decided they liked warmer lands, all the peoples of Thera might not be able to withstand the onslaught. Our magic has kept us safe.”
She left the rest unspoken.
He sighed and took a break from her gaze. He glanced out the window. “We don’t want magic. I don’t want magic. And we are happy on the tundra. Your fears are groundless.”
“Certain histories might disagree with you.” She took in a deep breath. “It has been a long day, preparing for your fellow classmates to arrive. A professor’s life has two very difficult seasons: the beginning of the school year, and the end. I will leave you to your thoughts.” She took a step and touched his arm. “The Majestrial will sharpen you, and we believe, in time your magic will become your greatest weapon. And what will you do when your ax means nothing?”
“My ax will always be my best friend.” It was a quote from the Sacred Mysteries.
“We shall see.” She withdrew. “Have a good night, Ymir, son of Ymok, of the Black Wolf Clan.”
“At least the walk from my cell has kept my legs strong,” he said.
“And we want you strong.” Her eyes traveled down his leather shirt to his pants, and a little mischievous grin curved her mouth.
She knew he noticed her hot gaze. She didn’t care. Her green eyes returned to his face. “Your legs are nothing compared to your dusza. Good night, Ymir.”
“Good night, Siteev.” He called her by her first name, which seemed appropriate at that moment. It seemed he had found another friend, a powerful friend. That was good for a variety of reasons.
He watched her walk away, her body lost in the robes. Peeling them off her would be a joy. He’d been with older women before. What they lacked for in youthful beauty, they more than made up for in their uninhibited lust.
The sunlight of age melts away the shy maiden’s ice to reveal the woman’s heart, full of desire. That was what the Red Elk Clan woman had told him during their summer night together, out on the tundra, burning a smoky fire to keep the mosquitoes off their sweating, naked skin. What tits that woman had—huge soft globes of flesh peaked with big, thick nipples.
Siteev’s coral golem followed her quietly down the stairs.
And we want you strong. Siteev’s words echoed through his memory.
“These women are always thinking in terms of ‘we,’” he said out loud. Was Siteev’s “we” the same as the Princept’s?
Ymir was tired of thinking, and weary of solitude, and so he left the Moons Tower. He stowed his supplies in the Moons cleaning closet and went to eat in the feasting hall.
The hall flickered with light from torches, powered by Sunfire magic, which gave off a warm glow. He looked for Lillee but couldn’t find her. That made him a bit worried but not much. She was a grown woman who could take care of herself.
His new friend, Toriah Welldeep, was at the counter, helping the working scholars and faculty get their food. Siteev sat with the other professors, including Gharam Ssornap and the Princept, at a special table near the front. He wouldn’t be welcome there.
Another familiar face caught his eye. The orc librarian sat alone, with a leather book in front of her, squinting as she read in the weak light. Her plate of food—slabs of meat, a pile of grains, and a splash of cooked greens—sat uneaten. She was very studious, that one, but she couldn’t be spending her whole time reading. Those muscles on her came from a lot of hard work.
He gave Toriah a secret smile, which she returned, and got his food. All the tin plates and cups were gone, and so he’d have to use the wooden ones.
So, Toriah was a Morbuskor, beardless, which was something he noted. What did dwarves think of sex? He wasn’t sure; Toriah herself said it could never work between them. Jenny had laughed at the idea.
The Swamp Coast witch was there with her other witches, talking loudly and laughing louder. She didn’t even give him a hateful glance, which was a relief. He wanted nothing more to do with her and her games.
He took his wooden plate and cup over to the orc librarian. He didn’t sit. “I’m Ymir. You shouldn’t be eating alone. No one should. And your reading can wait. I want to know your name.” He thought being direct would be the best approach to win the bookish Gruul over.
She gave him a look of complete disgust, like he was a pile of elkshit standing there. “Go fuck yourself, Ymir. I want to be left alone. Go somewhere else to eat.”
He laughed. “Fucking myself is all I ever do anymore! Very well, orc, I’ll leave. When you want to talk, come and tell me your name. I can wait. Patience is in love with cunning.”
He sat with Kacky and Gluck and the other cleaning staff. The fat
Gruul and the thin one kept things interesting by telling dirty jokes, casting glances at Ymir as they did. He laughed and felt their lust for him. They might not be as pretty as the orc librarian, but they would warm his cold cell as well as anyone.
Perhaps both together? He didn’t know, but the stories he’d heard of the Therans made that seem possible. They were proponents of harems. In the North, even threesomes were tricky. The three sex questions would require nine answers, and the complexity of that often ended in all the lust dying away, like red embers turning to ash. He’d never had a threesome, but it was something he wanted to try.
Siteev’s question came back to him. What would he do with his sharpened dusza? He’d find two willing women and give them a fucking that would trouble their dreams for ever after. That seemed like a very logical thing to do with any power he gained.
He glanced around the benches and tables. Most were empty. That would change the next day. For now, he liked how sparse the place felt, but he also felt the longing there. This feasting hall wanted to be filled, like a wife on her wedding night.
He was feeling randy, and he’d need sex soon. Maybe he’d find relief with Toriah or the two orc girls. And then there was Professor Siteev to consider. She’d given him the eye, and he did like her body. There was a definite spark between them, and if given the chance, he would fan that flame.
After his meal, he padded back into the Librarium Citadel. All those books, and the lightning of the Coruscation Shelves, fired his mind but made his skin crawl at the same time. Magic both fascinated him and repulsed him.
He walked to the Flow courtyard and down the Sea Stair until he came to an abrupt halt, completely surprised.
The buildings had changed during the day. What he’d thought were more cells were actually shops and inns of all kinds. A big, meaty woman adjusted shelves. From her sign, which was written in Pidgin, he saw she would be selling fried fish. Other places sold clothes, others sweet meats, and still others Farmington beef and cheeses. Beef. Cows. It seemed silly to call your meat a different word than the animal where the flesh came from.
One shop caught his eye, a place called Fidget’s Knowing Shoppe. He pressed his face against the window and saw copper-colored boxes, like the one on the Princept’s desk. Timepieces. There were a variety of other things as well. The shutters, which had been closed that morning, were now fully open. Those shelves were full. He’d not been the only one hard at work that day.
An inn farther down showed new activity. A sign had been hooked into eye-rings. He couldn’t read the name—it wasn’t in Pidgin—but the wooden plaque was of a smiling unicorn, eyes rolled back, with a large erection. He thought about going in, but he didn’t want to do dishes for drinks, and he had no shecks, copper or otherwise. The liquor would have to wait.
Yet the stairwell marketplace made him think living in the Flow might not be so bad once he had some money. His optimism was short lived when he reached his alley. A few inches of water covered the floor of the hallway. The single Sunfire torch in the middle of the passageway shined on the black water. He splashed through it to check on the lock of the grate. He’d lashed the lock back together with a strip of elk hide. Unless you looked closely, you’d never know it wasn’t secure. If someone discovered it, he knew they’d blame him.
Worries over the future are lies that have no end, or so Grandmother Rabbit would’ve said.
In his cell, he washed his hands and face, then stretched out on the bear blanket covering the rough sheets and thin mattress. He’d curl up in his bear fur in the early morning cold.
The door, creaking open, woke him.
He smelled Lillee before he saw her. He didn’t speak. A single word might shatter his hope for what might happen next.
Chapter Eleven
LILLEE STOOD SILHOUETTED in the doorway, a shadow in the torchlight. She stepped in and closed the door behind her. She eased herself through the darkness without making a single sound. That was impressive. Was moving silently a craft she’d learned in the Ohlyrran Forests to the far east?
He heard the whisper of her blue cape fall to the stone floor. Then another whisper as her tunic followed. Lastly, her underwear. Did she remove her forearm cuff? He hadn’t heard it.
Ymir felt himself harden.
“You should take off your clothes,” she whispered.
He undid his elk-hide belt with a jingle of the buckle as it fell away. He’d made the buckle himself, from metals they’d dug out of the rocky grounds of the forging pit.
Lillee’s breath caught. Where was that little shadow in all the gloom?
He undid the four buttons, hooked his thumbs into the waist of his pants, then arched his back to remove them. His straining shaft and sensitive groin were bare in the cold mist of his cell.
He tossed aside his shirt. Naked, the bear skin was a rough tickle on his back.
Could the Ohlyrran see in the dark? Did she have that power? He knew so little.
She seemed to have no problem finding his bed. She knelt down and touched his leg. “I can’t be with you, Ymir. You spoke of disrespect, and I am shamed at every turn. As for babies, the Ohlyrrans, like all the races, must drink the sanctum sap tea if we want to get pregnant. However, we will not be doing that act. I can’t yet.”
“Fine answers,” Ymir said in a quiet voice. “Did you come to kiss me? Or would you like to sleep in my arms?”
Holding the elf all night long without some kind of release would be maddening, but he was up to the task.
“No.” Was that a smile in Lillee’s voice? It wasn’t tears. “I have come to drink you in, Ymir, to give you pleasure, to ease your desire. You have desires, do you not?”
“I do.” He was glad she couldn’t see his silly grin. “You have them too, don’t you?”
“My desire is my shame,” she said. “Let us not talk of that. For now, let’s assume I don’t have desires.”
He longed to see her body. He had the candle he lit for his Sunday ancestor fire, but it would take some work to find it and light it.
“If you don’t have desires, then why are you doing this?” he asked.
“You need to be touched. I understand your frustrated lusts like no one else. I know what it is to want, to feel every tingle, and to rejoice in every sensation. The humans of Thera celebrate their desires, and I would assume the people of the clans do as well.”
“Yes, the tundra clans do a great deal of celebrating,” he said. “Do you mean elves don’t have sex?” He couldn’t believe that.
Her hands found his naked thigh and she rubbed his muscles with her strong, rough hands. He was used to women with calluses. Jenny would have soft hands, yes, she would, but any love play with her would be fraught with danger. And he’d ended their relationship with his cruelty. He let her drop from his mind.
Lillee’s rough hand traveled closer and closer to his stem.
She found his eggs between his legs and touched them gently. “The Ohlyrra value art above all else. Sex is a distraction, hated by some, endured by others. A single man will have many wives so that the women can divide up the work. But I do not want to talk about that.”
“Then don’t.”
The strange hands on his sensitive sack had him leaking from his tip. When would she grip him? And would that be all she’d do? She did mention drinking him, and he could only hope they both meant the same thing.
“This morning, on the beach, I felt you under me. I felt your...uht.”
He didn’t need help translating that word. It must be elven.
“It was thick and hard. Big, so big,” she said with a sigh. “I have been curious about you, and your length.”
“Then satisfy yourself.”
“Will you hate me tomorrow? Will you shun me?” she asked.
“Never. What we do now is only a celebration, like you said. But I must know how we will stand in other matters after tonight. If I flirt with other girls, if I bed other girls, will that make you jealous?”<
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Lillee’s chuckle came out kind. It might’ve been the first time he’d ever heard her laugh. She’d never said so much to him or been so free with her words. “You really are a stranger among us, Ymir. Why limit the celebration to a few or the one? Like I said, the Ohlyrran men have many wives. As for me, I am a poor partner for you. You should find others. Tonight, I will help you, and other nights perhaps. It could be I can control myself, and I would like for this to be enough. Bah, enough talk.”
She gripped his shaft in a strong, sure hand. “Oh, by the Tree, you are a big boy. Long and thick, you are a mighty, mighty man. And you’re so slick. I can easily slide my hand up and down you.”
Months of nothing, then a day of flirting and following the curves of every woman he met—Ymir came dangerously close to popping in her urgent fist.
Up and down she went on him, up and down, a nice rhythm. The pleasure was so intense, her touch, her smell—he knew, if he could see her, he would’ve already filled her hand with his essence. He found the velvety skin of her back and the muscles underneath. His hand drifted down until her felt the squish of fat on her hips. Reaching farther, he cupped her ass cheek. It fit his palm perfectly.
“Are all clansmen so large?” Lillee asked.
“Truthfully, they are not.” He laughed, which helped him keep from tumbling into an orgasm. “But you’d be a fool to believe me. Of course I’d say I had the biggest uht in the Ax Tundra.”
“I’m a fool for a lot of reasons,” she said lightly. “My truth is, if you were bigger, I wouldn’t be able to do this.”
She leaned down. Her hair tickled his stomach and hips. Her mouth slipped over his shaft. She sucked on the head of his uht. He liked that word a great deal. What other words did she know?
He touched her head, and her hair felt so very soft and fine. The four fingers of his other hand found the crack of her ass. He slid them up and down, going deeper and deeper.
