Mistress of the Gods (The Making of Suzanne Book 2)

by Rex Sumner

  Dismounting to inspect the ground, she could make out deer tracks, and hooves, but being a city girl, could not tell if they were horse, aurochs or belonged to a ridden horse. Droppings, she was sure from a horse, trailed along the path and she stared at them. With her toe, she nudged one and it rolled, dry and old. She knew it was important, and tickled her memory, seeking inspiration.

  To the side of the path, a deer had dropped its dung in a pile and the sight of this brought to mind an old man in Galicia, talking with her as a child. His words rang in her memory – a horse will stop to drop its dung, unless it is ridden, in which case it will keep walking and drop as it goes. So the horse droppings were from a ridden horse.

  She nodded to herself, swung up and kicked the palfrey into a canter, riding with confidence into the gloom of the forest. When the horse tired and slowed to a trot, she allowed the change of pace and adjusted her movement to suit, dropping down into the saddle and rising with the gait of the horse. Her mind ranged, her happiness with the forest view, the clean air and the freedom she felt combined to generate a warmth inside. She thought of Timmy, wishing his presence to assuage the loneliness, the warmth changing as she remembered the feel of his hands, the prickling down her back when he grazed on her neck and she closed her eyes to bask in the memories.

  The horse faltered, stopping, and her eyes flew open to find a man standing in the path in front of them. No, not a man, she thought in triumph, but an Elf! A real live Elf, one of the gentle people, the great mystics and learned people she sought.

  “Greetings from a traveler on this beneficial day where the sight of you raises pleasure in my throat,” she spoke by rote, hoping her accent was understandable and this was the real traditional greeting, though she still worried about the throat bit. The words cost her ten crowns, an extra two to correct her pronunciation. “I ride in search of the Elder Maelbelenus, to study and learn at his feet. Will you guide my path, kind sir?”

  The Elf blinked at her and as she took in his appearance the thrill of finding him passed. Whoa, she thought, not just an Elf but a super-hot Elf, as Irina would have said. For the first time she understood Lady Irina’s excitement and interest in men as she took in the splendid physique, the broad tanned shoulders, the ropes of muscle down his arms and the corded waist. He stood bare-chested, black hair reaching to his shoulders, held back by a woven band around his forehead with a pale stone in the middle. Tight leather breeches reaching to above the knee left little to the imagination and she felt heat rising to her cheeks as she tore her gaze away.

  The warrior smiled, replied in liquid Elvish, his voice seeming to ripple down her spine, causing an involuntary shudder. She understood not a word, but his welcoming smile and the gallant hand he raised to help her dismount twitched at her heart.

  I hope his wife isn’t with him, she thought, as an electric jolt went up her arm at his touch, light as a feather, before catching her as she jumped down. She smiled up at him, completely forgetting she was dressed as a boy.

  “I am so sorry, I speak no more Elvish, though I promise to learn in no time. I presume you are the border guard?”

  Another liquid burst of Elvish as he retained her hand, placing it on his forearm and trapping it in place with the other. He looked deep into her eyes, so deep she thought she would stumble as he guided her into the trees. With a small exclamation she stopped, turning to her horse only to see another elf grinning as he followed behind leading the palfrey. Allowing herself to continue with the first elf, she avoided his eyes and instead examined the intricacies of his hair, tied with little baubles and flowers. A precise little wheel woven from a black vine hung at the very front of his forehead, above the stone. She now saw the stone possessed a milky blue radiance, power emanating in waves.

  “Ah, is this your camp?” She asked, looking round a nondescript clearing with a small stream flowing along one side. Various items lay scattered around, and five bed rolls. She frowned, this was not the smart camp she envisioned, but perhaps they were on patrol and meeting her was simple luck.

  The liquid Elvish flowed again, rising at the end in what she presumed was a question. He indicated a bedroll and she looked at it with suspicion. However, it appeared clean and, lacking any other seats, she knelt on it, tucking her feet under her bottom as she sat with as much grace as possible. She smiled at the Elf.

  “Surely you speak Harrhein? I would have thought it required for a border guard.” She arched an eyebrow at him as he squatted in front of her. He reached for her face, and she sat perplexed as he examined her hair. He asked her a question which she failed to understand, before he plucked out one hair and held it in front of her as she squeaked at the sharp momentary pain. She saw the hair, yellow at the base and black after a fingerspan, realising what fascinated him.

  “I’m in disguise,” she said with some heat. “It’s not easy or safe to travel in Harrhein if you are a girl.”

  He looked at her without understanding before shrugging and returning to his inspection. Susan began to feel this was not just undignified but uncalled for, and not the correct way to greet a guest in your country. She put up with his fascination with her eyes, but when he started to loosen her shirt, she felt enough was enough.

  “No,” she said in as firm a tone as she could manage. She removed his hand and placed it his knee, giving him a firm warning look. “Not the right way to act around ladies.”

  His face expressionless, he let her settle back down before bringing his hand round in a roundhouse slap, hard against the side of her head, which flattened her, on her side on the bedroll. Semi-conscious, dazed, she felt chill on her body, on her breasts, and insistent fingers tugging at her breeches. Dizzy, unable to move, she was turned on her back and the breeches and undergarment removed, and now her whole body shivered in the breeze.

  Her vision cleared to find the warrior filling her view, close in, nothing else visible. There was a weight on her chest and she could hear a scream echoing from the treetops. The realisation that it was herself screaming came as the warrior pushed into her a second time, setting up a steady rhythm that caused her to grunt as he pressed the wind out of her. She gritted her teeth, determined not to give him the pleasure of hearing her scream again before she erupted, bucking hard to throw him off and attempting to slap her hands against his ears to burst his eardrums. He twisted his head and slipped out as he brought his arms up to block hers, causing his full weight to press into her chest and stop her breathing. She restrained a moan of pain as he transferred his weight to his arms, pressing painfully into hers. She used her supple body to bend her hips away but he pressed down hard and entered her again, easily finding her centre, taking her breath away once more and causing her legs to fly up out of control. He continued to pound into her, fixated on her eyes as she relaxed, seeking an alternative and allowing her mind to work for the first time.

  Taking stock, she wondered why it didn’t hurt. Why, the king had hurt her worse on many an occasion. Her head still rang, but the rape was not painful. Was he small? No, she concentrated and knew he filled her up to considerable depth. Nevertheless, there was no friction and she recalled her earlier reminiscing of Timmy followed by her desire for this wretched warrior, realised that this caused sufficient lubrication to remove the pain. Wonder filled her, followed by further wonder that she could be so detached as to think this way.

  The warrior was taking his time, she thought, willing him to finish and get off. An errant thought came to her, something Irina once said. She concentrated, and on his next withdrawal she squeezed, as if she was pushing out urine. The warrior grunted and she relaxed, to squeeze again on the next withdrawal. Abruptly he increased speed culminating in frantic jerks just moments later, and Susan smiled in triumph, the warmth spreading inside her.

  He pulled back, still inside her, but examined her face with surprised curiosity. She smiled at him, pleased with herself and feeling she had won the e
ncounter, taken control.

  Another face loomed over his shoulder, tapping on it and speaking in Elvish. Understanding shot through her, he was demanding his turn.

  “No,” she cried, wrapping her legs around her warrior and pulling him back, her arms going round his chest and pulling. Caught by surprise, he fell back on her, pushing the breath from her body. She squeezed tighter.

  “Just you,” she said. “I will be special for you.” Eyes widened, pleading with him, her warrior. She leaned up and kissed him on the lips, working her hips against him and feeling him respond inside her, beginning to swell. He groaned and the next warrior spoke in angry tones. The warrior snapped at him, before pushing up his torso with his arms, away from her.

  “Cannot,” he grunted in barely understandable Harrhein. “Tomorrow, yes, today, no. Too long for them.”

  She let her legs and arms go limp, falling away from him and lay unresisting as the next warrior took his place. She endured, heartened by his words. For they gave her hope. There would be a tomorrow. She was not to die beneath them this day.

  The second warrior finished fast and the third pulled him away in his excitement and readiness. Susan let her mind drift, not concentrating on the continued indignity. An errant thought brought to mind the Pathfinder training against torture. Cut off the mind, don’t think about what is happening. She knew these men were dangerous, no longer thinking they were the border patrol with their messy camp site and treating her in this manner. Some sort of renegades or bandits. They would not appreciate a scared and simpering woman, she must be bold, she knew, as she plotted her next move to ensue survival.

  The third finished even faster than the second and his replacement stripped off his breech cloth, standing to make sure Susan could see his rampant size. She glared at ‘her’ warrior.

  “Are you going to let him put that thing inside me?” He shifted his feet, and looked away. She switched her attention to number four, who’s wide smile foretold pain. “Slowly,” she snapped at him, surprising him by reaching for him and guiding him in. She kept her hand in place, stopping him from pushing hard and hurting her. He complained in Elvish, trying to thrust hard, but she ignored him and eased him in with care. In the distance she could hear her warrior speaking and the man inside her grumbled a response, the thrusting easing. She stretched to accommodate him, then relaxed while he got on with it. He seemed to go on for ages, and she was not going to squeeze him for extra pleasure.

  At last he finished, withdrawing in some annoyance. Susan guessed he was either upset not to hurt her or that she hadn’t shown pleasure. The last warrior came forward with a diffident expression on his face. Susan noticed he was the youngest, perhaps his first time.

  She embraced him, giving him a kiss to upset Four. As soon as he felt himself near her, he gave a savage thrust that skittered up her belly, followed by a second that slid the other way. She shushed him, leaving her left arm around him while sliding her right hand down to encompass and guide him home, while her legs locked around his thighs. She considered faking an orgasm to really upset the others, but he was too fast for her, a couple of thrusts and he was finished.

  He pulled away, unable to look her in the face, and Susan pushed herself up to a sitting position. None of the warriors met her eye. She bit her tongue to stop herself from shouting at them, groaned as she pulled herself to her feet and made her way to the stream to wash. Returning, the water dripping down her naked body, she grasped the nearest blanket and used it to dry herself before putting her clothes back on, relieved they were not torn.

  She sat down beside the lead warrior, who placed a wooden platter in her hands, with some cooked meat and nuts on it, together with a flat bread. She ate slowly, savouring the strange flavours, before taking the empty platter and smashing it on his head. He recoiled from her fury, blinking, before standing in a liquid uncoiling of muscle, his arm raised to strike her.

  She rose with him, equally supple and liquid, pushing her chest hard into his, making the imminent blow hard to strike. She pushed her face into his, eyes level and glared at him, her knee poised to rise, hard.

  “Never do that to me again and never, ever hit me. Do you understand?”

  He blinked at her a few times, dashed a glance to his men who all found more interesting things to do, before a brief nod followed by a forced laugh. She leaned in closer and whispered, ensuring the others could not hear.

  “Protect me, keep me from the others and I will reward you. I will bring you pleasure and I will not embarrass you. Keep me alive and unharmed and you will benefit.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him, letting her tongue slip between his lips and slide along his teeth, feeling the instant response below. Leaning back, she pressed into him while considering his face and rubbing her breasts ever so gently across his naked chest.

  He shuddered and nodded, before stepping back and barking a swift order to his men. They dispersed, leaving just the two of them. She followed him to her palfrey, feeling the relief course through her veins, while he unsaddled and picketed the horse in a nearby glade. The saddle bags he brought into the camp and started going through them. Not finding anything interesting, he passed them to her after retaining the food. She took her bedroll and placed it beside his. Flat black eyes watched her without comment.

  As dusk fell, warriors returned one by one. One bore a couple of large hares and a duck, which he fell to preparing, while the youth brought a selection of flat brown mushrooms and green shoots. The large warrior went to sleep, while another climbed the large tree nearby and the youth started to put together a fire. Susan moved to help him, inspecting the shoots with interest.

  The two warriors cooked supper, with Susan helping where she could and learning all the time. They mixed flour with water and added it to a bowl, from which they first took out a risen dough, from the previous night. The dough made the flattened bread given to her earlier, cooked on a flat stone beside the fire. Perfect for collecting the juices of the cooked meats.

  The warriors barely spoke as they went about their business, moving with an ease that spoke of long practise. The large warrior woke, ate and went out to the road while the warrior in the tree came down. The fire went out as night fell, and Susan sat back on her bedroll, sipping a new tea while she watched the leader through the steam. Aware of her earlier promise, she knew she would be required to make good and indeed, after checking on the sentry he rolled into the blankets, pulling her to him and yanking at her clothes.

  She stilled his hands and removed the clothes, feeling his hands seeking her breasts as she did so. She tried to slow his urgency, without success and his premature entrance proved more painful than the earlier rape by all five. She endured, and, once he stilled, worked to revive him, using techniques she learnt during her three days with Timmy. Her lips and hands ran over his body, tracing the sculpted perfection of his musculature and raising a fire in her own being. Climbing on top of him, she controlled the tempo of their love making till she was rewarded with his cry of ecstasy, a duet with her own.

  Twice more he took her during the night, once as she heard a watch change and again with the dawn as he returned from making water. Each time she climaxed with him and each time he held her close afterwards as they lay entwined in exhaustion. Contentment flooded through her, not from the sex but from the belief she was safe, her strategy working.

  The first test came after breakfast, as the large man clearly wanted her and her warrior refused. He persisted and Susan made her way to her saddle, pulling out her staff and supporting herself with it while she watched the argument. She tried to follow the words, and thought the final agreement came when Big Boy was promised the next woman.

  The elves dispersed again and her warrior beckoned for her to follow. Taking her staff, she did, wondering if she should brain him and make her escape. Fear of Big Boy stopped her, she didn’t like to think what he would do without t
he leader. They made their way along the stream, walking against the flow, while he inspected various plants, none of which she recognised. Occasionally he collected something, perhaps a seed, stem of flowers, leaves or a root. At last he grunted, and dug up a dubious looking root from a plant with heavily serrated edges to its leaves. He brought the root back to the camp, washing it in the stream before cutting into slices, which he gave to Susan, miming chewing.

  She did so, whereupon he started language lessons.

  Susan knew she was clever, but even so the speed and capacity of her retention astounded her. She resolved to ensure a permanent supply of this wonder root. By lunchtime she spoke broken sentences as he led her far afield to a little glade where he fed her berries and made love to her, patiently letting her glory in his muscled physique. She discovered his name, Caomh, and those of his soldiers, and that he was a follower of the old religion, not in thrall to the weak king who sat the throne of Coillearnacha. Her reading meant she knew this to be a euphemism for his being a renegade, and if he survived he would return to the fold after a few years having fun and gaining scars.

  They were waiting for more warriors, and when they had a score they would descend into the plains and work their way to Fearaigh, and hit the Connorsons’ ranch for horses. If they were inattentive; which it seemed was not a high likelihood. The fall back plans if the ranch proved too well guarded were to hit other ranches, but the Connorsons were the dream target. Caomh had hit them once before, and the band in which he rode suffered badly, their leader killed by a boy, a young boy, with an arrow, and Caomh himself took an arrow through the arm, fired by, of all things, a girl. He showed Susan the scar and she tutted in suitable astonishment at his bravery.