Way of The WOlf: The Northlanders Book I

by Shelby Morgan

  She was in chains. Shackled hand and foot, spread naked across a cold stone altar, she should have been terrified. The man coming toward her wore hard soled boots, she could tell from the sound of his footsteps, and he slapped a leather whip against his leg in rhythm to his footfalls. She should have been terrified, she reminded herself. Or angry. Or almost anything but excited.

  Why the thought of being held captive should make her body burn with such heat she did not understand. Perhaps it was the man. He stopped close enough to trail the ends of the whip's lashes across her body, touching, teasing, stroking her with the leather until she wanted to scream with pent up sexual frustration. If only she could see his face. But this time he moved behind her head, draping a swath of soft leather over her eyes and knotting it securely.

  The next stroke of the whip was firmer, across her thigh, but still not hard enough to leave any marks. A gush of wetness flooded her sheath, bidding him welcome to whatever he wanted from her. "Please," she whimpered.

  "Please what?"

  She'd never heard him speak before. His voice was low and deep, as smooth as fine aged brandy. A shiver of anticipation passed through her. "I want to feel you inside me."

  The trails of the lashes tickled the fur on her aching mound. He used the whip on her again, harder than before. She bucked off the altar to meet his punishment, aching to feel him inside her. The tip of his cock grazed her mound, just inches away. His voice was a little harsher now, hoarse with his own need. "I want you to beg."

  She would. She would do anything to end this sweet torture. "Please," she sobbed, writhing against the restraints. "Please…"

  A whimper broke from her lips as he brushed the tip of his erection over her. She bucked against him, trying to capture that cock within her aching sheath, but he pulled back, only to tease her again with the whip. This time it was the leather wrapped handle, slid slowly along her thigh, forcing her waiting lips apart, then stroking slowly over her drenched entrance. He massaged her clit with the whip's handle, bringing her closer and closer to shattering, then backing away.

  The entire universe focused down to those few square inches of her body demanding fulfillment. A wail of desire broke from her lips. "Now!" she screamed. "I want you now!"

  "But this isn't about you, is it, my sweet?" His tongue replaced the whip as his hands spread her open for easier access. He blew softly on her tender, needy flesh, watching her convulse before him. "You're used to giving orders. I don't obey your orders here. You'll take what I offer you, when I offer it."

  "Yes. Anything. Just touch me. Please…"

  She shattered as his demanding tongue swiped over the surface of her throbbing clit, then shattered again as he sucked the juices from her, thrusting his tongue deep inside. She thought she had nothing more to offer, until he slid his thick, hot shaft into her wet sheath. Fast. She wanted fast.

  He gave her slow. Standing between her wide spread legs, he moved in and out of her in long, measured strokes, burying his massive cock until she thought she might split. She strained against him, using her strength to pull him in farther, fighting to hold him within her, clamping down on him to prevent his escape.

  He liked that. She could tell he liked that. She squeezed harder, demanding more, assaulting his cock with rigid spasms of hard toned muscles that tried to pull him back whenever he tried to escape. Soon he was moving to her rhythm, faster now, faster, his hands braced on her hips, pulling her harder as he slammed into her hot, wet, sheath. Their bodies slapped together with the sound of flesh on flesh, sucking away with each stroke. Tranorva lost count of how many times she came as he stroked into her again and again.

  It was he who was her prisoner now, desperate for his final release, and she ached to give it to him. Words became impossible. A voice that must have been hers cried out in loud moans. He answered her cries of desire. More, more! her body demanded. She pulled at him with all her might, sucking the final shattering from him until they both broke with the intensity of the thing they had built.

  An animalistic roar broke from her lips, and he joined her, spilling his seed with a gush of searing wet heat that scorched her raw skin. She convulsed around him, trapping him where he was until she had milked him of his full provision. Then, even then, she would not release him. With a moan of exhaustion he collapsed across her body, his head resting between her breasts.

  Tranorva woke with a languorous stretch from the dream that was more than a dream. She was alone, in her pavilion, and her lover had drifted back to the land of dreams where he lived. She smiled contentedly as sleep overcame her again. It was just a dream, but he was waiting for her. Somewhere out there he was waiting for her.

  * * * * *

  Élandine shook his head, staring at the field of tall grass before him. He checked his position again with the sextant. He had the location right. This was the last place Lady Evalayna had seen Tranorva and her men. The scry glass couldn't be tampered with. Yet there were no signs of a skirmish here. No bodies, no blood, none of the refuse of war.

  No army passed by unnoticed. Nothing larger than the occasional leopard had crossed this section of tundra for weeks.

  Élandine pressed his fingers to his temples, then wiped them slowly across his eyes. The landscape before him faded. Voices bombarded him. The earth trembled beneath his feet. Holding his hands over his eyes, he sank slowly to the ground…

  His vision cleared, as if that army had been nothing more than a distant memory.

  Nothing. The vision slipped away as if it had never been.

  Whatever had happened here, either it was long ago, or some magic far greater than his had wiped the slate clean.

  He had no choice. He'd go back to the beginning and start again.

  * * * * *

  Still nothing.

  Élandine stared up at the massive, ugly fortification that marked the line between the territory of Men and that of the Orcs. He'd searched for two days now, traveling fast, covering ground, yet careful to overlook no evidence. It was impossible to move an army without any trace, yet it had been done. He was back to the Orc King's castle now without any further sign of an army to be found.

  As he approached the castle, cautious lest the remaining Orcs on the tundra might have moved back in, Élandine suddenly understood why he'd found no trace of the army out in the field. The army was right here, right where they'd been when he'd been returned to House Yarishet along with Lady Lochinvar's party after the war. He could feel the presence of the men even before he heard the armor clinking and the tread of mail-clad feet on the parapets of the castle.

  They were here? The entire army? This made no sense. Élandine stood staring at the Orc King's castle, perplexed and vexed. He'd spent days out searching the tundra, and Tranorva had never left her original base camp, except to move a hundred meters to occupy the castle itself?

  Righteous anger treaded heavily on Élandine's common sense. He could understand Tranorva's reluctance to follow in her mother's path. This deception, however, this breach of the military discipline the famed Tranorva was known for, had sent him on a four day mission to scour the tundra for her, and she wasn't even lost. She could have at least defied her mother openly, rather than allowing Lady Evalayna to worry needlessly.

  Well, Evalayna wasn't here to give Tranorva the serious dressing down she deserved. Élandine was. He squared his shoulders. A slight shift in mental attitude, a stretching here, broadening there, and he was a Northlander. Not just any Northlander, either. He was Seanen, Lord Lindall. He entered the castle as easily as he had so many months before, striding through the front gates unchallenged.

  The place smelled of fear.

  Men stood at the ready everywhere, their faces grim. Tensions ran high. No one seemed in the least surprised to see him. More importantly, he saw no officers. Well familiar with the layout of the castle, Élandine headed for the top floor, where he knew the Orc King had held court, such as it was.

  Not a bad guess. He found the
m in the conference room, pouring over maps, heads bowed in anxious discussion. He surveyed the room. No long ebony tresses spilled down the backs of any of those in view. No husky voice commanded these perusals of whatever maps they searched. More importantly he could not feel her presence. Tranorva had too strong an aura not to be evident if she was anywhere about.

  These were men he had known for decades. Captains and Commanders all, their voices containing their strain. He had not stomped into the conference room. Seanen might be a Lord now, but he was first and foremost a thief–too damn good a thief to go barging in on anything he didn't fully understand. Élandine rethought his guise. Whatever was going on here, Seanen would be expected to participate, perhaps take charge. That wasn't the role Élandine had in mind.

  Another shift, another wrenching of bone and muscle into the slightly shorter, slightly less bulky form of Shammall. These men knew Shammall, or at least they thought they did. More importantly they knew Shammall was bound by oath of fealty to the Lady Lochinvar. This form carried her authority with it, without the responsibility of solving any mysteries… at least not today.

  Commander Garreth was the first to notice Shammall's presence. Garrett snapped his head up, looking, for once, actually pleased to see the pale high Elf.

  "By the seven gods… tell us you have heard something."

  That was a little unsettling. Not at all the welcome Shammall was used to… "Lady Lochinvar has sent me to locate Lady Tranorva, as she has not had communiqué from her. I take it the Lady Tranorva is not here?"

  "General Tranorva just disappeared two days after the battle. We had established a base camp here." Garreth pinpointed the spot on the map that looked dangerously close to where Lady Lochinvar had sent Élandine in the first place. The place where no Army or its traces had been found. "We were to send out scouting parties from this point in radiuses to clear up any remaining Orc threat. The day after the battle went as planned, though we encountered no Orcs. We moved our base of operations and established the camp. The second morning, General Tranorva did not report to the Commanders Meeting. We spent the day and well into the night searching for her. The third morning we fell back to our current position. My scouts have found no trace of the General."

  An army had moved twice through ground Élandine had sworn untrodden in decades. Shammall ran long, slim fingers over his aching ears as he seated himself at the table. "Start at the beginning and tell me everything." It was going to be a long, long day…

  * * * * *

  If Garreth was to be believed, an entire army had bivouacked on this spot, and yet there was nothing. Élandine could find not a trace of their scent, not a blade of tundra grass even bent to indicate their passage. Not even a waxed paper wrapper from a ration left lying crumpled beside the spring. Fear closed down around Élandine's heart.

  He served Evalayna while she ruled, but Tranorva was his destiny. He had known this since her birth over three decades ago. His life was as inextricably bound to hers as hers was to House Lochinvar. As he had served her mother, he would serve her, and later her daughter. Such was the fate of his kind. It was not a fate he minded, truth be known. Tranorva was headstrong and driven, but she was also beautiful. She had decades yet to grow into her role. Or so he had thought until Lady Evalayna had announced her plan to step down from her place as Matriarch of House Lochinvar early this spring.

  If Lady Evalayna did not pass her succession on to Tranorva, there would be no more daughters for him to serve. Lady Cassadara had her own house now, that of her husband. Lochinvar needed Tranorva. He needed Tranorva.

  There were other houses, he reminded himself. Other great ladies. Yet this one had been his since the day of her birth. The fear that stole at his heart was more than just the knowledge that her disappearance marked yet another in a list of his failures. No matter how much Tranorva hated him, and he knew she did, she was his. Had he been Human…

  But he was not. He was Fey, and she could never be his. Not that way. What he felt for her was no more than the love of a protector for the woman he served. Their futures had been intertwined by the fates. He needed to serve her, he repeated stubbornly to himself. Nothing more.

  Did he need her enough to risk …..

  Chapter Three

  Élandine drew carefully with the tip of his finger in the fragile soil of the tundra. Every line must be precise. Every word must be perfect. Every thought must be controlled. He chanted softly as he drew, burying the thought of failure in one of the far recesses of his mind.

  Eight diamonds form the star.

  Give me breath, Wind, even in the void.

  Give me sustenance, Rain, when all has been stripped from me.

  Guide my heart, Wolf, that I may endure.

  Guide my sword, Bear, that I might not waver.

  Guide my feet, Cat, that I may not falter.

  Guide my Vision, Falcon, that I may see truth.

  Guide my soul, Mother, that I may face what lies ahead.

  Come forth, ye spirits of Chaos and Destruction, and bow to my will.

  Take me to your plane and back again.

  The wind rushed around him, cold and angry, ripping at his cloak. Rain pelted him like angry lashes from a cat-o-nine-tails. He heard their voices, wolf, bear, cat, and falcon, screech out their warnings. The earth opened at his feet with a groan that shook the very foundations of her soul. Then as quickly as it had begun, the noises stopped. The earth sealed over his head. He was trapped in a bubble, a void, a place where nothing existed. Not time nor space nor breath nor life.

  "You do not belong here, Élandine." The voice was deep and strong, rumbling as if it came from the bowels of the earth herself.

  Sweat drenched Élandine's skin, already damp from the storm. By the gods he was hot. The air was so thin he could barley breath.

  Did one talk to a god? Or gods? Well, it–or they–had spoken to him. Seemed rude not to answer. "I come only seeking a vision."

  "What vision?"

  Élandine fought to keep his voice steady and calm. "There is a Northlander. The woman called Tranorva, of the House of Lochinvar. I am sent to find her, yet what I have seen cannot be. It is as if the ground has swallowed her up."

  The dark mists swirled around him, shades of black on black. "Do you know what you ask?"

  Élandine swallowed hard, willing his voice not to shake. "I know."

  "There will be a price."

  Élandine bowed his head, struggling for breath. "There is always a price."

  "Ye may be Fey, but ye are yet mortal, Élandine. The price may be too high. Is the Human worth our price?" Another voice, softer, perhaps feminine, though only slightly less frightening.

  Human? They considered Tranorva a Human? Perhaps to the gods they were all Human. "Tranorva's life is the price of my honor. I will pay your price."

  "Very well." A third voice. This one hollow and echoing. If the first had been Earth, and the second Rain, this one sounded like Wind. Perhaps. Perhaps not. "Tranorva's fate shall be your own. You will live as she lives. You will die as she dies."

  Did that mean… No. He was Fey. His life was the span of the trees, with an ebb and flow like the oceans. He was almost immortal. He was nearly a century and a half older than Tranorva herself. That could not be what they meant. They. Whoever the voices belonged to. The room was beginning to spin as the sweat drenched his body. Air. He couldn't get enough air to fill his lungs.

  "Do ye accept our terms, Élandine?"

  To be truly mortal. To feel what they felt. To see as they saw. To have an end in sight. To know he would age, and in the blink of an eye he would be gone.

  To love…

  "Think what this means. Ye shall be bound to this Human, from this day forward, Élandine. Her fate is your fate. Her years are your years. From this day forward, your destinies are as one."

  He was already bound to her… Élandine bowed his head forward. "As is your will, so it shall be."

  Wind swept through the room,
filling his lungs. Rain pelted his skin, cooling the awful fire. Wolf and Bear and Cat and Falcon screeched, their voices following Wind as they called him back to the world. The stars reappeared above him. The cool Earth of the tundra appeared beneath his knees. Stars graced the sky. Blackness overcame him as he tumbled into the soft tundra grass. The moons lent their pale shivering glow to the form below, smiling as Élandine drifted off into a deep sleep.

  * * * * *

  His footsteps echoed across the cold stone floor. He did nothing to muffle them. He knew she could hear him, and the thought sent his blood pumping until he grew hard just thinking of the feast that awaited him.

  She was in chains. The great and powerful Tranorva awaited him, shackled hand and foot, spread naked across a cold stone altar. Any other woman would have been terrified. The fact that she was not, that she moaned for him with just the sound of his approach, made him ache for release. He slapped the hard shanked leather whip against his right leg in rhythm to his footfalls.

  It was wrong of him to take part in this ritual. He had no business being here. He needed to rescue her, to return her to Lochinvar. That was his mission. If he followed through on his disguise she might never forgive him. Yet he was being watched. This body he had borrowed had certain duties and obligations. If he did not behave as the Dark Priestesses commanded his life would be forfeit.

  And there was more. Tranorva wanted him. He could feel it. His body trembled at the thought of her. He'd never truly understood what it was to be Human before, nor why the gods saw all the races as one. The change in him was complete. He was no virgin, yet he'd never felt like this before. The passion that change had wrought in him threatened to overwhelm more than a century of strict discipline. He wanted her. He ached for her as he'd never ached for a woman before.

  She lay there before him, naked and lovely, her skin pale as the moonlight, her hair dark as midnight. Why he should find the look of her helpless so stirring he did not understand. He knew that, despite his anticipation, he could never take her if she denied him. But watchers or no, she would not. He felt the answering need shake her as he trailed the whip gently across those exquisite breasts. The altar was shaped like a birthing table, so that her legs were chained spread wide apart. He walked up the V of the table, stopping inches from her midnight mound.