‘I will tell of the elusive kisses that drove a fierce warrior to madness, and of the fireside glances that brought a maiden to readiness ‘ere her lover had even touched her.’
Noola’s eyes opened and gazed into Breehan’s while his gently stroking fingers drifted higher.
Just the joining, she signed, her fingers slipping against each other in her hurry to get the words out.
‘What are you afraid of?’ he asked, his other hand smoothing the hair from her face, touching her cheek. ‘Do you fear that we besmirch our love for Noorinya by showing each other kindness? She would laugh at such foolishness.’ As he now did, although it had taken Noola’s discomfort to find his own ease with the situation. He leant forward to kiss her, to take the pain away from her mind but met the palm of her hand, hastily placed between himself and her lips. He pulled back, disappointed, and then was surprised that he should feel that way. Before he had entered her shelter he had wanted nothing more than to be let off his duty.
No kissing, she signed. I want to sleep. Hurry.
Yet her eyes appeared far from tired. If anything, a quiet desperation had entered them. ‘I will do as you bid,’ he replied, for in truth, though they would lie as a man and a woman, Noola was his leader and could command him even to his death. ‘Yet I must touch your body or the urgency of my ardour will fade.’ This was said with some wisdom yet little truth, for Noola’s resistance had fired his passions as neither Eef, nor her sister the night before, had done.
So be it, she signed, and Breehan returned his hand to her leg, stroking, reassuring her that he would be kind.
‘I will not be offended if you close your eyes,’ he said, but she shook her head, gazing up at him with dark eyes that were nothing like Noorinya’s. The similarities he had thought existed between the sisters were suddenly gone and Breehan felt as though a stranger lay before him, and not the Noola he had known.
‘This joining will not change our friendship,’ he said.
Noola made no reply, but merely continued to look up at him, her eyes darkening as his hand moved higher.
‘I would bring you pleasure as well as a child,’ he said.
Noola shook her head.
‘Then I will do that which ensures my own satisfaction,’ and he pushed up her tunic, exposing her breasts to first his gaze and then, as he leant over her, to his mouth. Noola tried to remain still beneath him but soon she was moving in the rhythm of pleasure his hand between her legs dictated, the rhythm he would soon imitate when he lay above her. ‘I can give many pleasures, Noola,’ he said, pushing her legs apart, lying between them.
She moved her head restlessly from side to side, negating his words, but she could not deny the strength of his passion, which once inside her she clung to, wrapping her legs around him, drawing him in.
‘This is the first night of many,’ he whispered, ‘and the others will be better.’
Her head shook again, more fiercely as her pleasure grew, and Breehan held her face to stop her, then could not help himself closing his lips over hers, pushing his tongue into her mouth, claiming all that was not his to keep. Her arms came around him then and they fought the battle of passion, joined in the places where pleasure would be found, struggling to overcome the pain of their empty future.
Breehan was lost in the warmth of her body and the taste of her mouth. His desire to please her with deliberation and care was lost in his urgency to drag her to the edge along with him, tumbling them both over into the oblivion of completion. His body jerked of its own volition as he clutched at her head and took possession of her mouth, no thought of tenderness in his mind, only of sensation, of claiming and of desire.
Then the fire of lust clutched at his loins and he pulled away his mouth and cried, ‘Noorinya!’ the shout echoing in the shelter and spreading outwards, loud enough for all in the camp to hear. It was a moment of remembered passion, of exaltation, of possession such as he had never known before. Yet even as the sound of her name rang in his ears and his body went limp and trembling, Breehan remembered that this was not Noorinya. And that the name he had shouted would cause pain to the woman beneath him.
Noola’s clinging limbs fell away and he knew he should rise and apologise, yet there was a comfort in their touching that Breehan had never known before, even with his beloved. Grief had weighed heavily upon him, the more so during the joinings Noola had ordered, yet in her own arms that grief was erased, and companionship and pleasure twined within him like strong rope, supporting his heart.
The memory stone, too, indicated that the joining was good. It burned his breast where it pressed between them and Breehan took this as a sign that they had been successful, that Noola would soon be with child. Yet did that mean he would lie with her no more?
He felt her arm move, then the tug of her pulling on his hair. She wanted him to rise, which he did reluctantly and with little of the dignity with which he had ended his previous two joinings. Then his partners had obligingly looked away as he’d dressed, but Noola simply stared at him. At all of him. Indeed, she appeared intent on gazing at his manhood rather than his eyes, and this brought discomfort to Breehan such as he had not experienced before.
Ceremony required Noola to remain still and Breehan carefully recovered her with her tunic before turning to dress, and all the time Noola stared at him. Even when his loose travelling pants were donned, she continued to gaze at him and in helpless response to this Breehan felt his passions stir again, unable to be hidden, pressing against the pants.
It was only then that her gaze rose to his face.
‘Noola, I know I have hurt you —’ he began.
She raised both her hands and made the cut and go signal, an imperative which required absolute silence, taught to children at an early age to save them in times of enemy attack. It was a signal which no one disobeyed.
There was no recourse. Breehan gathered his shirt and slipped through the door flap. Moonlight drifted down through the Plains mists and gilt their shelters with floating gold. It was a night of surpassing beauty, and though the pain he had caused Noola disturbed his heart, it could not still the calm outflowing of comfort lying in her arms had given him.
Breehan knew he must make peace between them on the morrow, yet for this one night the memory of Noorinya’s funeral pyre seemed distant, and the grief he felt, not only at her loss but for the decimation of his people, was lessened. He knew it was wrong to take succour from Noola’s reluctant passion, yet he did. The future would require strength, not only of body but also of mind. To continue to pine for Noorinya did not serve the best interests of the tribe, and if he could hasten his passage past leaden grief without dishonouring the memory of his beloved, he would.
Noola did not hold the memory stone and therefore could not know that their joining had been successful, yet despite this she would not lie with him again. Breehan involuntarily calling out her dead sister’s name had ensured that.
He remembered, too, that Noola had not wanted to lie with him in the start and he did not understand why. Neither did he understand why she insisted that he belonged to Noorinya who, now on the High Plains, could dearly make no further use of him. It went against their customs to believe such a thing. Yet Noola obviously did.
These thoughts were cause for much introspection, but for the moment Breehan would block them from his mind, the better to savour the small joys he had found. This night’s duty to the tribe had seen a new Plainsman conceived, and perhaps that was the reason for his lightness of heart. His firstborn child was dead, yet he would have another, and his people would go on.
To ensure their ultimate survival, however, The Dark must die, and though Breehan had hatred enough in his heart to inspire murder, he was unsure whether his feeble warrior skills would prove adequate to the task. Cunning and tactics would be of more use, yet Breehan was no war master either. If words were weapons he might win the day, but even then The Dark’s devious nature would likely see him victorious. And that could
not be. The safety of his people depended upon his success and he would risk all that he had to ensure that end.
He could only hope that the luck which had kept him alive thus far would continue to guide his destiny.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘Does this satisfy your appetites?’ the man said. The man Djahr knew must be the God of Haddash, Kraal.
Yet Djahr made no reply to this for his attention was held fistlike by the battle before him, his previous exhaustion stolen from his body. On the contoured table between them, miniature men the size of his finger battled each other with bloody determination, their faces set into grimaces of hatred as they struck each other with sword and flail, axe and shield. Some were seated upon creatures of chest height with four legs and seemingly little intelligence. There were smaller creatures which Djahr also did not recognise loping along beside the men’s legs, jumping at the throats of their enemies. Most bizarre was the colour of the grass on which they fought. It was of royal hue — the colour of Khatrene and Mihale’s eyes. Djahr could only assume that these were the colours of Magoria.
‘Do you like my valley battle?’ Kraal asked.
‘Very much,’ Djahr said loudly enough to be heard over the clash of steel. Some of the men looked up into their sky and were promptly attacked by their opponents. ‘Can they hear me?’ Djahr asked, looking over the top of the mountain that mostly hid him from their sight.
‘They think it thunder,’ Kraal said and smiled. He reached down the side of his mountain and snatched up a man, who dropped his sword and screamed, flailing against the grip.
‘Whirlwind!’ his compatriots shouted, looking fearfully at the sky. Their voices were small and high-pitched to Djahr’s ear.
‘Here. He is yours,’ Kraal said and handed the soldier to his guest.
Djahr was fascinated by the small perfect specimen which lay trembling and still in his hand, ‘Can he see me now?’ he asked.
‘He does not recognise what he sees. It is outside his experience.’
‘And if I should close my fist onto him?’
‘He would die.’
Djahr gazed down at his toy. A real man. Yet so malleable, so … He stood and leant over his mountain, snatching up three of his toy’s foes, one at a time, and relocating them a distance from their fellows, then he set his toy among them and sat back to watch.
‘Interesting,’ Kraal said.
Djahr watched intently as the four regarded each other with fearful eyes. Then one of the three set upon his toy, fear of what had happened to them circumvented by hatred. His toy was weaponless and though he fought valiantly for several minutes, it was not long before he fell and was covered by his opponents who pummelled him into unconsciousness and then death. His blood stained their hands and the grass beneath them.
‘Remarkably lifelike,’ Djahr said.
‘Like life? This is life,’ Kraal replied.
Djahr looked up at him. ‘To a God.’ The man smiled and Djahr noticed for the first time that his black eyes gleamed with hidden fire, like stones heated in a furnace.
‘You too can control life and death, pleasure and pain.’
‘While I am here.’
The man nodded, waved a hand over the table and breathed upon it. The valley disappeared, replaced by a marble surface covered in delicacies, sweet fruits and fragrant wines, again in the magical colours of The Light’s aura, the rainbow colours of Magoria. Yet before Djahr could think to dine he saw movement among the platters and goblets and soon discerned that there were small people hiding there, chasing each other. He reached across and lifted the cover on a plate, caught his breath in a gasp. On the silver surface lay a small, perfectly proportioned woman with breasts as plump and rounded as the grapes surrounding her. A leaf across her loins was her only covering and what was not revealed, impossibly small though it would be, taunted Djahr with what he could not have.
A flicker of movement attracted Djahr’s eye as a male with fluttering appendages on his back landed atop a fruit bowl to gaze down at her longingly, yet with fear in his eyes.
‘Put them together,’ Kraal said.
Djahr needed no further prompting. He reached for the male and grasped him by the shoulders, restricting his gauze appendages as he transferred him to the grape platter, laying him directly upon the woman.
Her eyelashes flicked opened and Djahr removed his hand quickly, for there was malevolence in her gaze such as he had not expected from her seductive pose.
The man moved quickly as though to escape, yet she was the faster, her lush mouth clamping onto his neck before she turned him beneath her, twisting his appendages painfully as she straddled him, tearing at his tunic. Her own covering had come off and Djahr saw that her buttocks were every bit as ripe and luscious as her breasts had been. Despite the violence of her ardour, Djahr envied the small man who had stopped struggling and lay as though drugged, his limbs open and lax as she took him within her and began to pleasure herself, her rounded voluptuous body moving against him as she joined with him. Then she released his neck and straightened, licking his blood from her lips as his head lolled to the side.
‘He is dead,’ Djahr said. Yet the small woman continued to join with him. ‘Bizarre.’ He could not drag his eyes from the scene as she used the man Djahr had provided for her, and even as she lay upon him, began to devour him.
Kraal replaced the cover on the platter and Djahr looked up at him, dazed and stirred beyond any joining ardour he had previously felt.
‘Insects,’ Kraal said with a smile. ‘So … voracious.’
Djahr shuddered. It was difficult to accept the serpent voice coming from this man, yet it reminded him that Kraal lay within the human guise. He must not forget that.
Would you see another tableau?’ he asked. ‘The varieties are endless.’ He waved his hand over the table and breathed upon it again. The food was replaced by a glittering array of ornament: jewel-encrusted crowns and sceptres, rings of every size and description glinting with precious metal and multifaceted gems of hues Djahr had never seen before and could only imagine came from the Waterworld of Magoria where the spectrum of colours was not limited to the earth tones of Ennae.
He reached across and selected a ring set with two stones the colour of royal eyes. The same eyes his son would have.
‘Emeralds,’ Kraal said. ‘A good choice.’
Djahr looked at his hands and selected a finger to divest of its ring, the middle finger of his right hand, and this he replaced with the emerald ring. It slid on comfortably as though it had been made for him. ‘Exquisite,’ Djahr said, turning it in the light which came from all directions around them and yet illuminated only where they sat and nothing beyond.
‘You may take more,’ Kraal said.
Djahr shook his head and returned the ring to the pile. To be greedy now would be to show weakness. He would have all that Kraal offered, and more in time, but not yet. ‘Why do you show me these things, My Lord Kraal?’ he asked. ‘Do you tempt me to excess? Is this a test?’
‘Perhaps,’ Kraal replied. ‘Or perhaps I am simply enjoying your company. Your intelligence is a stark contrast to the Northmen who worship me.’
Djahr laughed. These words of praise fed his soul, and he found his ambition well served in this alliance with the fearsome God of Haddash. ‘I am an amusement to you then?’ he asked.
‘You may amuse me,’ Kraal said. ‘Yet I rather think you will surprise me, and that will indeed be a pleasure for I have had too few surprises in recent millennia.’
Djahr inclined his head. ‘I shall do my best,’ knowing his plan to rule the Four Worlds would surprise Kraal when eventually he discovered it. Too late. In the meantime Djahr would take what advantage he could from the alliance. But first he must discover what was possible. What was available. ‘My Lord Kraal,’ he said, ‘if I have impressed you with my intelligence, you have overwhelmed me with your powers. I see that you can transform your shape, much as my Shadow Woman did. And create,�
�� he waved a hand over the table as Kraal had done. ‘Is there more to your repertoire of godly skills?’
The man before him smiled and shook his head. ‘Mystery is power,’ he said. ‘On our next meeting I will show you more.’
Darkness fell like a veil covering Djahr’s eyes, yet he felt nothing. A heartbeat later the light returned and he saw the familiar colours of his world. And not only his world, but his own suite of rooms in Castle Be’uccdha.
‘I am home,’ he said, and felt deep satisfaction to again hear the reassuring murmur of the Everlasting Ocean beating on the rocks far below.
The striking man who was Kraal strolled to Djahr’s latticed terrace, the feeble sunlight falling in squares on his richly robed form. He turned. ‘I give you two lives.’ he said. ‘One is yours, and the other carries something of mine.’ Djahr saw the glitter of fire sparks beside him and turned to find Mooraz, naked and unconscious on the floor. Beside him on Djahr’s luxurious bed, Ellega of Verdan lay resplendently arrayed in dazzling jewellery and a sumptuous wedding gown. She too was either slumbering or unconscious.
‘The daughter of Verdan has something of yours, Lord?’ Djahr asked, his mind racing to adjust his plans to this new development. With Ellega in his possession, for even a short time, he might bring the House of Verdan to his side. The fact that Kraal had captured her told Djahr that his Northmen had taken the Volcastle. The need to secure his own castle’s safety impressed itself on him urgently.
‘She bears my child,’ Kraal replied, and all thoughts of strategy fled Djahr’s mind.
He transferred his shocked gaze from the innocent Ellega to Kraal, but found only curiosity on the Serpent God’s striking features as he inspected the mother of his child. The woman he had lain with. Or had he? Djahr suppressed a shudder.
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