“Because you’re…a woman?” It only added to his confusion. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It is a cultural intolerance.”
“It’s barbaric.”
“More so than the prejudice which has banned you from tomorrow’s fight?”
It landed like a blow. Caffax flinched. She knew. Of course she knew, this snooping squire. He lowered his head between his knees, raked fingers through his long tangled blond hair.
He heard her slide across the powdery floor. She laid an arm over his bony shoulders. “You have been unfairly excluded,” she said, and the sympathy in her voice sounded quite authentic. “In Mavvan, we don’t have this strange bias. Men may mate with men, women with women. It makes no difference. So, perhaps we are not so barbaric after all.”
“I’m sorry I said that.” He squeezed shut his eyes. A tear dripped down his nose.
She dotted his temple with her lips. “I want your dragon, Caffax.”
“You can’t take her.”
“So, you mean to simply fly off home with that salt mare, then?”
“I have no choice. I’ve been stripped of privileges.”
“It’s a waste,” Rhoishko said.
“I haven’t a choice,” he repeated.
“Let me fly her into battle. I think you know I am capable.”
He believed that. Her knowledge of dragons was extraordinary. But still… “You can’t have her.”
“That seems selfish to me, Caffax.”
“No.” He raised his head and looked into her eyes. “I mean, you can’t. I’m blood-bonded to her. She won’t respond to anyone else. Don’t you bond with your dragons in Mavvan?”
Her arm was still about his shoulders. She had drawn him tight, practically into an embrace. “Of course we do. A dragonmaster’s mount knows his scent. But when a master wishes to sell a beast to which he is bonded or give one away to, say, an apprentice, he simply passes his blood to the other. The practice is commonplace.”
Confusion whirled anew in Caffax’s head. What was she talking about? “How can one…pass blood?”
Rhoishko told him, in frank terms. It was the carnal act. And since only males flew dragons in the Kingdom of Mavvan, this sexual deed occurred—routinely!—between men.
“Granted,” the Mavvan squire said, “it is not blood, per se. But the essence is contained in the primal fluid. One body absorbs what the other delivers.”
As his mind continued to twirl alarmingly, a remote part of Caffax considered what she had said. Transferal of the blood bond: it sounded plausible; so much so, in fact, that he wondered why he’d never heard of the procedure before.
“That I am a woman,” she continued, “should not—cannot—have any bearing on the process. This is your chance to contribute to the war’s outcome, Caffax. Let me take your mare into the fight tomorrow.”
There it was. The whole incredible conundrum, set forth in stark terms. Make love to this female, and the salt dragon he had spent much of his life training for this battle would still be a part of this war.
Rhoishko was kissing his forehead again. Her fingers weaved gently through his hair. He felt her muscular body pressing harder against him. The purple liquor was still coursing in his veins. Surely he could do this. Surely.
Her hands now worked on his clothing. His flamboyant jacket dropped from his shoulders. She caressed his flesh through undone catches, moving toward the fastening of his trousers where—Caffax was very surprised to discover—his manhood was straining toward hardness.
Plainly aware of this, Rhoishko moved to touch him there—
Which was the precise instant that a rebellion tore through Caffax’s being. Suddenly and awkwardly, he launched himself to his feet and went lurching toward the doorway.
He couldn’t do this! It was simply against his nature. He stumbled outside. His shirt trailed him, dangling by a sleeve. Rhoishko had succeeded in undoing his trousers, because they were hanging to his mid-thighs. He realized this only when he lost his footing and fell hard to the ground.
“Caffax.”
Her voice carried tranquilly. He looked up and found her in the doorway, backlit by the candlelight. She had shed her scarlet robes and stood nude. Her body was robust. Was she really so different from the supply clerk with whom he had so foolishly dallied earlier today? Her breasts were smallish but as firmly molded as the rest of her. Yet there between those taut thighs was only the moist dark of her curls. It was an absence, or so it seemed to Caffax.
“I want you to take my salt dragon,” he said. “I do, but…”
She came to him. “You are a brave man, Caffax.”
“Maybe not brave enough.” He blinked up at her. “Is there some other way?”
She bent and softly stroked his cheek. “In Mavvan it is taught that a dragonmaster must give of himself completely in order to bond with his dragon. It is the same when that bond is transferred. You must give of yourself. To me.”
Her mouth moved toward his.
Caffax closed his eyes. And felt the touch of her lips. They were moist and velvety, and they moved against his without insistence. She tasted of the liquor they had both been drinking. He let his mouth answer back, giving in to instinctive responses, not thinking of this person as a woman, a female, merely as a friend, someone who had been kind to him.
Her hands were in motion once more, tugging the shirt’s sleeve from his wrist so that his torso was bared. He thought she would reach for his crotch again, and tensed; but she instead set about caressing his upper arms, his chest, even as they continued to kiss. Her fingers found his nipples and grazed them, which sent a shiver through him.
When those fingers caught his aroused buds and applied a mounting pressure, Caffax groaned against her mouth. At that same moment her tongue invaded him. Again he allowed himself to respond spontaneously. His body’s deep instincts took over. After all, he was a human, and humans had been designed to reproduce. Some part of him, despite his own private proclivities, had to answer that primary urge.
He met her agile tongue, and the kiss deepened. It was strange to feel no rasp of beard or stubble against his face, but the strangeness passed and was forgotten. Rhoishko squeezed his nipples even harder, igniting a fiery pleasure. Her brawny body pressed his. Her own erect nipples brushed his flesh. He should raise his hands, touch her there, squeeze her breasts in the way of men and women. The thought was dizzying, almost giddy.
Then he stopped thinking, and took hold of her breasts. Rhoishko gasped. Her nipples were large compared to his, he realized as he rolled his fingertips across them. Her pleasure was evident as she swayed and stabbed her tongue fiercely into his mouth. Caffax was pleased to be pleasing her—yet, strangely, it seemed to be something more than that. He was enjoying this.
Once again, his manhood swelled. Pausing in their kissing and squeezing, he kicked off his boots and trousers. They were both naked now.
Rhoishko sprawled beside him. The night sky’s light bronzed her bare body. She lay back now with elbows braced behind her, facing him. Her legs were spread, her knees raised. Caffax’s breath hitched as he saw her exposed sex gleam in the dim light. He had never beheld a woman in this way before. He had never been in the presence of a female who so obviously desired him; or if he had, he’d been oblivious.
He chuckled out loud.
“Do I amuse?” she asked. But she wasn’t offended. She fairly purred the question.
“No,” Caffax said. Then he surprised himself by adding, “You arouse.” He moved toward her.
She reached up and guided the proof of his excitation between her outspread thighs. They paused to kiss again, and he felt himself shivering. Out of fear, yes; but also from unadulterated lust. Arms outstretched, the heels of both hands on the ground on either side of her, he hovered over Rhoishko. For one brief frantic instant he thought he would climax right then, in her hand, but he was an adult and knew how to control himself, even in a circumstance as bizarre and unforese
eable as this.
Murmuring soft unintelligible words—maybe they were just sounds—the Mavvan woman set his swollen crown to her folds. The angle felt strange, and again he was keenly aware of her unfamiliar anatomy. But there was no rebellion in him this time. He lowered himself from his palms to his elbows, and as he did so, he slid inside her.
Her channel waited for him. He felt her warmth, the luscious grip her body took of his shaft. It stunned him. Somehow, he hadn’t expected it would be this…easy. But how smooth the ingress, how graceful. He lay atop her, his manhood buried within. Her arms wrapped his shoulders, and her thighs pressed his flanks. Yellow eyes glimmered up into his. Her teeth were bared with pleasure. Neither of them seemed aware of the hardness of the ground on which they lay.
He moved his hips; hers worked against his: a deft thrust and counterthrust. With his every downward plunge, he felt her respond. He kissed her again, decisively now, jamming his tongue onto hers. Bliss spread through him, racing outward from his groin, awakening all his body. He ground against her. She writhed underneath him. Sweat had started to oil both their bodies.
Suddenly, Rhoishko was shuddering. Her fingertips dug sharply into his shoulders. He thought something was wrong; she was in pain. What clueless, clumsy thing had he done? But before he could begin to castigate himself, he saw a look of ecstasy clench her features as she broke off their kiss to bare those teeth once again. Her back arched, lifting him, driving him even deeper into her. Caffax felt a peculiar pride. He had given her this joy.
She ended with a long, hitching sigh. Then her squeezed-shut eyes sprang back open, and the predator’s leer returned to her face.
Rhoishko was strong, as well as nimble. Before he knew what was happening, she had seized him and was twisting, rolling them as one. It was very nearly an acrobatic feat. Caffax quickly found himself on his back. She was now astraddle him. Somehow during this maneuver she had contrived to keep them coupled.
He looked up at her, at her damp skin glistening, at her lovely breasts, at the fierce grin splitting her features. He experienced a curious moment of helplessness, but it wasn’t unpleasant, not at all.
Rhoishko, in the position of control, started to plunge herself on top of him.
Her firm but slick grip on him never faltered. She planted her feet on either side of his hips and rose and fell on him. He found he could do little more than jab himself up into her; but it was enough—more than enough—to sustain his excitement. She slammed down on him, far more violently than when he had been driving himself into her. He liked it. It was animal-like, primal. He imagined himself as a beast, performing the reproductive act, operating on pure frenzied instinct.
The thought almost made him laugh again. Instead, he reached up for her jouncing breasts, squeezing the irresistible flesh, mauling her engorged nipples. Her head whipped back and forth above him. Digging his heels into the ground, he thrust savagely up into her. She was thrashing about on top of him now, and he sensed, then saw, a new shudder move through her. Again her teeth were bared, spittle flying from between them. Her sweet, wet canal clutched him, the inner muscles tightening.
Poised above him, she froze in that bearing of rapture. Droplets of sweat spattered his chest. Caffax nearly climaxed with her this time. But not quite. Not yet.
He grinned. Then, abruptly, he was grabbing hold of her and moving her bodily, sliding out from beneath her. She followed his urgings, offering no resistance. Desire plucked at him, mighty ivory fingers twanging his nerves. He grappled her over onto her knees.
How beautiful she looked posed that way, reared up on hands and knees, her gorgeous buttocks thrust out toward him. He moved in behind her. And now, for the first time, the sexual act felt familiar to him. His knees rested between her splayed calves, his thighs pressed flush against the backs of hers. Eagerly, he closed his fingers around the curves of her hip bones.
Even the entering of her touched off a string of blurred memories, similar acts with males, deeds committed quickly and fearfully. And while this penetrative feat wasn’t quite like those, its familiarity was comforting, and the last vestiges of unease left him.
Caffax made merciless love to Rhoishko, the squire from Mavvan. Their bodies smacked loudly together with his every thrust. His testicles spanked hard against her backside as she took him to the hilt at each impact. He gripped her hips, fingers practically gouging her flesh.
For her part, Rhoishko bucked back against him with perfect timing. Her muscled body gleamed and undulated. He wanted to plumb her deepest places, wanted to reach her innermost self. He felt their connection, the brutal primeval link, but it was tempered by affection, by the sympathy he felt for her and her plight—being denied her destiny as a dragonmaster merely because of her gender.
But that wouldn’t happen. He would not allow it.
Her head turned. One yellow eye appeared, blazing. A fresh wave was overtaking her. She trembled on her hands and knees.
Shouting it, barking it, she commanded him, “Give yourself to me, Caffax!”
He did so. The crisis erupted. It seemed to rip through every part of him—bunching his toes, locking his knees, thundering his heart, spinning his skull. His pleasure gushed, vast violent jets, each one deposited deep inside her. The quaking of her body added to his bliss, milking his essence from him, taking everything he had to give.
After a long while he slid from her and lay down with her. She held him and dotted his damp temple again with her lips; and murmuring softly and melodically, she thanked him, again and again.
It was only the next day, in the bloodless first light perhaps a full watch before the sun’s actual rise, that it occurred to Caffax to truly doubt that this undertaking would work. Could a blood bond really be transferred? Suddenly, it seemed the wildest improbability.
Nonetheless, he led Rhoishko down the steep trail to the plateau, where activity was already stirring. He was clad again in his fanciful livery; she wore her scarlet robes. They did not speak, but he felt a lingering connection, something beyond the merely physical.
Well, there had been nothing mere about it, he noted ruefully, glancing back to flash her a brief smile. She returned it, but he saw she was nervous. As was he. Last night had been a wonder, a thoroughly unexpected and joyous event. But today was the real challenge.
Dragonmasters and support crews were assembling, people gathered from all across the Realm of Vahcray as well as the Kingdom of Mavvan. Caffax saw the nudging, the furtive—and not so furtive—pointing. He caught muttered comments and sniggers meant for him. He ignored them all. He strode across the grounds.
How confused these snickerers would be, he thought, if they knew how he had passed the night.
The salt mare was awake and waiting as he approached. He smiled up at the creature as she lifted her head and quivered her whiskers. He gestured for Rhoishko to step up beside him. Biting her lip, she did so. Did she too doubt that this would succeed? If it was a commonplace practice in Mavvan, she shouldn’t be anxious. Then he understood. Her status as a woman had planted a small inescapable seed of uncertainty in her. It was the prejudice of her Kingdom taking one last swipe at her.
Caffax raised his hand and let the salt dragon sniff it.
“Now you,” he said.
Rhoishko put up her hand. Around them, others had paused to watch. Peripherally, he saw a Mavvan man dressed as a dragonmaster gaping as the scene unfolded.
The salt pressed her nose to Rhoishko’s open palm. The dragon snuffled. Then she twitched her crusty white whiskers, sniffed again, and angled her head to let the Mavvan woman caress her jaw. It was done. It had worked.
Caffax had shed too many tears too recently. Dry-eyed, he smiled again, warmly this time. “What will you tell your dragonmaster?”
She shrugged, her yellow eyes alight once more. “He doesn’t really need a squire. In Mavvan, that’s a matter of prestige. He won’t miss me.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. The gesture was curiously intimate, co
nsidering all that they had shared.
Caffax stepped back and watched as she acquainted herself with the salt mare. He harbored no doubts regarding her abilities. He didn’t know what he would tell his family when he returned to Uebimmo’s Point—or even if he would return. The future was unformed, but that didn’t frighten him at the moment. He only wished Rhoishko and the dragon well and hoped for a speedy end to the war.
When he finally glanced away, he chanced upon the eye of a man in soldierly garb. He was a robust sort, with a fierce fringe of red beard and wide shoulders. Their gazes locked. Caffax saw the special twinkle there in his eye, the secretive sign, and he gave the man a shallow but meaningful nod. Perhaps this soldier would be coming back from the epic conflict. Maybe that was a reason to stay here, to wait, to see what happened.
OF HIGH RENOWN
Janine Ashbless
Gareth was gone from the bed before dawn.
Emlhi woke alone. She breakfasted and washed, then donned her chemise. And there she stopped. There seemed no point in dressing further; she had nowhere to go and nothing to do. There were no animals to feed now, no vegetables to weed. She sat back up on the big bed where no pleasure had been taken, her arms around her knees, and waited. She remembered the obdurate line of Gareth’s back turned against her and the wasteland of mattress that had stretched between them. She let the tears leak out—tears she hadn’t dared shed before him—and wiped them away with her skirt.
She remembered.
She remembered the arrival of the knights. The warning beacon on the hill had been lit, so every villager was barricaded into one of the stone houses about the square. Emlhi crouched beneath a shuttered window. The room stank of the sour breath of terrified people.
“A priest!” roared the voice from outside over the clatter of many iron-shod hooves. “Where’s the bloody priest?”
Thrones of Desire Page 2
