by Alana Serra
Storm Lord’s Bride
Rite of the Raknari Book 1
Alana Serra
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Stay Updated
Also by Alana Serra
Storm Lord’s Bride © Alana Serra 2019.
Amazon Kindle Edition.
Edited by Mystique Editing.
Cover design by Jacqueline Sweet.
All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical reviews and articles.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
The author has asserted his/her rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book.
This book contains sexually explicit content which is suitable only for mature readers.
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Chapter 1
Imara’s arrow whizzed through the frigid air, whistling uselessly before it thunked into a log. A flash of white fur disappeared beneath, scrambling into a burrow she had no hope of reaching.
“God damn this thing,” she growled, her fingers wringing the wood of her bow. Though once it had been flexible, it no longer yielded to her. “The cold’s made it all but useless.”
She wasn’t exactly surprised by that fact. Winter had lasted half a year. The winds howled through their village and the surrounding forests, clawing at their homes like ravenous wolves. The ground was so hard it was impossible for any spring shoots to poke through, and the larger game had long since run out of food.
All they had now were a few hares who hadn’t yet realized there was nothing here for them to eat. They’d been easy to kill at first. Now Imara’s fingers were frozen in her gloves and her bow pulled against the string instead of working with it.
“What would Master Willem say if he could hear you now?”
Even without looking at her, Imara could hear the smile in her sister’s voice. She could see her green eyes dancing with amusement, the rosiness in her cheeks that wasn’t just from the brutal sting of the winds.
“Probably the same thing he always says,” Imara shrugged, a smirk cracking into her features as she looked at her sister. She lowered her voice, tucked in her chin, and tried to mimic the Master of Piety. “’You are the daughter of a chieftain, Imara. You must be gracious. You must not stray from the path of righteousness.’”
Elora giggled, the sound like clear, tinkling bells. Nothing like Imara’s own laugh that the crueler boys in the village had once likened to that of a donkey braying. She knew it wasn’t that bad, but it was bad enough that she tamped it down whenever it began to bubble up within her, like now.
“Maybe a fire will make the wood more pliable,” Elora suggested, ever practical.
Where Imara always got hung up on her emotions, always trifled with gut feelings and the directive of her heart, her younger sister was thoughtful and patient. All the things Imara should have been as the eldest daughter of the High Chieftain.
She’d tried. God knew she’d tried. But even now, she was defiant. When faced with the prospect of eating a ration of boiled oats and hard, salted meat for the thirteenth week in a row—something she knew she should be grateful for, because even that was running perilously low—Imara had chosen to scour the barren woods for live game.
Game which she’d now lost.
“That’s not a bad idea,” she admitted with a sigh, hooking the bow over one shoulder. “If nothing else, maybe we won’t lose any fingers.”
She could barely feel hers as she stripped off one thick, fur-ruffed glove, then the other. She flexed the digits, the pale skin a little off-colored. A tingle crept into her hands as the sensation returned. Imara gritted her teeth against it. She’d tried to endure without complaint. Given her place in the village, she had more than most. But she hated this bitter, relentless cold that sought out the bones directly and bit down.
As a daughter of the North, she’d known the cold all her life. It wasn’t especially comfortable, but it was home. This was something else. This was pure malevolence cast down from the mountains. Her gaze sought them now, her jaw squaring. The ice caps were barely visible in the blinding haze of white that surrounded her, but she knew where to find them. The northernmost peak of the Tempest Spine mountain range was home to Kiova’s Chosen, the Storm Lord who was said to control the winter winds.
The Storm Lord her father had invited to parlay with them that afternoon, in hopes of appeasing the goddess he served.
The Four Tempests—of which the ice goddess Kiova was a part—had been abandoned by the humans ages before. Word of the One True God had spread among her people, through her ancestors and down to the current generation. If Willem was to be believed, their god had kept them safe. Shielded them from the temperamental goddesses.
Until now.
Now they were so desperate that even the Master of Piety hadn’t raised an argument against her father. As far as Imara knew, she was the only one who’d done so, and even she’d backed down because what choice did she have? Her people would starve soon. They were too thin as it was, having existed on little but rations for half a year already. Imara did her part to bring in food and supply the tailors with fresh pelts, but it was all so scarce. The wildlife had abandoned them to their fate, and so too had their god.
The village’s only hope lay in the Storm Lord now, and she could only guess at what he would demand for use of his powers.
I won’t have to imagine soon, she thought bitterly. Kiova’s Chosen was meant to arrive later that afternoon. No doubt he and the other Raknari were traveling the mountain pass now, the only creatures that could brave the sleet.
“You’re distracted,” Elora said, her voice as warm and kind as ever.
She looked down, finding she’d gone through the motions of emptying her pouch of kindling despite not having any wood. Imara sighed, but a smile touched her lips as Elora handed her some dry logs she’d scrounged.
“What would I do without you?”
“Freeze, most likely.” The words were said with Elora’s usual sweetness, but there was a wicked glint in her eyes that made Imara laugh.
She stacked the logs against one another and used her fire-starter to catch a spark to the long-dried corn silk she’d clumped in the center. It caught, burning quickly, the flames chewing greedily through the strands until they reached the logs. Imara stared at the orange and yellow glow, at the way it danced with unpredictable grace, bobbing and weaving as if to avoid the wind that might smother it.
Fire was a precious commodity when it was so blastedly cold, but she’d always had
a fondness for it. It reminded her of being curled up before the hearth with one of the many useless hounds her family had owned throughout the years, a blanket snug around her body, a cup of hot tea in her hands.
She let that feeling of comfort seep into her now, but it was swiftly snatched away as she caught sight of her sister’s trembling hands. Elora was feeding sticks to the growing fire, and Imara’s gaze traveled up her arm to her pale face, her lips more of a purple than the pink they should be.
“God above, Elora! You should’ve said something!” Panic gnawed at her, forcing her to her feet. She unclasped a heavy fur cloak from her shoulders and put it around her sister’s, pulling it closed in front.
“I’m fine,” she insisted, her teeth chattering. “You needed it more.”
A mix of frustration and admiration bubbled within Imara. Elora had always been like this. Selfless. Kind. Good. She would make an excellent chieftain some day, were Imara not next in line.
“Nobody finds your self-sacrifice attractive, you know,” Imara teased, herding her younger sister closer to the fire.
“Oh, dear, whatever shall I do? How am I to catch the eye of a man now?”
Imara laughed, that unrestrained, braying laugh she’d tried so hard to fight off earlier. This was the side of Elora few ever saw. The bite she had, while reserved to private moments like this, was fierce and wicked and enviable.
But she could compare herself in so many unfavorable ways to her sister if she tried. Ways Elora never even saw, let alone mentioned. For all her abject goodness, for all that she was better, Elora was absolutely terrible at looking after herself. Her mind wandered as much as her feet. She tried even the most dangerous things just to say that she had. Her boundless optimism made her blind to so many risks.
That was the one way in which Imara thought herself better than her sister, and she used that knowledge to protect Elora at all costs. From the world, from herself, from anything that so much as breathed in her direction, if she must.
She did so now, taking Elora’s hands into her own and rubbing feeling back into the frozen digits. Pulling out her waterskin and an earthenware cup, she yanked the stopper free and poured a trickle of water past the frozen slush, resting it by the edge of the fire. Once it was steaming, she removed the cup and held it out to Elora.
“I’d offer you tea, but…”
Even their rations of tea leaves had long since dwindled after the villagers had taken to drinking it as a way to stave off hunger.
“Don’t worry. I have a very good imagination.” Elora closed her eyes and sipped, and Imara smiled. That expression died on her lips when her sister’s eyes opened once more, a furrow between her brows. “Imara... What happens if the stories are true?”
They hadn’t spoken of the Storm Lord. Not since Father announced to the village that they would be coming. She’d tried to push those stories from her mind, to trust in her father and her chieftain, but they were impossible to ignore now.
The Raknari—the people the four Storm Lords ruled over—were savage brutes. They’d long terrorized the human villages, keeping them from forming under one banner, denying them any kind of rule beyond these small pockets in each of the lands that surrounded the mountains. They’d demanded sacrifices, not the least of which were young women—virgins—to slake their lust. They were ruthless. Violent. Hardly better than wild animals who wanted nothing more in the world than to feast and fuck.
When they were satisfied, they used their powers to grant a merciful season. And when they were denied, they brought the fury of the Tempests raging even stronger.
But the Raknari and their Storm Lords had kept to themselves, to their mountains for as long as Imara had been alive. Now they were being invited to return to the way things had once been, where they had all the power and people like Imara and Elora had none at all.
And if they truly embraced the old ways, then it wouldn’t stop at gold and jewels and a promise of the yields from the next harvest. They would be paid in flesh.
“You know Father will never let them take us,” she said. A bitter comfort, but one she had to cling to.
Elora was quiet for a long moment. She still shivered, though Imara guessed it was less from cold now. She’d never truly seen her sister afraid of anything, and it unsettled her now. All she could do was bundle her tighter in the cloak and add more fuel to the fire.
“I hope you’re right. I don’t… I don’t think I would survive that, Immy.”
Imara’s gaze snapped up to her sister, fear clutching at her heart.
Father would never send them away. He’d never allow them to be taken in by the Raknari. But what if he had no choice? What if the Storm Lord demanded one or both of the chieftain’s daughters?
The thought of her baby sister being subjected to that…
A horn bugled in the distance. So similar to an elk’s call that those not from their village might have disregarded it. But the hairs on the back of Imara’s neck stood on end, and she exchanged a fearful look with her sister.
The Raknari were here.
Chapter 2
As the horn continued to blare, Imara briefly considered not showing at all.
She was prepared to do whatever needed to be done, but if she let Elora anywhere near the village, she knew her sister could be in danger. Imara couldn’t bear to see her sister’s brilliant light snuffed out by anyone—but especially not the beasts from the mountains.
There was no way Elora would agree to just ignore the summons, though. As stubborn as Imara was, her little sister had her beat. Even if she tied her up and stowed her in a cave somewhere, El would still find a way to get back to the village and do her duty at the daughter of a chieftain.
So Imara’s only recourse was to go with her and hope it wouldn’t come to that. Their father wouldn’t let her go with them, no matter if the Storm Lord demanded. Even if Imara was the oldest, Elora was the most logical choice for chieftain. She was too valuable to the village to cast aside.
And yet as they climbed the reinforced walls and made their way into the gathering crowd, nothing she saw reassured her about what was to come. The people of Brittlewood—her people—looked at them both with pity in their eyes. There were whispers, urgings for them to find their father. Every time she tried to ask after the strange mood that had fallen over everyone, she was ushered deeper into the center of the village, toward the council chambers.
Her father stood before them, tall and resolute, the other members of the council fanning out from him. Her mother was at his side, and even from a distance, Imara could see she was crying. Her shoulders shook with it, her sobs only partially hidden by the sound of the horn.
Imara’s stomach tied itself into knots as she rushed forward. She scarcely had the chance to open her mouth before her mother spoke.
“Where were you? Your father needed to speak with you, and now it’s too late.” She choked on the last words, her voice strangled by a sob.
“We were hunting,” Imara said, looking between her parents. “Too late for what? What did you need to tell us?”
She asked the question of her father directly. Though his features were severe, they softened when he looked down at her. His large hand rested on her cheek. Such a comfort before, but now she pulled away.
“I hope you’ll both forgive me. In time.”
“Forgive you for what?” she demanded, stepping further back from him.
But she knew the answer. She knew it in how quiet the council was, how everyone looked at her with pity. No. Not her. Elora. Her baby sister who’d been deathly quiet since they returned to the village.
Imara looked at her now, the rays of sunshine that usually lighted in her sister’s face replaced by a grim resolve. She would have looked like their father—the same regal bearing, the same severe features—but for the wide-eyed fear Imara glimpsed.
“No,” she whispered, hating that she felt sick and weak and helpless. “You can’t do this. I won’t let you.”
“Immy…” Her sister’s voice was soft, pleading.
“No! You’re not handing her over like she’s a sack of grain. Do you know what they’ll do to her?”
She could see the pain in her father’s eyes, but what he felt was nothing compared to the blinding tempest that raged through her. She drew upon every horrible story she’d ever heard, every salacious tale she’d ever read, and recited them in turn to make her point.
“The Storm Lord will hold her down and take her whether she wants it or not, then he’ll pass her around to the rest of the Raknari. Maybe to his mounts, too, just because he can. Because she’ll be his property—”
“That’s enough,” her father bellowed, his voice shaking icicles from the nearest eaves.
A growl followed, so loud and so close she would have sworn it was from her father if she hadn’t been in the midst of glaring at him. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, a prickle of ice creeping over her skin as she slowly turned, knowing and yet not comprehending what she would see when she did so.
The sight her widening eyes took in was like nothing she could have ever imagined.
She saw the mounts first, massive beasts that were taller at the shoulder than most of the people in her village. They had muscular bodies with powerful legs and broad, leonine heads filled with what must have been hundreds of sparkling white teeth and two blood-stained tusks that were surely as big as her forearm.
The one closest to them—mere feet away, the crowd having stumbled backward to part the way—was almost silver in color, the thick ruff of fur that followed its spine pure white. Large hands gripped into that mane, skin paler than his mount’s, and Imara’s gaze traveled up a muscled arm partially obscured by a half-cloak that hung off his shoulder.
She followed corded muscle to a broad, wide chest that was just as pale as his arm had been, but with a silver-blue sheen to it, as if his body was rimed with ice. Beneath the sheen, runes painted his bare skin. A darker blue, they pulsed and glowed rhythmically, and Imara found herself momentarily entranced, caught in wondering if they were tattoos, paint, or something else entirely.
