The Warlord's Concubine Read online

  She and the princess were on equal footing now. The princess was just too daft to realize it.

  True to their words, the female guards escorted them out through the palace and nary a male dared look upon them. The two guards themselves were immune to this, having to speak with and yell at the occasional savage, but none dared look at Mirella or Anabelle as they were escorted through the ruins of the once decadent palace.

  For her part, the dainty princess gasped and looked shocked at all the signs of carnage. Every door was seemingly broken open, most of the pottery smashed, and rare was it to see a painting that was still intact, never were they still hung on the wall. The accumulated culture and riches of a royal line that extended back nearly five thousand years was utterly in ruin after only a single night. The frail woman looked about ready to faint from it all, though was thankfully made speechless.

  Somehow it was the sight of the expertly crafted wooden doors in a heap at the main entry hall—piled high for fires for the camped out barbarians—that got to the princess the most and she screamed in fruitless anger. “Savages!”

  Mirella was at best annoyed by the wanton carnage. For years she had coveted the wealth of the castle and to see it ruined was both satisfactory and disappointing. If she couldn’t have it, she was pleased that no one could, yet it did little to help her personally. Her hand rested on the shoulder of the princess, but she barely cared to console the woman as instead she stared at the men disallowed from looking at her, musing to herself thoughtfully.

  Apparently the God-King did not reside within the conquered palace, for the mighty tent—made of some thick, stretched hide it seemed—dominated the courtyard outside the palace proper, still overlooking the smoking ruins of Ariste below.

  It sloped along in a strange pattern that made the tent itself look spiked and ominous, and all about the outside of it were arrayed pikes, holding the heads of slain men. Most soldiers, though there were the occasional nobles, and Anabelle finally fainted when she saw the visage of a man she once knew from court.

  Mirella caught the woman, keeping her from hitting the marble walkway and injuring herself, but with an irritated look, the two guards kept them going ahead and into the tent.

  Inside, the handmaiden found herself gazing upon something truly astounding.

  It wasn’t the decadence and wealth of the palace, but it was something remarkable nonetheless. All about were strewn rich silk cushions, piled high in great mounds, upon which lounged other women in various states of undress or duress. Few had the appearance of the two guard women, but they stood watch. Most appeared to be other captives recently taken for the God-King following this conquest, and looked as confused and lost as did the haughty princess.

  A great table filled the center of the tent, and upon it was heaped food. A mix of the rich pantry of the palace with the flavours of the harsh tundra, making for the oddest banquet Mirella had ever seen.

  But at the heart of it stood a statue, carved from obsidian stone. It was unmistakable though the craftsmanship was not as refined as that of the courtly artists who decorated the millennia old palace. The presence of the mighty man, albeit nude and holding a great scimitar that was lodged into the spine of some defeated foe, inspired all the other women, even the guards, to fear. Mirella could tell they—unlike her—knew much greater terror of the God-King, even in his lifeless representation.

  It was curious to her why the man of such taste would be so destructive, but it didn’t matter. She barely glanced to the other women. The evening prior she might have been a handmaiden, but now she was on equal footing with all of them, and it filled her with a strange sense of righteousness. Her eyes worked over the statue as she left the princess to recover on top of some pillows, her gaze one of wonderment and a lingering, heated desire.

  His power radiated from the stone and she briefly wondered at what the more skilled artisans could do for him.

  She couldn’t recall at how long she might’ve been staring at that statue when she was disturbed, her gaze lost on that harsh stone depiction, entranced by the generous proportions of his muscles and loins. It was, as far as she could tell, true to form, but lacking in the expert subtleties a court artisan would bring to it.

  “Most don’t even dare to look at it,” came that otherworldly voice, so richly masculine, irradiating such strength and command in a manner she’d never heard before.

  In the torchlight of the tent she could make him out all the clearer. His charcoal skin was smooth and flawless. His face so chiselled and handsome. Hair long and perfectly shiny. Her first guess only seemed all the more right; a god. Though the dark clothes he wore, looking a blend of velvet and leather, mixed with his piercing dark gaze and skin, it didn’t take much guessing to place as what kind of deity he might be.

  She bowed before him so gracefully, filled with respect and awe, though her eyes didn’t drop demurely as she felt that, perhaps, they should. Instead she was simply entranced with the man, and was an absolute slave to the need to see him fully, “They don’t know what they’re missing.” She waited a heartbeat before adding, “What should I call you?”

  She had taken some time on the walk over, prior to the Princess fainting, to fix her hair by some of the shattered mirrors. Though she certainly didn’t look all she could—if only she had been able to steal some makeup from the Princess’ room!—but she was quite the exotic beauty nonetheless. With her feminine curves under the soft material of her dressing gown, she looked quite lovely, especially knelt before him with such subservience.

  The entirety of the sprawling tent was silent around her. She hadn’t noticed the eerie silence descend as she stared at the statue, but now it was unmistakable. The other women were cowering away, shaking and looking petrified. None dared look in his direction though; not even the guards who seemed exceptionally trusted showed him the kind of obeisance Mirella did. In fact, they showed the same signs of fear, their eyes downcast, their positions shuffled away to the edges of the tent.

  With a hand upon his hip, he strummed those strong fingers of his upon his waist and circled partly about her, standing near her side as he looked up over his own statue. In a rather conversational tone, the dark, otherworldly man spoke in his husky voice, “At least it keeps them from noticing the crude imitation of me this makes for.”

  Sliding his dark gaze down to her again, his broad chest pushed out and mostly visible with the half-cloak hardly covering him, he said, “‘My Lord’ is the most common term.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing and was wondering to myself if any artisan still lives, My Lord. Is that what you prefer I use for you?” she asked, a smile creeping to her lips at his humour. She couldn’t help it. Everything in her body stood primed and ready, as if she’d spent her life training for this one, single moment in time. She felt it was destined for her, and the heated prickling of her skin was just delightful.

  Her voice was kind and subservient, and she had to do very little to alter it for him, yet there was a new genuineness that hadn’t been there before. In all her years serving her princess, she had never shown such an honest desire to serve.

  She had seen the wide array of women the dark God-King had at his disposal, but it hadn’t deterred her. Perhaps he somehow recognized this, her curiously unique nature in that she was not intimidated in the face of his power. Where others saw something to fear and loathe, she saw potential for herself.

  His charcoal dark face gazed down at her, soaking her in and piercing her all at once before his authoritative voice broke the spell of silence again. “The princess,” he said, pointing towards the passed out woman without looking in her direction, “is she alright?” he asked, ignoring the woman's previous question, for now at least.

  “One of the heads on the pike used to belong to someone she knew, though I cannot speak to her being all right, My Lord. I am trying to help her through this time, though it’s troubling for someone as pampered as she.” Mirella’s voice was even and re
spectful, her manner forthright as she gazed over his body. She tried not to be so wanton, but it was difficult. How long had it been since she’d seen even a mortal in all his glory?

  She swallowed and dabbed her pink tongue to the bottom of her lip, “She is not used to serving another.”

  Knelt as she was, it made it easy to gaze up at his impressive package, that bulge which contained his loins so massive through the black leather of his pants. The statue had done him little disservice in its representation of what lay beneath, but to be so close to the actual thing...

  “I wouldn’t imagine, no,” he intoned thoughtfully.

  Taking his time mulling over something he looked back down at her. “You will suffice,” he stated, with a wave of his hand he gestured for her to follow. He went to the tent flap, exiting in a pace that seemed relaxed for him, but was brisk for her shorter limbs.

  Excitement spurred her on, however, and she had no issue keeping up with his pace. She stayed a step and a half behind him and just to the side at all times, trailing him like she had so many others before, ready to aid him and yet giving him total control over all.

  “My Lord, is it true that the others will have free reign with me when we finish?” she asked, his acceptance of her brightening her entire face despite the dark thought.

  One unmistakable thing was that this time, unlike her arrival to the tent, the savages at his command not only averted their eyes, they were all prone before him. The first to notice his exiting his tent had set off a wave of like action, and as they re-entered the palace, it was uncanny. Never before had she seen such frightful obedience in all her years serving the royal family.

  The old King had obedience, but nothing so deeply rooted as this.

  Taking a different route through the ruins of the palace he spoke to her sparingly, “Your future remains to be seen,” he stated simply. She had trouble guessing where he was leading her. When finally they emerged out onto a small garden area, reserved for the royal families’ quiet breakfasts overlooking the city, she noticed the place was better composed than the rest.

  The flowers were untrampled, the gazebo still stood. It was like a quiet center of the storm about the palace, untouched by the fury of the northerners. There he stood, magnificent but so oddly out of place, as he felt out of place wherever he was, like a being from another plane of existence.

  Her eyes moved around, and her shoulders relaxed as they arrived, “I’m glad you ordered this place untouched,” she murmured as she took a daring step nearer to the strange, godlike man with his otherworldly form. She was a fair bit shorter than he, though she was fairly tall for a lady. Her eyes twinkled with perverse delight at being alone with him, yet her heart raced with fear and desire, the two emotions whorling together and becoming one.

  Though she hadn’t been so frightened and cowed as the others, she knew what that hefty shaft could do to her, and her stomach turned in excitement as she dropped once more to her knees. Her hands reached for him, then faltered, “Do you prefer to tell me what you’d wish of me, My Lord?”

  Her new dark king looked permanently consumed with matters of another realm, always seeming to be concerned with things beyond mere mortals understanding. Looking to her as she knelt before him, he took his time before answering. “You’re a curious woman. You don’t resist your fate at all, do you?” he asked, not seeming to expect an answer. He didn’t seem to be used to carrying on conversations with women, or perhaps it was people, at all in fact.

  “If my fate were unwelcome, I would resist. You are not unwelcome to me,” she breathed, and he could see her chest rise and fall more rapidly beneath the burgundy gown.

  “Are you used to serving like this?” he asked more meaningfully. “Did someone train you for a life on your knees before a man?” Despite his hard, husky words, she saw that hefty bulge twitch to life before her, the leather audibly straining as reacted to her.

  “No, My Lord,” she admitted. She had many lovers growing up, but none who were above her. None who deserved her. Her eyes dipped from his, trailing over his stomach and then further down, and she could swear her mouth was beginning to salivate in anticipation.

  Studying the olive skinned servant, he took a step closer to her, lifting his hand from beneath his cloak and resting it upon her head. The man was so large her head seemed to fit in his palm snugly, and so strong and magnificently built, she would swear he could crush her skull if he wished.

  “You have served your princess then as a servant,” he stated rather than asked, “and not as the King’s amusement or plaything.” His heavy hand pet her sleek black hair, the weight of it pushing her towards his bulging loins until she was nearly pressed to it, the smell of leather and musk rich in her sinuses, and utterly pleasant.

  “I never wished nor consented to serve a man in such a manner, My Lord, until I saw you.” The words were completely genuine, and she shook a little as she said them. She wanted him, and she feared only that he would find her displeasing and send her away. She licked over her pinkened lips, “I am malleable to your whims, and be taught to please you best.” Her desire made the words come out as a begged request as her green eyes met his, feeling so safe in his monstrous hand.

  If he wished her dead, then she would only be pleased it was at a god’s hands.

  Perhaps if she thought with a clear head, she would realize how extreme her reaction to this man was, but there was no such moment of pause to escape the reality of kneeling before a God-King of the north.

  Licking along his own full lips, the dark man brought his free hand to the gap between them, his fingers undoing some strap as he spoke, “You’re a brazen woman,” he stated firmly. “None of the Ka’reem”—a term for the northern savages nobody within Ariste had previously cared to use for the barbarians—“would dare speak to me so blatantly as you have. And none of the weak southerners can muster more than screams or cowering.”

  With the strap undone, his leather audibly groaned as it gave way to his heated flesh. The tension unfurled, his heavy cock toppled free, its shaft gloriously long and hard, thick veins ribbing its length as it struck her face, contrasting so darkly against her.

  Her gasp was one of appreciation and as that heavy slab of masculinity rested against her flesh, her lashes fluttered down. “If I displease you, I will correct my behaviour,” she promised, and her dainty fingers worked to his cock, grasping him and getting a feel for his size and heft. “I would kill my own mother to be able to gratify and breed for you. It would be the greatest honour,” she muttered, barely even hearing herself any longer as her fingers pushed back his foreskin, her eyes riveted to that thick, otherworldly cock.

  Never had she seen one so large and perfectly sculpted, and if she had ever doubted his godliness, it was completely disappeared now. He was perfect.

  The dark man’s brows raised as he watched her reverentially stroke his shaft. He was surprised, and it showed, for he didn’t appear to be a man who was often caught off guard.

  Slowly he resumed stroking her hair, “You’d do that willingly. Breed me an heir without complaint,” though his voice was so dark and husky, she could detect that slight hint of surprise lining his words. “Other women are offered up to me, but even they cringe in fear of me. Fear what they shall birth, no matter how much their loved ones talk of the honour and privilege.”

  “Then they don’t understand the honour of breeding a demi-god, My Lord,” she purred, and the way she caressed his cock against the soft flesh of her cheek spoke so much affection and devotion. She still hadn’t licked it, but she worshiped that pillar of strength with such adoring touches.

  “If they don’t understand the privilege, then they are too daft to be worthy of you,” she rubbed him against her jaw and a light tress of hair grazed against his divine flesh. “I am not worthy of you, but I wish for your child to be.”

  Virile as he was, her words and caresses made the giant give a low growl of desire. It sounded divine from him, darkly divin
e. It was the first crack in his composed veneer she’d yet to see, and it was from stoking desire in him for her.

  His strong fingers curled in her hair, taking hold of her head by the dark strands and with the ease of his might began to rub her cheek against his heated shaft even further. “It is a shame you weren’t the princess,” he mused gruffly, that hard voice of his lower, more seductive as she watched his glorious muscles swell and rise with his increased breathing.

  Her own breath was baited as she revelled in it all, in his touch, in the feel of his flesh as it moved against her and filled her with such need. She had never felt anything close to this before, and her lip trembled with the power of her lust. “I’m sorry she will not serve you well. She will cry, and complain, and to break her will be lovely but it will not be a challenge.”

  Those words elicited a brief chuckle of amusement from the ebon giant, and he pushed her face down further, until she was nestled beneath that shaft, his hefty balls pressed to her chin. Releasing her from his hold he stroked her hair again, the morning breeze washing over them both as she knelt before him. “You are no noble born, that much is obvious.”

  “I do not care for pride and useless people,” she said, her lips grazing against the flesh at the base of the cock, and she found it impossible to resist any longer. Her motions were so small and tentative, but fuelled by lust and need of an intensity she had never felt before. Her breath was a sweet wash over his member as her tongue pressed out, grazing across his skin.

  She moaned at the first taste of his flesh, and she writhed beneath him, getting closer as his cock throbbed atop her face. It was undignified, but she cared not for such concerns. She just wanted to please her god.

  With a light intake of breath, her tongue had an effect upon him. That thick shaft twitched and the mighty lord throbbed against her face. But a day ago she was a middle-aged servant to a prissy princess; today she was a concubine to a God-King that seemed to appreciate her efforts at least more than her former mistress had.