Mistress of Death

by Jeya Jenson

  All of this land wasted and ruined, Ardan thought, shaking his head. The tragic price paid for the blind worship of pagan gods.

  The coming of the marbh-sol and the resulting dead zones it created might have been a disaster of manageable magnitude had not yet another eco-catastrophe struck, a celestial realignment between Sclyd and the mortal world known as Earth. For over two hundred and fifty years, Sclydian entities had been unable to cross through the dimensional veils in order to capture the humans that continually replenished the breeding pool and provided the hands needed for manual labor.

  “Will our people survive this, Rutola?” Ardan asked. “Or are we just delaying our deaths?”

  Rutola shrugged. “Every day we breathe is delaying our deaths,” he replied simply. “But as long as we breathe, we can fight. Those who are in exile on the other side will come back, and this time we can win.”

  Ardan made a scoffing sound. “They left because they lost, Rutola.”

  The elder leader said nothing, maybe because he knew it was true.

  The two men sat in heavy silence, each staring into a different perspective, each caught in their own thought. It was only when a woman’s half-angry, half-frightened cry cut through the night that Ardan found his attention drawn back to the edges of the camp. He immediately saw that Dria had been taken and tied up. One man, Toma, was pawing her naked body. Several more were gathered around, waiting to take their turns with her, the woman he intended to have as his own.

  As a man of twenty-nine, he did not have the luxury of waiting much longer for a mate. His blood burned hot with the need of a woman. The involuntary tightening in his loins was a reminder that the recent life of celibacy he’d been leading had not always been physically pleasant or cleansing. The ache was becoming unbearable. It was true he could have taken a woman any time he wished, had he been willing to fight for her favors. But Raider males outnumbered the females almost five to one. Competition for a woman was fierce. A man had to be on his guard to keep home and hearth safe even in his own tribe. An even though it was acceptable for a woman to take more than one mate, the idea of sharing with another man bothered him. He did not want to share. How could any man stay sane when faced with the thought of his woman under another lover, her thighs spread open to welcome her lover’s seed into her womb.

  No, it had been wiser to seek his own mate from a fresh pool of choices. The plan had been to capture as many women as possible. Many of the men had felt that loss of life was worth taking to gain love, a home, a family to fight for. They could have raided other villages for women, but that would have defeated the purpose of increasing their numbers. Even the populaces there were growing smaller with each generation. No, they needed to take back from Xavier what he had taken from them.

  A raw red anger gathered at the edges of his vision. He had been a coward, lingered too long in making up his mind as to whether or not he wanted Dria. As the last chosen, she was fresh meat for the other men. If he did not do something fast, they would use her. And when they had finished with her, they would kill her. Slowly. He doubted any would try to bargain for her life.

  “Claim her or let her go,” Rutola said quietly.

  Ardan clenched a fist, driving it into his leg. “What if she will not accept me?”

  “You fear something that has not happened yet,” Rutola chided. “You risked your life and the lives of others to take her from Xavier. Good men were lost so that you could bring her here. I give you until the dawn to decide if you will keep her. If not, she must be eliminated. We can’t risk that she would return to the legion.”

  Climbing to his feet, Ardan nodded. “That is fair enough.” He swallowed, trying to still the churning in his gut. It is time, he thought.

  Setting his huge body into motion, Ardan walked with a quick stride toward the group. Pushing aside several men, he grabbed Toma by the shoulder and hurled him to the ground. Eyes snapping with fury, he drew his dagger and lowered the blade to the throat of his comrade.

  “We do not rape helpless women!” he growled in a low husky voice. “If a woman offers her favors, you may indulge your needs, but we have more honor than to forcibly take what she will not willingly give.”

  Toma laughed like a hyena, drunkenly reaching up to push the blade aside. “She is a streebagh, Ardan.”

  The blade went back into its place. “She is still a virgin, not a whore. She has been taken by no man.” Grabbing the front of Toma’s tunic, Ardan flicked his dagger across the tip of the man’s nose, splitting the cartilage. The wounded man howled, his hand flying up to stay the gush of blood.

  Standing up, Ardan wiped his blade carefully on his torn sleeve, making his point very clear as he looked at the other men. “Go back to your drinking,” he ordered. “The next raid will bring more women. This one is not for you. She is mine.”

  The other men quickly dispersed, lest they suffer the same fate. They did not want to be marked as a rapist.

  Dria breathed a little sigh of relief, visibly sagging against the pole. Her pert face was pale, her naked body covered in blood and filth. Despite her haggard expression, her blue eyes snapped with defiance, her full lips compressed into a tight line that said she hated every one of them. If looks could kill, all the men present would be dead, Ardan was sure, himself included.

  Ardan stepped behind the pole and cut the leather bindings. Dria would have tumbled to the ground had he not caught her with a quick hand. His grip was strong and sure. Sheathing his blade, he bent and swept her into his arms.

  “You will not be safe alone,” he said. “Tonight you will be sleeping in my hut.”

  Chapter Ten

  Striding through the camp and past the open-mouthed men, Ardan carried Dria toward his private lodge. His taut, brooding features were clearly not to be argued with. No man dared say a word to challenge his authority. With a booted foot, he kicked open the crude wooden door and carried her into a lodge fashioned of gray stone. The blocks had been cut so precisely that a single joint could barely be found. Though primitive, the walls were solid; the roof fashioned of crosshatched wooden beams that could withstand the invasion of the elements.

  Bending, he set her on her feet. As he did, his body brushed hers, hands lingering on her hips. Though it only lasted a moment, it was enough to set her afire. Her blood ran hot through her veins.

  “You will stay with me,” he said gruffly. “They will not bother you again.”

  Dria stepped quickly away from the huge man, folding her arms across her bare breasts, determined not to be mauled further. Why was she feeling so remarkably cognizant of him? Despite her will, her sexual senses seemed to be attuned to his potent strength and every beat of her heart made her that much more aware that he could overpower her at will, do with her body as he wished. Did he know how aroused he was making her? She felt overwhelmed by his touch. Another moment and she would have melted into a puddle of neediness and begged him to finish the aborted ritual of taking. Driven to the height of orgasm but hardly allowed to peak, she was a mass of raw, frustrated nerves. She almost sighed with relief that she was no longer in his arms.

  Her eyes tracked his movements when he closed the door. An L-shaped staple set into the face of the door and another in the wall provided a crude but effective lock when a length of wooden block dangling from the door staple was put in its place.

  The immediate exit barred, her gaze cut from him to the room around her. She could see that the huge single chamber was partitioned into living quarters. One area designated for the preparation of food, another for general living, and yet another for sleeping. A hearth fashioned in stone cocooned a dancing fire, filling the air with the wild scent of burning pine. Around the room, clay pots of oil with floating wicks supplemented the light, brightening and warming. The floor was earth, swept down hard and firm. Leather animal skins hung on the walls, keeping the cold at bay.

  They live so primitively, she thought.

  She could not help but to compare this pl
ace with the one she had grown up in—a castle of high stone walls, voluminous chambers and beautiful marble floors. There, the walls were paneled in wood and the finely crafted pieces of furniture were covered with beautifully woven linens decorated with bursts of needlework. Thick hand-woven carpets were lavishly spread out to cover the floors and exquisitely crafted tables matched the furniture in elegance as well as usefulness.

  “Sit.”

  Dria’s gaze raked the room. In one corner, there was a bench and table, a large wooden barrel for storing fresh water inside, a deep stone basin for washing. In another was a bed and wooden trunk. Most clothing was hung on pegs driven into the walls. All in all, it was crude and unappealing.

  “Where?” she asked, frosting her voice in a pointed manner, letting him know without saying that he lived in a hovel. Her eyes settled on him, filling with his massive body. His head set well on his thick neck, topped with a brush of close-cropped blond, almost white, hair. His eyes were strangely hued, a pure amethyst shade that was as startling as it was striking. He was quite a vision, god-like, his face combining its elements well: high forehead, thick brows, generous mouth and solid chin. He had recently been wounded, a long cut slicing through the sleeve of his shirt to score a solid length down his arm. His blood had dried and crusted hours ago. Judging by the way that he had held her as he carried her, the wound had hampered him naught.

  He caught the gist of her words and frowned. “In front of the fire,” he snapped. “It will warm you.”

  When she made no move, he gave her a gentle shove. “It will warm you up,” he repeated by way of an incentive. He slipped out of the leather straps holding the sword sheathed across his back. Putting the weapon aside, he unstrapped the dagger from his waist. He hung both by the door, ready to be drawn.

  Crossing to the hearth, Dria dropped to her knees on a large mat of woven reeds. Metal hooks held heavy black pots, one lidded and steaming, the other uncovered. Bending toward the fire to take in its light and warmth, she could smell food cooking. The rich scent of boiling meat and vegetables tickled her nostrils. Her stomach rumbled, but she forced herself to ignore it. Because she was not yet a full immortal, her body still stumbled over mortal cravings and desires. Until her change, she still needed food to sustain her strength, but her diet was a sparse one, allowing no meats, only broth and vegetables. Through the years, she had weaned her body to take less and less in preparation for the time when she would no longer be tied to the needs of the physical realm.

  Hearing him move behind her, Dria turned in time to see her captor come closer. He draped a blanket woven of coarse wool over her shoulders. It was scratchy against her bare skin but warm, and she was grateful to have it. He disappeared again, then returned a few minutes later to kneel down beside her. He set a short-legged tray on the floor along with ceramic bowls, cups and spoons, and a lidded ceramic jug with a flanged lip for easy pouring of the liquid inside. Half a loaf of dark bread sat on a plate. Ladling some of the food into a bowl, he offered it to her.

  Fingers digging into the blanket, Dria drew it closer and shook her head.

  “What?” he said in the face of her silence. “You don’t need to eat?”

  She gave a grim smile. “Why feed me if you’re going to kill me?”

  “I don’t relish killing a woman,” he said, putting the bowl down in front of her and tearing off a piece of bread. Grinding the bite between strong white teeth, he swallowed. “But the war between our kinds isn’t over yet.”

  She nodded. “It’s always going to divide us as a people, isn’t it?” Her lips drew down at the corners in a frown. The battle that had torn Sclyd asunder had been foretold centuries before its actual date.

  Picking up the jug, he filled both cups not with the lhune-roie the Raiders favored, but with a strong dark wine. Passing her a cup, he took a drink from his own. His broad hand remained rock steady as he drank. Hers jerked spasmodically.

  “Neither of us started this war,” he said quietly. “But it is one we have both been raised to believe in. We both have our sides to take and our reasons for taking them. For myself, I do not believe that we have the right to take control of a weaker people, and I have to fight against it.”

  Dria shook her head in annoyance. She did not see the sense of his words. Of course, he would speak so. He was on the losing side. Could he not see that the war had brought their world to its knees in desperation? It had torn apart not only a whole civilization, but had created a rift between the ruling entities that could never be completely repaired. Why couldn’t the Raiders let the conflict end? Even the council of witches, those banded entities who had once opposed Xavier’s rule of the Dragon’s legion had agreed to an alliance.

  Thirsty, she picked up the cup he had offered and took a sip of its contents. The wine was sweet and strong. Forgetting the influence of alcohol on her system, she unthinkingly drank it down, wondering how any freethinking man could be so misguided. Could he not see the threats that had emerged as a menace to the very existence of their world and all its inhabitants?

  “This war should have ended long ago,” she said, thinking she sounded wise and mature. “We should worry about the rebuilding of the dead cities.”

  Ardan scowled fiercely. “To the way of Xavier’s thinking, rebuilding Sclyd means taking humans by force and giving them no choices or will, only forcing them into slavery.”

  “Why you fight to preserve mortals, I can’t understand,” she said. “They are weak, neoni. Nothing.” Kept as slaves, traded like cattle, human beings were the bottom feeders of a civilization that had never progressed past a medieval age. Under the strict laws of Ouroborous, humans were nothing, covered by no law, protected by no statute. Quite simply, they existed only to be bred and slaughtered.

  He refilled both their cups. The lines around his squinted eyes were lengthy. “Why do you think them useless?” he asked. “With few exceptions, we are all half human.”

  “But we can overcome the weaknesses of humanity,” she argued. “We do not have to be touched by old age or disease. We are the gods. They are the flock. We can see their place, and we can be merciful toward them.”

  “Is the sacrifice of a child the act of a merciful god?” he spat, his voice taking on a bitter tone. He filled a cup with wine and drank it down, obviously upset by the thought.

  “I am a Dorcha,” she said quietly, leveling her gaze at him, refusing to be cowed or ashamed. She would not drop her eyes or let him drive her into unnecessary guilt. She was what she was, what she was born to be.

  “A dark priestess, I know,” he finished. “One who sucks the life from babies.” He pushed the bowl toward her. “Why not try filling your body with this instead of a soul?”

  She ignored the food and sneaked a glance toward the door, toward the weapons. If I placate him, perhaps there is a chance of escape.

  Finishing his wine, Ardan filled his own bowl, then tore off more bread, handing her the piece.

  She watched him carefully. He was generous, had filled her bowl to the brim, giving her the larger portion of bread. If he intended to keep her in a weakened state, he was going about it the wrong way. He seemed to be going out of his way to make sure she was comfortable and warm, encouraging her presence at his hearth.

  “Are you descended of a familial cult, or are you only a mongrel human born of those cast down?” The question popped out before she could stop the words.

  Ignoring his food, he appeared to think a minute then answered. “I am of Amarak lineage,” he said quietly.

  Dria’s hand flew to her mouth. The Amarak line was one of the oldest known in Sclyd. “You speak a sacrilege,” she protested hotly. “If your words were true, you would be one of the highest ranking priests—second only to Xavier himself.”

  Ardan swallowed and nodded. “Once, I was,” he admitted with scrupulous honesty. He shifted his weight a little, leaning toward her. “Do you not recognize me at all, Dria? It has been a long time since last I saw you.”r />
  Peering at him for the longest time, Dria racked her brain, trying to remember if she had seen this man before in her life. Of course, that would be impossible. She had no interaction with lower caste men, and the unmarried priest trainees above a certain rank were housed in entirely separate quarters, the sexes coming together only during times of training and ceremony. Then, males and females alike were able to peek discreetly at the opposite sex, sizing up the future mates their parents had negotiated for them with Xavier.

  He stretched a questing hand toward her. Almost, but not quite touching her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “You do not remember me. How could you? You were but a child.” His eyes grew wistful. “Whenever I could, I would stand behind you so I could reach out and stroke your soft shining hair, a thing purer and sweeter than any gold.”

  The tension between them deepening, Dria felt a little tingle of familiarity flood back into her mind and body. Slowly, her memory of him solidified. How could she have forgotten the gentle boy so clumsy in his attempts to gain her attention with his covert flirtations? Of course, he looked so different then; a gangling youth of fifteen, miles of arms and legs and none of them coordinated. His tow white hair had been shaved down close to his scalp, and his features were soft, not aged by time and roughened by the elements of a life lived on the edge. He was only twenty-nine, yet he seemed so much older…more mature.