Way of The WOlf: The Northlanders Book I

by Shelby Morgan

  Cassadara tapped her foot impatiently. "Warrior or no', he is not one of my people. Ye have lied to my mother. Lady Lochinvar will be much angered with ye."

  Argolyn spread his hands wide, his face a mask of innocence. "He is big. He is strong. He is well equipped. I told your mother only that I had an acceptable candidate. Come back tomorrow. I will have broken him for you."

  Broken. Aye. That he would be. Cassadara felt a surge of pity well up. She suppressed her weaker emotions with the harshness of reality. "I have no time to waste with ye. If he is all ye have he will have to suffice. I will give ye thirty and leave with him now."

  "M'Lady, surely you jest. A big strong Human like this will bring near to one hundred after the mêlée."

  "Then wait for the mêlée. Away with ye." From down below in the mud, eyes flavored with desolation searched for hers. Cassadara intentionally looked away. She spun on her heal and headed toward the gates.

  A filthy little hand tugged at her sleeve. "Please, Mistress, let us not haggle over money. I can see that you desire this slave. Enjoy him. My gift to you at only forty gold pieces."

  Only a slight metallic ping sounded as her sword leaped into her hand. Her voice hissed out low and flat. "Remove thy hand from my person while ye still possess a hand to remove."

  The Dwarf drew back stiffly, but swallowed his pride in the face of the threat in her eyes. "You drive a hard bargain, M'Lady. Thirty it is."

  Her upper lip curled in a sneer. "Twenty-five."

  Argolyn stared up at her for the space of two long, deeply drawn breaths. "Twenty-five."

  The sword slipped soundlessly back into its sheath. Cassadara withdrew the coins from her leather pouch and dropped them. Argolyn picked the coins deftly out of the air as they fell. Short stubby fingers extended a large iron ring toward her. "Your keys, M'Lady."

  She stepped back, refusing to touch the tainted metal. "Ye may keep thy chains."

  "M'Lady! Think what you say! Surely you cannot mean to–"

  Her hand still rested on the pommel of her sword. "The purchase is made. The Human belongs to me. I do not wish him to serve me in bondage. Remove thy chains."

  The protest died on the Dwarf's lips. Wordlessly he unlocked the wrist cuffs, yanking the chain though the rings on the Torc that shackled the man's neck. Ignoring both the Dwarf and the pain of the twisted Torc, the Human kept his eyes fastened on Cassadara. He still clutched his tattered tunic. Cassadara watched in fascination as he tied the remains about his waist. Despite his condition, he retained some degree of modesty.

  "You were not told to dress!" Argolyn barked, snaking out a grubby paw to yank the cloth away from the man.

  Cassadara caught the Dwarf's wrist in a grip as strong as his own. "Ye shall not touch what is mine. Not now. Not ever. Neither ye nor any of thy men."

  Rage colored the trader's face. With his free hand he grasped a talisman hung about his neck on an ancient leather cord. "Take him and be gone."

  Cassadara dropped the Slaver's arm, suddenly finding him far too filthy to touch.

  "You shall regret your treatment of me," the Dwarf muttered as he turned and stalked away, rubbing his injured wrist.

  "Harm what is mine, and ye shall not live to ponder my fate," Cassadara promised his retreating backside. Truth be told, she already regretted having dealt with the little Slaver at all. She had no wish to own another, nor be responsible for anyone other than herself. Yet here she was.

  She turned back to the Human. Eyes fixed on her feet in a traditional show of subservience, the man knelt before her in the mud, his ripped tunic clutched around him. Ice crystals were already forming in the man's beard. Pity swayed Cassadara yet again. She unbuckled her cloak and settled the heavy wool over his shoulders. Green eyes raised up to meet hers, still wary, but there was something in them she hadn't seen there before. Hope.

  The Torc still marked the man as a slave. She saw no smith about whose forge she might use. The thing was iron. She hated to touch iron. Still, the slave's branding had to come off.

  Sliding one hand under the band to protect his skin, she closed her eyes and focused on the welded lock. She felt the metal heat under her fingers. Using all of the strength of her race, she turned the welded hasp until the metal crumbled beneath her fingers. The lock sprung, allowing another few inches of space between the ends of the band. As gently as she could she spread the worn collar apart and removed the hideous thing from about his bloodied neck. Venting her anger on the metal, she flung the filthy piece of iron out across the tundra. The Human said nothing, only continued to stare up at her.

  She extended her hand to him, but he made no move to accept her help. Her temper leapt to the surface again as she let her hand drop back to her side. This was a poor start to things.

  No. She would not judge him on the basis of race alone. Perhaps he had simply misread her intent. She tried again, choosing her words with care as she addressed him in his own language. "Are ye fit enough to travel?"

  Understanding flickered across his face. Still watching her face he rose cautiously to his feet. "Aye, M'Lady." Even as he spoke he swayed like a drunkard.

  She sighed, knowing he was not fit to go anywhere but to bed. "Have ye a name?"

  He blinked in surprise. "To my friends I am known as Mâkakao."

  Cassadara twisted her tongue around the foreign name. "Mâkâ…"

  "Mâkakao," he repeated patiently.

  She laughed at her own clumsiness with the name. "Mâk."

  His lips turned up slightly at one corner. "Mâk."

  "As much as I admire thy body, I would not have ye to travel with me naked, Mâk. Ye will attract the wrong sort of attention. Get ye to yon merchants and see to thy clothing. Something sturdy, but light enough to travel in. Get ye outfitted. A sturdy tunic and light armor and a traveling cape. Whatever else ye shall have need of. And get ye a good sword."

  He stared at the bag of coins she pressed into his hand. His voice sounded odd when he finally spoke. "You would trust me in this, M'Lady?"

  Cassadara looked up and down the one mud path that ran between the stone huts of the merchants. "Would ye rather remain here?"

  A smile, a real one at last, stole through his reserve. The smile touched his face with the promise of beauty. "No. No, M'Lady, I would not."

  "Mâk?" She spoke softly as he started to turn away.

  "M'Lady?" On his lips the word sounded like a caress.

  "Find ye a bath and a barber."

  Green eyes turned stormy gray. "As you wish, M'Lady."

  He thought she meant to prepare him for her bed. The idea was not unpleasant, but he was in no condition, and she had no wish to kill him. Cassadara smothered her laughter. "Have the barber see to that arm. I would not have thy wound heal badly."

  He flinched as if she had hit him. "It is nothing, M'Lady. A scratch of no importance."

  "Have the wound seen to," she insisted. "And get ye something to eat. A good dinner may cure what ails ye."

  The Human inclined his head in a show of respect. "M'Lady."

  She liked the way the title sounded when he spoke. Almost as if his words caressed her. Still…

  "Cassadara. If we are to share this journey, ye might as well know my name."

  One corner of his mouth lifted up. "I know your name, M'Lady. I think all in these parts know your name by now."

  "Then ye shall have no trouble finding me when ye are outfitted and ready to depart. I shall be at yon tavern at the edge of what passes here for a town. I have paid for a room there for the night, but I would rather leave this place behind us." She let her attention flick briefly toward the Slaver's hut. "Have caution. I do not trust the Dwarf."

  His eyes warmed slightly. "I will return to you, M'Lady."

  And if he did not, she would be out nothing but a small bag of her mother's coin. She watched the tall Human turn and walk away, admiring the hard angles of his shoulders beneath the cape. Somehow she trusted he would be good to his word. Cassadara
thought briefly of the Human's other attributes and smiled to herself. Perhaps she would not regret this bargain, after all.

  Even as the thought occurred to her, the Human stumbled over the threshold to the nearest merchant's hut, clutching at the doorframe as he tried to right himself. Cassadara sighed. With a movement as swift as her name implied, she reached his side. Although she was shorter by a hands' breadth than any of her clansmen, she had at least inherited the strength of her race. She gathered the man into her arms as she would have an injured child. Even through the wool of the cape she could tell he was burning up with a fever.

  Eyes the color of wintergreen sought hers as thick ebony lashes parted. "The Dwarf…"

  His voice trailed off and his eyes slipped closed, only to jerk suddenly open again. "Do not let me die in this place," he implored. "Not here. The tundra…"

  She remembered the Dwarf laying his hand on the talisman. "Ye shall no' die. Not here. Not today. I give ye my word."

  His eyes slid closed. "Clan of the Wolf is known for keeping its word," he whispered. As if the effort of speaking had been too much, his head lolled loosely to one side.

  The door before her gave way at a kick from her fine steel clad boot. A tiny merchant woman looked up at them in terror, reaching for a pitiful excuse for a knife.

  "I have need of thy assistance," Cassadara explained calmly. "I shall pay ye well."

  Chapter Two

  The Human drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the day. Despite tending his wounds, he seemed no better. Using her gift once again, Cassadara laid her hands on the man, chanting softly, but the healing prayer only served to keep him clinging to life. If anything, his fever had worsened. The man spoke in his sleep, sometimes giving orders to his troops, sometimes negotiating trades in exotic languages.

  Dread began to take hold of her. Had she not feared to leave the man alone, she would have hunted down the Dwarf and his talisman. If the Human died, Cassadara would have lost not only Mother's money, but her respect, as well. Cassadara had chosen to accept the Human rather than wait to find the Clansman her mother had sent her for. If this Human died, his death would be her failure.

  If the man died, she would have failed him as well, for he had entrusted himself to her care. Not that his other options had been any too good. But she had given him her word.

  Cassadara knelt beside the straw pallet, withdrawing the small leather bound Book of Ways from her satchel once again. There were stronger spells than the laying on of hands with the healing prayers. Whatever the Dwarf had done, his spell could be countermanded. Mother could have healed the Human with a mere touch of her hand. Cassadara could not. Yet there were spells…

  She searched though the book again, trying to find an alternative, something within her reach, a spell she had already mastered. She kept coming back to the same page. She had never practiced this one. The spell was not to be used lightly, the book warned. The recipient must give his consent. And there were consequences. Only desperation lead her to memorize such a difficult and dangerous spell now.

  There were always consequences…

  A groan from the pallet beside her alerted her to the man's return to consciousness. Cassadara put away her little book.

  * * * * *

  "Mâk?"

  He opened his eyes, and then closed them tight shut again. "No. No. You're not real. This is not happening to me." This was but a dream. The same one he'd had for years. The creature from his favorite dreams had come to haunt his nightmares now.

  "Mâk…"

  The Druid priests had warned him against his dream lover. They called the wolf-women an abomination, saying he was possessed. He shut his eyes tightly. "A fever. I'm down with a fever. You are not real."

  The effort of speaking tortured his neck. Chains. The Dwarf had had him in chains. His hands rose to claw at the iron collar that choked of his breathing. He fought back the panic. He would not let the Dwarf see his fear. That one would only use his fear against him.

  Soft hands closed gently over his, stilling his panic. She felt real. "Mâk."

  The odd accent made his name sound like an endearment. His body responded inappropriately, as it had when the dream-woman had stared at him down by the Slaver's pit. He remembered the way she had looked at him, like a piece of merchandise she was inspecting. He closed his eyes, trying to escape the nightmare.

  "Stay with me, Mâk. I need ye in this world before I can attempt this."

  She could not be real. This could not be happening to him. Yet the voice persisted softly, patiently demanding. She spoke his own language, though strongly accented. He opened his eyes again. The Wolf-woman was still there. Whatever hell the gods had dropped him into this time, they'd chosen to mock him with the creature of his secret desires. A She-wolf in Human form stood beside the pallet, looking down at him, concern radiating from dark amber eyes.

  She was naked. He was dying and a naked Wolf-woman adorned with the runes of a priestess stood over him, a mocking reminder that he'd given up sex to find favor with his gods. Perhaps the gods were rewarding his sacrifice, for the woman appeared to be the answer to every devotion he'd ever made.

  He knew this woman. He'd made a bargain with her. His servitude for the price of his freedom. The Wolf-woman owned him now. The chains she held him with were of his own making, and stronger than any bonds the Dwarf might have forged.

  She'd made a poor bargain.

  She was beautiful, in a wild, dangerous way. Her dark hair hung in a heavy braid the thickness of a ship's mooring rope over her shoulders. As she swayed closer, peering down at him, the ends of the braid brushed over his skin. Unbraided, her hair would reach well past her waist.

  She was tall. Very tall. Even bent over the pallet he could see that she must come close to matching his own height. Nothing about her was small. Her shoulders were broad and powerful, no doubt from fighting with that massive staff leaning against the crudely plastered wall. He vaguely remembered her picking him up. No easy feat for a man, let alone a woman.

  She'd been in armor then. Armor that showed both quality and service. And when she'd drawn that sword, he'd believed she would not hesitate to cleave off the Dwarf's hand.

  The armor was gone now. Still, the woman wasn't completely naked. A band of soft leather bound her breasts. Those weren't small, either. The binding, rather than making her look less feminine, pushed her breasts up into two large swelling mounds split by deeply shadowed cleavage. Swallowing hard, he let his eyes drop lower.

  She still wore her kilt. That left for a great deal of exposed skin. And Human or not, what there was of her was all woman.

  "Ye are awake. Good." Her voice mesmerized him, making him forget whatever question he'd been about to ask. She stepped across the pallet so that one long, slender foot rested on either side of his hips, slowly lowering herself to straddle his waist.

  His breathing took on a ragged desperation that sent pain shooting through the broken ribs. He felt as if is his cock might burst with the wanting of her. "I think I must be dreaming."

  "I have never done this before," she informed him calmly. "I must have thy consent."

  The feel of her flesh against his told him she wore nothing under that kilt. Great. Just great. He'd eagerly listened to the legends of the wolf-women since he had first left his childhood behind. The whispered tales of their sexual abilities were the stuff of a young man's wet dreams. Many a man of his village would kill for the chance to be where he was now. Yet he knew he was in no condition to take on a virgin Wolf-woman, no matter how his cock responded to the feel of her heat pressed against him.

  His mind lost out in the argument with his burning erection. She had paid his price. He only prayed that he might live long enough to give the woman her money's worth. "I am yours," he consented. "Do what you will with me." She might well be the death of him, but he could think of no better way to die.

  Further down she folded herself, until her bound breasts pressed into his aching r
ibs. She took a deep breath and covered his mouth with hers.

  Whatever he'd expected, if he'd actually been capable of thinking at all, he was totally unprepared for what happened next. She breathed out, gradually filling his lungs with her breath until he fought to break her hold, to shove her away, to do anything to remember where he ended and she began.

  He could not escape. He was too weak to fight her. Strong hands held his head clamped firmly in place. The kiss that was not a kiss deepened until he thought his lungs might burst. When at last she released him, his breath exploded, leaving the room awhirl in swirling colors. He coughed hard, desperately sucking in fresh air.

  When his vision cleared, she was still there, straddling his waist, the heat of her vagina only inches from his burning cock. Strength flowed back into his body like a powerful aphrodisiac. He grasped at her hips, shoving her back, desperate to feel himself inside her. She moved to oblige him, but at her own speed, her body sliding steadily down the length of his thick, throbbing cock. He didn't ever remember feeling a need such as this.

  Everything seemed to be happening at an excruciatingly slow pace. The muscles of her vagina rippled against his cock, allowing him access at a pace so measured that he felt as if he would burst from the need for her. With a strength he had not known he still possessed, he grappled with her, pulling her down on the pallet beside him. They rolled together, twisting and turning until he knelt between her thighs, their hands grasped tightly in two locked fists.

  She was like nothing he'd ever felt before. Firm and muscular and tight, yet so wet and ready for him that she whimpered when he pushed deeper into her hot sheath. Her low moan of pleasure stimulated him to maintain control. Slowly, as slowly as she had done, he pushed into her, pleased when her fingers tightened in his, trying to escape his hold. Her muscles pulsed around his cock, pulling, demanding, protesting his restrained pace. A grin settled over his face. Whatever she had done to him was nothing compared to what he would do to her.

  "Mâk…" she gasped, writhing against him. "Now Mâk. Now."