Way of The WOlf: The Northlanders Book I

by Shelby Morgan

  Her scattered clothes had been gathered. They lay on the table, neatly folded, a mocking reminder of the wantonness with which she had discarded them. She laced herself into the brief leather bustier, noting the stain where his lips had darkened the leather. She brushed her fingers across her nipples, trying to recapture the magic, but all she felt was her own touch. Tears clumped her eyelashes into a wet, soggy mess.

  Damn the man. She prayed a silent oath that his body might fail to respond to the next woman whose heart he wished to ravage. She was a fool to have given so much of herself to the man. She had never let that happen before. She had broken every promise she had ever made to herself. She had allowed him to plunder her heart and her soul. She had sung for him.

  Stirrings of life from beyond her small room called her to action. She had lost two days to this miserable excuse for a town. Two days while she'd done little but eat and sleep and mate. With a Human, no less.

  She yanked at the buckles of her leather bracers, perhaps a bit more forcefully than was necessary. The mesh shirt snagged in her hair, testimony to the lack of care she'd paid it. She was hungry. Her rations were exhausted. She'd need to scout up food before she left. If the male hadn't taken all of her money.

  The small bag of gold coin from her mother was gone, but her purse still resided in the outer compartment of her backpack. Its contents seemed undisturbed. There was one flask of water left. She rinsed her mouth and spat out the window.

  Her breath caught as the door opened silently behind her. There was no noise, no sound of footsteps, but she could feel his presence as assuredly as if he had boomed out a welcome. She brushed the loose wisps of fuzz away from her face as she turned to face…a stranger.

  A total stranger stood before her, dressed in worn leather and fine mesh armor that molded to his hard muscled body. A pair of scimitars hug at his sides with the easy of familiarity. A backpack slung over one shoulder sagged with the strain of fresh provisions. His hair had been cut again and his beard trimmed very short. Only the eyes were the same. Deep green eyes that smiled into hers with happiness that had nothing to do with his clothes.

  "Mâk."

  * * * * *

  "Mâk."

  Her voice made his name sound like a prayer. The backpack slipped from his fingers, unnoticed. In one stride he crossed the room to her, gathering her into his arms. A trace of salty tears clung to her eyes. He licked them away with the tip of his tongue. She responded shyly to his kiss, hesitant still, though her hands wrapped around his shoulders and into his hair, binding him to her as no chains ever could have.

  "Why were you crying, Mia~Ell?"

  She swiped a hand across her eyes. "I was not crying. I never cry."

  He smiled at that. "No. Of course not. Forgive me my foolishness, M'Lady." He kissed her again, caught up in the taste of her, already lost in her scent.

  She buried her head in his shoulder, her voice barely a whisper. "I feared ye had tired of me and had returned to thy house of many beds."

  The sob in her voice touched his heart. "What use is a house of many beds, when the only woman I could desire is not amongst them?"

  "Ye are still besotted."

  He sought to raise her head, but she would not meet his eyes. "Look at me," he whispered as he nibbled her earlobe. "Look at me, Mia~Ell."

  She drew a shaky breath and slowly raised her head. Amber peered out from under soggy lashes.

  "I have faced your tribesman across the battle field. I have seen one of your Shaman pluck a dying man from the ground and breathe life back into him. I have witnessed that same man, whom I would have sworn dead, unleash the fury of twenty men onto all those around him. My people fear these berserkers, these dead men, and call them abominations. Is that what I am to you? An abomination raised from the dead?"

  She shook her head violently. "I have not the power to raise the dead. Only to mend the living."

  So there were limits. She was not all-powerful. Yet. He blinked once, filing that information away in his memory. "Do I look healed to you?"

  She swallowed hard. "Ye look–ye look like everything the Dwarf said ye were."

  "I was as dead, Mia~Ell. I had lost the one thing that separates the men from the beasts of burden. I had lost hope. When I looked up and saw you tromping through the mud, that imperious tone in your voice as you barked at Argolyn, I thought you were one of the goddesses, come to answer my prayers. That you are a flesh and blood woman as well does nothing to change my mind. You are the most beautiful goddess I could ever imagine, and you shall always be the answer to my prayers."

  That brought a tremulous smile to her lips. "Ye are still besotted. I am not beautiful. My sister Tranorva is the beautiful one. When she does things, she does them right the first time."

  The remembered image shook him. "Tranorva is your sister?"

  Her smile was tremulous. "My eldest sister. My mother's favored. I see that ye have heard of her."

  "Heard of her? I have faced her in battle. You think she is beautiful?"

  "She is taller than me and broader of shoulder and stronger. She can hit a target with her throwing axe at one hundred and fifty feet. She is better at everything than I am. And she is beautiful. Men fall at her feet. I am so unlike her I doubt that I can be called her sister."

  The humor of the situation hit him, bringing a chuckle to his lips. "Men fall dead at her feet from her war hammer, not from her beauty. She is the most frightening thing I have ever seen on a battlefield. I have seen her up close and I felt nothing but fear. Truly I thought her rather hideous. Thank the gods you are unlike her. And she has not your talent. She is no Shaman."

  Cassadara looked down at her feet. "I am no real Shaman. Not yet."

  He kissed her again. "You are real enough for me. I am alive."

  A commotion beyond the window distracted her attention. He sought to draw her back into his arms, but she was a single-minded woman.

  "I think it is best that you stay away from the window, M'Lady. Indeed, I think it might be best if we were about your business."

  She turned back to him, suspicion mingled with humor overwriting her features. "Mâk, what have ye done?"

  He did his best to look innocent. "I have but regained my armor, M'Lady. And purchased supplies. I think we might best be on our way."

  "Where did ye find thy armor, Mâk?"

  "Please, M'Lady. We must away."

  "Mâk." She drew his name out, clearly desiring an answer.

  He sighed, knowing he was defeated. "I but regained a few things from the pile the vile Dwarf had looted off of us." He displayed her bag of gold, still mostly full. "And I purchased supplies for the journey."

  He went to stand beside her at the window. The noises were getting louder as pandemonium broke lose on the city streets. Fires could be seen dotting the rooflines of thatched huts at the far end of town. "We really should go, M'Lady. I fear I have angered the Dwarf. He must have noticed his loss by now."

  "How many men?" Her voice had lost its humor.

  He swallowed hard. "M'Lady?"

  "Ye have freed the slaves. How many of those men answer to ye?"

  "Six, M'Lady. The rest were but a ruse to cover their escape."

  "And still ye came back to me." There was a touch of wonder in her words.

  He had tried not to. He had reached the edge of town before the scent of her on his skin hit him down low in his gut. "I gave you my word, M'Lady." He'd given her more than that, but he'd not tell her so.

  She turned from the window and strapped on her sword. "Where did ye tell them to meet ye?"

  He had not meant to draw her into this business. If only he'd managed to leave. But he had not bid her good-bye. "M'Lady, I–"

  "Cease!" Her eyes blazed like yellow flames. "My name is Cassadara. And we have no time. The Dwarf will slaughter them all. Think ye not that the entire town has heard our mating calls? Think ye not that the Dwarf knows enough to know which men answer to ye? I humiliated yon Dwarf in front
of his guards and his merchandise. Now ye have cost him his livelihood. Where?"

  He knew when he was defeated. And inevitably, he thought with a trace of insight, he welcomed that defeat. "The first knoll to the north beyond the river, M'…Cassadara."

  She snatched up his pack and threw the strap over her shoulder, next to her own. He swallowed a protest, thinking that the time might not be right to defend his injured manhood. Instead he bent his head to kiss her fiercely.

  Her answer came as a growl. "Pray to the gods that I am a better Shaman than I believe myself to be." With that she kissed him back and kicked open the door.

  He was long of leg. He was strong. He was healthy. Perhaps the healthiest he had ever been in his life. He was unencumbered save for his scimitars. She was laden with both her pack and his own. Yet by the time she crested the hill near the river and stopped to orient herself he feared his lungs would explode from lack of oxygen.

  He bent nearly double, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. She glanced at him, her look half-annoyed, half-amused. When her hand caressed his jaw he looked up at her, still gasping. Her kiss sealed off his air. She exhaled into his lungs again, though not so forcefully this time.

  His body began to tingle, and his lungs quit aching from strain. He felt lighter, younger, stronger, and full of energy. He nipped playfully at her shoulder and she batted at him, her look pure amusement now. Then her eyes turned serious as they swept the surrounding hills.

  "There."

  He looked, but could not see where she pointed.

  "Pray we are not too late."

  He did not bother to ask for more instructions. She could mean only one thing. The Dwarf had followed his men. "They are armed," he offered grimly. "They will not go down easily."

  She glanced at him, saying nothing, but tossed him his pack. The bag felt incredibly light as he snatched it out of the air. She was off even as he slung their supplies over his shoulder, so that his first stride was almost a leap to catch up with her. They moved at least twice as fast as they had before. Yet this time he did not feel the strain.

  He could see them now. His men had chosen a defensible position in the craggy stone hillside. Still, they were poorly armed, and but six against a party of eight lead by the Dwarf.

  He cursed himself a poor Warrior. They would be slaughtered. He was their leader. He should have been with his men. He should have died with his men the first time, never have lived to be taken captive. He stretched his long legs, asking his body for yet more speed, leaving Cassadara behind as he raced toward his fate.

  A pack dropped at his feet and he slowed just enough to scoop the bag up as he ran. A white wolf streaked past him, huge and magnificent, its speed making his look like a mere attempt at running.

  Her speed, he corrected himself.

  For the great white wolf that bore down on the Slavers could be none other than his own Wolf-woman. The legends were true.

  She might strike fear into the enemy and even harass a few, but what could she do without swords against eight armed men? Fear wrung his heart as she launched herself into the midst of the attackers. He landed into the fray as close to her side as he could, both scimitars dealing out death to the unwary. The cry she had taught him reverberated across the valley.

  Pandemonium broke lose in the ranks of the mercenaries the Dwarf had hired. At least one man went down with the giant wolf's teeth locked over his jugular. Before the other men recovered enough to counter attack, the giant ball of white fur and teeth had another man by the arm. Mâkakao's scimitar severed the arm well clear of her muzzle.

  To their credit his men did not cower at the sight of such an apparition. They charged with their spears and their pikes, as fearsome a sight as a maddened rabble. The mercenaries broke and ran under the combined assault, his men hard on their heels.

  Argolyn alone stood to battle the She-wolf. His hands fisted tightly in the fur of her throat, striving to shut off her air, while her teeth sought purchase in the armor-like skin of his neck.

  "Kill me and you will earn the enmity of all of my race!" the Dwarf warned in a voice as harsh as the She-wolf's growl.

  "You are an outcast and a traitor to your own people!" Mâkakao growled back in the Dwarf's own guttural language. "You trade with the spawn of hell. See what your greed has brought you!" His scimitars crossed neatly before him, like the blades of a pair of scissors. Argolyn's head dropped at the She-wolf's feet.

  Lack of a head did not seem at first to diminish the Dwarf's power. The hands still held their purchase, clamped tightly about the She-wolf's neck. Mâkakao kicked at the thing with all of his rage, willing the demon to face its own death. The wolf faded before him, leaving Cassadara with her head thrown back, gasping for breath in a ragged wheeze. The scimitars leapt to life again, severing the headless body limb from limb. As they dropped back into their scabbards he wrestled the hands from her throat. At last torn free of the deadly grasp, Cassadara collapsed into his arms.

  He carried her to a patch of grass where the wind had swept most of the snow away and laid her there, turning away long enough to search for their packs. She was stirring by the time he returned with a flask of water. A snarl broke from her lips as her eyes trembled open. He slid a hand beneath her head, raising it enough to allow her to drink.

  "Mâk," she whispered.

  "Aye, M'Lady. I am here."

  "Ye are unhurt?"

  He took a moment to assess his bloodied armor. "Aye, I think so. None of this seems to be mine."

  She smiled at that, scooping up a handful of snow and massaging her bruised throat as she sat up. "Ye were magnificent. Not even among my own warriors have I seen such skill."

  "Never have I had so much at stake," he murmured.

  And if she pondered the meaning of his words, she did not say so aloud.

  Chapter Four

  The winds swept the hillside, drifting the last of the winter's snow into false hills that made the traveling slow and the camping tedious. From her post as night-watch, Cassadara surveyed the small group of men huddled around the meager campfire talking quietly amongst themselves.

  She was ill at ease amongst them. She did not have to hear their words. Mistrust was written in their eyes, in the set of their shoulders, in the way they ceased their conversation whenever she came too near.

  Not that she blamed them. Less than a week ago she'd seen them nearly starved and half-naked, huddled around a similar campfire, with chains about their necks. She would have walked out of their lives without a backward thought, except for Mâk. He had taught her to see beyond the bounds of race and class to the soul beneath.

  These were his men. They were important to him. As such they were important to her. And all in all, they were little better than they had been a week ago. True, the chains were gone, but they were cold, half-naked, and starving. They had little but the weapons and clothing they'd scavenged off the bodies of the Dwarf and his mercenaries. And they were hungry.

  That, at least, she could do something about.

  She caught Mâk's eye as he glanced up. With a slight tilt of her head and a thrust of her chin she signaled to him. He said something else to the men and then casually strolled away from the fire. Within moments he was at her side.

  He came up behind her, his light step so familiar that she felt him as much as heard him. His hands circled her waist and slipped upwards, gently cupping her breasts as he lowered his mouth to nip at her earlobe. Her low moan of desire became a growl as his thumbs brushed over her nipples.

  "How far is House Yarishet?"

  "At the speed we have been maintaining, four days, M'Lady."

  Too far. "And what of thy father's house with the many beds?"

  There was a hint of laughter in his voice. "The same."

  She snarled her frustration. "Four days is a very long time."

  He seemed fascinated with her ear. Even through the leather tunic she could feel the heat of his erection as he brushed deliberately aga
inst her. "The men would not disturb us, M'Lady."

  She placed her hands over his, caressing his fingers where they stroked her nipples into straining beads of desire. "They would resent me, even more than they do now."

  His voice murmured against her ear, a caress in itself. "No, M'Lady. You saved their lives. They know this. They respect you for this."

  "They know nothing but that a great wolf has bewitched their captain. They are cold and hungry and ye are not. They are sick. They are tired and sore and they long for their homes."

  "Such is the lot of a soldier." Had she not known him as well as she did, she might have thought his words reflected a lack of concern.

  "Ye were one of them when I first saw ye. Now ye are not."

  His thumbs fell still. "Would you wish that I were?"

  She turned to face him, displacing his hands. "Mâk, that is not a fair question. Ye know I would not have ye sick and starving. Nor would I have ye still bound by the Slaver's collar. I would have ye safely within the walls of thy father's keep, beyond the range of death and privation and the sheer weight of the elements. But since I canna work that miracle I can at least see thy men fed!"

  Amusement tinged his voice again. "You can conjure up food for seven men?"

  She wanted to shake him in frustration almost as much as she wanted to mate with him. "I can hunt."

  He shrugged, unimpressed. "Any of us can hunt. There's been nothing afoot. The Orc patrols have wiped the valley clean."

  "I can hunt where ye and the men canna go."

  He drew back slightly in surprise. "You mean to travel as a wolf."

  She wanted his approval for this plan. That alone surprised her. "The men already know I can take the lupine form. 'Twill come as no great shock to them."

  "I do not wish you to hunt alone!" he protested.

  She wanted to remind him that she'd been alone when he met her and none the worse for her adventures, but men's egos were such fragile things. Instead she nuzzled her cheek against his close-cropped beard. "I will no' be gone long. Perhaps an offering of a fresh kill shall improve their disposition."