A cry of rage and grief broke across the battlefield, the voice neither quite that of a wolf nor a woman, but of the both combined. Shards of ice hit the Orc who had hold of Mâk, slashing his skin and gouging his leather armor. Before the Orc could get away, licks of blue flame singed the hair from his bark-like skin.
The thing howled in pain and terror, losing his hold on Mâk's neck long enough for him to draw a full breath. A desperate slash left the beast looking down at the remnants of his armor under his own paw-like hands as he tried to keep his guts from spilling out onto the trampled snow.
Too late. He would be too late. The She-wolf battled both the Scout and the Shaman now, though the two used opposing weapons. The Caster raised his arms high above his head, chanting words that sounded as if they rose from the pits of hell, while the Scout lunged at the wolf with a ten-foot long spear.
There were but three Orcs separating him from Cassadara and the Shaman now. Mâk let loose a bellow of rage as the Scout continued to thrust and parry with the wolf's razor sharp teeth. The Scout turned to face his newest opponent, rage glowing orange in his eyes.
As the Scout turned, Mâk saw how the She-wolf had kept him at bay. Vines had grown out of the frozen tundra to wrap themselves around the Orc's legs, keeping the giant rooted in place. The Orc appeared to be ill as well. Sweat poured down his face and his skin had taken on an even stronger greenish hue.
The spells could not hold out forever. Mâk knew such was not the way of these things. Holding the Orc at bay this long must have required tremendous effort on Cassadara's part. Mâk drove in hard, attempting to shear the tip from the deadly spear. Unfortunately, the scimitars had met their match in the spear's shaft. The fine steel blades bounced back with a force strong enough to make the muscles of his shoulders burn.
Mâk could only see one way to get that spear out of the Orc's grip. He lunged in, exposing his side somewhat carelessly as he made a blundering attempt at shattering the spear once again. Taking the perceived opportunity, the Orc thrust the spear hard into Mâk's side. Indeed, the tip of the thing grazed his flesh through the armor as he danced back, his sudden shift of weight offsetting the Orc's grip. Man and scimitars and spear all tumbled backwards into the bloody snow.
Unfortunately, Cassadara's spell chose that moment to loose its hold on the Scout's feet. The heavy Orc hurled himself after the blade, landing atop Mâk with the full force of his four hundred or so pounds. They grappled together, fighting hand to hand, rolling across the snow.
Mâk lost sight of the She-wolf and her battle, too engrossed in the monster atop him to give her any part of his attention. He rolled over something hard. Digging desperately in the snow, he closed his hand over not one of his scimitars, but instead the Scout's own spear. Unfortunately the damn thing was too long to be of much use, as their bodies rooted the shaft to the ground.
Mâk kicked out hard as he bashed his skull into the Orc's forehead, shoving the thing off him with all his enraged might. The Orc regained his footing just as Mâk rolled to his knees. As the Orc lunged forward across the final arms breadth that separated them, Mâk raised the spear out of the snow. The Orc had no chance to halt his furious attack. Understanding registered in his glowing eyes as he impaled himself on his own weapon. The fierce eyes went dead even as the Scout toppled back to the snow.
Mâk spun to find the primary battle. The She-wolf had faded. Now the fight was simply Shaman against the Orc Caster. The Shaman raised her arms over her head, heavy shafts of lightning bombarding the Caster. The Caster battled back with a ring of flames that scorched the earth beneath her feet.
Mâk recovered his scimitars as the flames subsided. With a speed that was more reckless than practical he pitched himself between the two opponents. The Caster immediately changed the focus of his attacks as the scimitars sliced the air. With the customary self-preservation of his kind, the Caster turned to flee.
Blue flames licked over the vile green body as the Caster spun away. The flames slowed the Caster's stride long enough for Mâk's scimitars to remove the arm that held the powerful war-scepter. Enraged, the Caster spun about to face Mâk once again. Shards of ice attacked the Orc once again. The Caster was already sinking to its knees when Mâk's blades closed over the space that had once been its neck. Even as the head rolled away, Mâkakao sheathed his scimitars, turning back to find his Shaman.
One look told him she was drained. She sank to her knees in the mud, her body no longer even able to support itself. He dropped to her side, his arms gathering her tightly against his chest. "Tell me you are not injured."
Cassadara fixed her eyes on his face. "I am not injured, Mia~Ell. Only weary." She raised a hand to touch his cheek. "Gather your men close. All of them."
He lifted his eyes from her long enough to survey the battleground. Four men were standing, already looting the fallen Orcs for weapons and armor that might fit their needs. One man appeared to be down permanently. Another sat to the side, a hand pressed over a wound wrapped in rags. Mâk motioned for the men to come to him. The others helped the wounded one up the hillside.
Cassadara focused on them each in turn. "The sixth is dead?"
"Mortally wounded, M'Lady," Balthain, his captain, answered.
"Bring him to me."
Wordlessly two of the warriors turned away to fetch the dying man while the other two supported their less severely wounded companion. When all were gathered about she addressed them again, her voice weaker than he remembered it. "Join hands." She closed her eyes. Just as the men began to get restless, her voice quieted them. She chanted softly, in words that they could understand.
"Bless these men, oh great goddess, with the spirit of thy health and the strength of thy might. Heal them with the purity of thy goodness. Fill them with the stamina of thy love. Guide them through the night with the light of thy way. Let thy will be done."
New strength flowed into Mâkakao's body. The snow around him lit up with the glow of a bright moonlit night. The pain in his side lessened, then faded. The men around him began to whisper softly to each other as they examined their wounds. Even the one he'd thought lost was able to stand on his own.
"M'Lord? Will the Lady recover?" Balthain's voice sounded truly concerned.
Mâk turned his attention to Cassadara, only to find her eyes closed once again. Fear overcame him. She had expended the last of her strength to heal his men, leaving nothing for herself. "Do not leave me," he begged, sinking to the bloodied ground with her head cradled in his arms. He stroked her hair away from her face. "Know you not how much I need you, Mia-Ell?"
"I must sleep for a time…"
* * * * *
Mâk awoke with a start. Fear washed over him. Everything looked unfamiliar. It took him a moment to orient himself. The tent was an Orc pavilion, but he had not been captured again. There were no Orcs here now. Mâk's small band of warriors had stumbled upon the deserted Orc camp only a few leagues from the site of the battle. Cassadara had needed to rest. The men had needed to rest. There were hides here to wrap themselves in against the cold and food of a sort to fill their bellies. And if everything smelled of Orc, they did not notice. They smelled of Orc as well.
Mâk shook the sleep from his body. He'd promised himself he would stay awake, guarding his Shaman. She had not opened her eyes since she they had moved from the battlefield. Her dreams had been troubled. He had wanted to be near in case she awakened. Yet even he had succumbed to the terrible drain of battle.
Mâk rose quietly, thinking to check the perimeters of the camp. A low growl halted him in his tracks. He spun, searching the corners of the tent, looking for the intruder. There. The form was half hidden amongst the scattered hides. Mâk crouched down, a wrestlers stance, ready to meet the attack. Whatever it was, it moved silently in the dark, and its eyes glowed an eerie red.
A feral snarl warned him away as he moved closer. Cassadara. Where was Cassadara? He wanted to call her name, but if the creature hadn't spotted her he need not c
all attention to her presence.
The warning growl grew louder as he moved in. He heard the teeth snap together nervously as it shifted about, turning to stay face to face with him. An idea began to take hold in his mind, but the thought was so terrible he would not give it shape. Instead he pitched forward into a roll, coming up where his opponent should have been.
He grappled with air. His only warning was a deep throated growl as she launched herself at him. As his arms sought to capture his attacker, his fear was confirmed.
"Cassadara!"
The legends were true. The creature was Cassadara. Or what she had become.
The Wolf-woman was no longer quite Human.
"Cassadara!"
She was strong, true enough, but not trained in the ways of a wrestler. He lunged, catching her crouched form unprepared, pinning her arms behind her back. Her body, covered only by a thin leather tunic, felt like a woman's, true enough. But there was no humanity left in her eyes. It was the strain, he knew. The strain of the battle had drained her too low. "Mia~Ell, do you not know me? I am Mâkakao, and I love you. Do not leave me, Mia~Ell."
The sound of his voice seemed to give her pause. She stilled beneath his hands.
"You know me, Mia~Ell. I am Mâkakao–Mâk. We have traveled together. We have fought together."
Her nostrils flared as she drew in his scent.
"That's right, my love. You know the smell of me. I am Mâk. I am bound to you, and by more then the gold you paid the Dwarf for my freedom. I am your mate. You know me. Tell me you know me."
She sniffed along his jaw line, pausing to nuzzle his ear. His hands on her arms relaxed just a little. She nuzzled more gently along his neck, licking gently now.
Until her teeth locked over his jugular.
The move was so swift, so sudden. And so paralyzing. Another small amount of pressure in the right place, and he was dead. He couldn't even yell for help.
Not that he would. He owed her his bond. He owed her his life.
Releasing her arms, he tried a move based in desperation. He brought his hands slowly up along her sides, worshiping every curve, until his hands captured her breasts. Using the skills he'd learned on the battlefield, he focused his attention on her body, ignoring the feel of her teeth on his throat.
Her nipples hardened to stiff little points under his thumbs. He could hear her breathing changing. Fear began to give way to desire. He could reach her this way. He could bring her back.
If she didn't kill him.
"I love you, Cass," he managed as her teeth loosed their hold.
She seemed to respond to the sound of his voice.
"I love the feel of your skin beneath my hands. Did I ever tell you how much I love your breasts? You have beautiful breasts." He kneaded them gently, brushing his thumbs back and forth across the sensitive tips.
Her growl sounded again, but this time it was a growl of desire. She shoved him to his back, rolling atop him. Their eyes locked as she straddled his waist. Her hands tore at him, but this time there was little malice in her movements. Or at least he hoped not. He helped her, raising his arms so that she could yank the tunic over his head.
It was her turn now. She lowered her mouth to suckle his nipples, the first swipe of her tongue nearly unmanning him. He groaned in desire, more than willing to let her have her way with him. "I am yours, my love. Do with me what ye will."
She made it very clear what she would have, though she still spoke no Human words. That feral growl came again, as she licked and sucked her way down over his chest. Her hands–still the hands of a woman–unlaced his breaches, evidently finding the garments not to her liking. Her hands stopped to trace the length of his painful erection before she yanked the bindings loose to set him free.
He knew without the words that this was what he had heard about in the stories and legends. The half-wild wolf-women would use a man for their pleasure, draining him of his seed, leaving his broken body behind. He was strong. He was healthy. He was up to the challenge. And she was his mate. If he could but reach her, she would remember that. Fear mixed with pleasure as she lowered her mouth to run the tip of her tongue over the length of his burning cock. He bucked under her, helpless to withstand her attack.
"I love you, Mia~Ell."
Her hands fisted around his shaft, drawing him upwards until he was so hard he thought he might burst under her touch. He could feel the heat of her against his thigh. His body ached to fill her hot, wet sheath. He placed his hands over hers on his penis, drawing her up, urging her to mount him.
She moved, deliberately sliding her wet slit along his body, responding at a pace so agonizing her thought he would cry out in frustration. She slid over him, pinning his engorged penis against his pelvis, massaging the length of her mound with its girth. "You're killing me," he managed. "Take me, Mia~Ell. Ride me. Make love to me." His teeth ground together. "Now."
She rose up, coming down hard as she impaled herself on his awaiting cock. Her muscles were tight, sucking him in, demanding his full length and more. She ground against him, wave after wave of rippling muscles pulling at him. Just when he thought he might burst from the pleasure that was so close to pain, she withdrew, leaving him hollow and aching with need.
He grasped for her hips, pulling her back, rougher than he'd intended to be. She responded in kind, coming down hard on him again and again, her sheath clamping down on his throbbing cock as she rode him, rocking to her knees and back time after time.
Each time she withdrew he felt as if he might die. When she consumed him again he thought she might destroy him. The dance took on a furious pace as she arched harder against him, crying out as her climaxes drove him to thrust up into her with all the strength he had left. The sound of their wet skin slapping together rose as loud as the hoarse rasp of their breathing. His balls burned with the need for release.
That release came as her final climax twisted her so tightly around his burning shaft that he could not withdraw. Her cry split the night air, the mournful cry of an arctic wolf. His own voice joined hers, singing the ancient song. As they'd bound themselves together as wolves, so it was now. He shattered within her, her body milking him of his seed, holding him captive as she slumped over his chest.
When he could move, when he was sure he was still breathing, he rolled with her, gently laying her beside him, his arm cradling her against his chest. Her eyes were shut. Her breathing was shallow now as her body relaxed against his. She lay so quiet that he feared the mating might have been too much for her. He brushed his lips over hers in a gentle hint of a kiss. "Do not leave me, Mia~Ell," he whispered again. "Now that I've found you I don't think I could go on without you."
She snuggled closer into his arms. "I canna leave ye," she whispered, her voice so low he bent closer to be sure he understood. "Know ye not that wolves mate for life?"
Epilogue
"Ye will take me to my daughter, and ye will take me now."
Cassadara knew that voice. She drew the blanket over her head and turned her face into the soft feather pillow. She was tired. So tired. Too tired to face her mother. Not now. Not yet. If only she had learned the spell to make herself invisible…
"M'Lady. Please forgive my servants. I have given orders that your daughter was not to be disturbed. Such orders do not apply to you. Allow me to escort you to her."
"I accept thy apology, Lord Yarishet, but only because it is in my best interest to do so. Take me to my daughter."
Cassadara felt the shock of it reverberate through her system like the brute force of a well-placed blow. Yarishet. Lord Yarishet.
She knew that voice as well. Knew it as the call of her mate. Mâk. Mâk was Lord Yarishet. This castle she found herself in was his father's house of many beds. No wonder he had seemed amused when she asked the distance from her journey's end to his father's house.
She had told him everything. Far more than she should have. He had told her nothing, only enough to gain her trust without revealing any
thing of himself. Her mission, the deaths of her men, all was for nothing. Worse yet, she had mated with him. And now her mother was here to learn of her disgrace. Perhaps the day could get worse, but she had her doubts.
It would not due to have mother find her abed. She threw off the covers, searching the room for any signs of her clothing. She swayed unsteadily on her feet. Damn the Orc and his magic. She was still so weak…
"Mia~Ell!"
Before she could protest the faithless use of such an endearment, strong arms had swept her off of her feet and deposited her back into the pile of feather beds. One sword-calloused hand swept her unbound hair away from her face. Warm, soft lips brushed across her features, as if taking inventory.
"You are not ready to leave your bed, Mia~Ell." He spoke patiently, as if he might have said these words to her often. "I am sorry I was not here when you awoke. I went but to greet your Lady mother."
She wanted to be angry with him. She wanted so badly to be angry with him. But his hands were so gentle with her and the concern in his voice felt genuine. "Ye are Lord Yarishet," she chastised.
The smile lifted some of the lines of concern from his face. "Aye, M'Lady. I fear 'tis true. 'Tis a burden I was born with. I have discovered there is little I can do to change things."
She wanted to be angry with him and by the gods she would be. "Why did ye not tell me this?"
He bent down to kiss the tip of her nose. "You did not ask."
Her voice had turned sulky, but she did not care. "Ye could have told me. I did ask about thy father. I would have returned ye to him."
"My father has been dead these three years past, M'Lady. I apologize for my deception. I meant only to let you get to know the man before you had to deal with the title. Titles tend to get in the way. And truly, when one has been held in chains at the mercy of a vengeful Dwarf, titles seem to lose their meaning. I shall always be as a slave to the woman who freed me. For me, my title changes nothing." His voice held a trace of something alien. Could it be fear? "Please tell me that it is the same for you."
Way of The WOlf: The Northlanders Book I Page 6