Alien Masters (10 Book Bundle of Sci-Fi Romance Tales)

by Janet Jingles

  “Sure, thanks, Reginald, I’ll see you around.” Rachel hurriedly turned away, not waiting for his response.

  RD was a great guy, handsome, rich and a total babe magnet, but not her cup of tea. In fact since the time she realized there was more to boys than just throwing stones at them, she found that even though she was attracted to the opposite sex, the men around her didn’t quite appeal to her as much as the ones she read about and saw in the history books and documentary movies. She shrugged it off and crossed the street; the fairground loomed up before her. It was still early in the afternoon and the place wouldn’t get over crowded until after five. She liked that, not one for mingling around in crowds much.

  ***

  She paid for the entry fee and strolled into the field. It was a large enough ground, often used for several themed events, like this medieval fair. She was always interested in the past, especially in the eras before the advent of empire builders, where men lived by the sword and seized each day of life as if it were their last. Stories of highlanders, knights, Viking warlords and barbarian kings intrigued her and she often wished she was born in that time period where she could have been a princess, or just a maid, or even a sorceress. Women who had as much wit and spirit as the men and could achieve things on their own were often labeled as witches and sorceresses throughout ancient history. In these modern times they are classified with another term, she smiled to herself as a fairground guide approached her. He was wearing the classic costume of a court jester, bells on his hat and all.

  “Greetings, fair lady,” He bowed low before her, the bells jingling pleasantly. “How may I, François, be of assistance to thee this fine afternoon?”

  “Hello, François,” Rachel smiled at the brightly dress man. “I’m looking for a Madam Griselda; I was told she has a set up here.”

  “Ah, keen to know your future; are you… or the past?” He raised an eyebrow exaggeratedly, and pointed with a flourish. “Her tent is over yonder, a few paces from the far wall.”

  “Thank you, François.” She nodded her head in amusement. “You’ve been a great help.”

  “It is my pleasure, Milady,’ He bowed again. ‘And if I may be so bold to ask you your name.”

  “I’m Rachel.” She bowed, giggling a little.

  “My, my Rachel, you have such a commanding Queen-like stature.” His eyes shone brightly. “How tall are you, if I may?”

  “I’m five eleven.” She said, almost blushing.

  “Oh, good heavens.” He feigned a look of wonder and whipped out three apples and began juggling them. “Would you like to share your number with this old fool, Rachel?”

  “Oh, um, sure, François…” She said, stepping away. “But not today... thanks again.”

  She turned on her heel and swiftly walked away. She was used to being hit on almost everywhere she went. It was amusing and also felt good at the same time. She approached the first multi-colored tent François has pointed to. The sign above it read ‘The seeker of truth.’ That intrigued her and she tapped on the little chiming bell hanging on a pole outside the tent.

  “Please, come in.” The unsteady voice of what could only be an elderly woman called out from inside the tent.

  Rachel felt a chill run down her back as she parted the tent flap and peered inside. It was cooler and a lot dimmer than the outside. She stepped in and walked up to the only inhabitant in there. A few low single seat blocks were arranged around the old woman hunched in the far corner, her long bony fingers rested on a round ball of translucent white. Her eyes were deep and piercing and she thin lips were tuned down in a permanent scowl. This was the unfriendliest person that Rachel had ever seen, at least in some time.

  “Hello!” Rachel waved at the pale faced woman, peering at her curiously. “Madam Gris…”

  “Greetings, my child.” Her voice quavered. “You must forgive me, these eyes do not see as well as they used to.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” The blonde said softly.

  “Oh, no, don’t be.” The somber woman almost whispered. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was told that you have a way of showing the events of the past,” Rachel asked carefully, a hint of skepticism in her voice, “in your, um, crystal ball.”

  “Yes, you have been told true, child.” The woman confirmed, caressing the white ball. “I am Madam Griselda and this is Ocalus, the all seeing eye.”

  “Er, sure… and I’d like to see something.” Rachel nodded, nervously taking a seat. “Something from the tenth century, from the north polar region.”

  “You seek to know the life and times of your ancestors.” Madam Griselda nodded sagely.

  “Well, yes…” She looked up at her wizened face, “but how did you know th…”

  “You must first cross my palm with silver.” The old woman held out a gnarled little hand.

  “Silver? I don’t… have any…”

  “Twenty dollars will do.”

  “Oh, that - I do have.” Rachel sighed with a laugh, fishing out a twenty.

  “Good. Good.” Griselda put away the bill rather quickly. “Tell me of what you wish to see… a name or a place.”

  “Oh, yes…” The blond girl said thoughtfully. “About 850 to 900 AD, somewhere around the great fiords of Norway and Denmark.”

  “Ah, the time of the barbarian hordes.” The fortune teller waved her bony hands and a small cup suddenly materialized in them. “Come now, you must drink this.”

  “Drink, um, I…” Rachel eyed the cup suspiciously.

  “It is only water… a symbolic gesture.” Griselda smiled, the wrinkles on her face softening.

  “Oh, okay then.” She took the cup gingerly.

  “Now put your hand on the glowing ball.” The old woman almost commanded, and Rachel did as she was told.

  “Oh, I don’t think that was just water.” Rachel stuck out her tongue, it felt weird. “Oh, the ball… it’s glowing pretty bright.”

  “Prepare yourself, Rachel Jorgensen, your destiny awaits.” Griselda’s voice was suddenly powerful and strong and she began chanting words that made no sense to Rachel.

  “Hey, now… wait a minute.” The blonde protested. “How did you know my name?”

  “Your name is known all through the land.” She heard a voice echo as everything seemed to spin around her and darkness fell like an enveloping cloak.

  ***

  “Your name? That is your name…” The words hung in the air as the pain began to recede in her head.

  “Uhhh…” Rachel moaned as she opened her eyes to the bright light of day. It hurt a bit and she shielded the sunlight from her face with a raised hand. “Where am I?”

  “Milady, are you unwell?” A face loomed before her.

  Rachel pushed herself up and looked around in bewilderment. It looked like she was on a farmland somewhere. Large stacks of hay and several types of farm animals stood all around her. The pungent odor of animal feed and waste made her want to throw up. She looked at the man squatting before her. He was more of a slender boy, looked about twelve or thirteen, but was almost six feet tall and broad shouldered.

  “Where is this?” She asked him. “Where am I?”

  “This is the Jorgensen farm… I am Sven, your servant, milady.” He answered, looking at her as if she had lost her mind. “Have you been drinking the strong mead again, milady?”

  “Mead?” She stared at him, her mind racing. A dream, she thought, it had to be a dream.

  “Yes, milady, mead.” The boy shook his head. “The chief won’t like this; he won’t, not before your wedding night.”

  “The chief?” She searched his face. “What wedding… where the hell am I?”

  The boy didn’t answer. He stiffened instead as a few more men arrived. Tall as oak trees and with hair as bright as gold and red as fire, the men stood before her. The largest one among them, also the oldest and fattest, with streaks of sliver in his yellow hair, looked down at her with his huge hands on his genero
us hips.

  “Jaska, my child.” The man said in a deep, gravelly voice. “Been sleeping out on the farm again, have you?”

  “Who are you?” She whispered; her eyes wide in fear.

  She looked at the two other men beside him. They were younger and their heavily muscled arms and legs bore many scars, crisscrossing over their hardened skin. All of them wore some form of boiled leather armor and carried huge swords.

  “Who am I?” The huge man bellowed and then threw back his head and guffawed. “Sven, you worthless rascal, you were supposed to keep her away from the strong mead, at least until the ceremony tonight.”

  “My apologies, Great Chief.” The boy bowed low. “But the cows… they needed my attention.”

  “Oh, off with you.” The big man roared, “…go back to your beloved cows.”

  “What the hell is going on? Is this some kind of reality trick TV show?” Rachel screamed, clenching her fists.

  “Hm, seems like the mead was stronger than usual.” The huge man grunted. “Jaska, your impudence will be justly rewarded, when you are wed to Harald the Hellborn this night…”

  “I’m not getting wed to anyone anytime,” She ground her teeth. “Who are you and what’s going on?”

  “Who am… I am you father, you drunken wench.” He lifted his hand as if to strike her and then reconsidered. “I will spare you; perhaps an ice cold bath in the lake will bring you to your rightful senses. Garv, Halthaf, bring her.”

  “My father?” Rachel stood transfixed as the two huge men grabbed each of her arms and dragged her off between them after the man who claimed to be her father.

  The next few hours were a whirlwind of activity she couldn’t get her mind to understand. The shock of the ice cold bath numbed her senses. She was in what looked like a village somewhere in the Arctic Circle. The daylight was very pale and the chill in the air clung to her bones. Several women had seized her suddenly, after her cold bath and quickly disrobed her and adorned her in strange clothing and jewelry. The women of the village told her of how lucky she was to be getting wedded to a powerful warrior and chief like Harald the Hellborn. The name alone sent shivers down her spine; she dreaded even meeting the man, let alone getting married to him.

  The fairground, the medieval fair, that fortune teller or whatever she was; Madam Griselda, this was all her doing. The thoughts raced around inside her mind as huge muscle-bound men and tall well built women reveled all around, with food and drink and raucous merriment.

  “I can believe it, this is a dream… it has to be.” Rachel said to herself. “I’m in some alternate reality, or this is some elaborate show… but I don’t think even Reginald will be bonkers enough to try a stunt like this will all his dad’s billions.”

  “Try this smoked reindeer, milady.” A voice broke her chain of thought.

  She looked at the young man holding a tray of steaming meat before her. It was Sven, the farm boy she met when she had woken up.

  “Sven, right?” She said to him. “Tell me what all this is; come on… tell me it’s some kind of bizarre game show.”

  ***

  “This is your wedding feast, milady.” Sven said, chewing on the meat. “It’s a great day for everyone… and look here comes Harald, the Hellborn.”

  Rachel turned to look in the direction he was pointing. A group of men arrived on horseback, riding right in to the middle of the courtyard of her new father’s house. They dismounted with a chorus of shouts and gestures and some aggressive chest bumping and back slapping. The man who said he was her father squared off with one of the new comers who was a tall and huge as him, but without the extra girth in the middle. He was a fearsome looking man, with red flowing hair and beard. Densely muscled arms bore scars and a few freakish tattoos. He wore no armor, only carried a huge sword on his back. That must be this Harald, she deduced.

  “Come, your bride awaits.” She heard her ‘father’ say and everyone looked in her direction.

  Rachel felt herself pressing back to the chair she was seated on, by reflex. The sight of the man approaching her was imposing enough to make her want to scream and run. As if by instinct she reached for a drinking horn and poured the pungent bitter-sweet liquid down her throat. The mead went down like fire inside her, making her body come alive. She shook her head and exhaled deeply. Harald the Hellborn stood a few feet before her, making his claim of her as his wife, with or without her consent.

  The ceremony was a brief one, with a rapid walk around a huge tree in the middle of the courtyard and all the people there chanting the sacred verses. The effect of the mead kept her unbalanced, providing her with enough intoxication to dampen the urge for reasoning. It was all a dream, she decided. Soon after she was off, bidding farewell to a father she barely knew for more than a few hours and going home with a husband she knew not at all.

  ***

  “All right, enough of this charade.” Rachel yelled after the horses had been lead away and she stood in the open courtyard of her husband’s house. “I say stop this production and let’s take a break… enough already.”

  “Ah, she is a spirited one, Harald.” One of the men standing next to the red haired giant laughed. “All the more covetous, she will be.”

  “Aye, Ogar, which is why I honored my pact with Balgar Jorgensen, Jeska is a woman bred for a chief of chiefs.” Harald had a big grin on his bearded face. “And her spirit must be taken through the rites fit for such a bride.”

  “Aye, Harald, none but the best for you.” Another huge man added, looking at her with open lust.

  “That’s why I am the chief, Angus.” Harald shook with mirth.

  “Well, it seems you guys take your acting pretty seriously around here, I’ll put in a good recommendation at the fair mismanagement for you all.” Rachel strolled up to the men, defiantly tossing her head. “Now tell me where I can find Madam Griselda, this has gone on far enough.”

  “We are just about to begin, my lovely bride.” Harald grinned, but stood his ground. “Come, the ritual must take place now.”

  “Aren’t you guys listening?” Rachel stamped her foot. “I want out of this. Exit, stage left. The show’s over, it’s in the can.”

  “Hm, mead makes her much too drunk, my chief.” Ogar laughed. “There’s not a word that she has so far said made any sense.”

  “Women are supposed to be jittery on their wedding night.” Angus snickered, eyeing her curves and licking his lips.

  “All the more reason to help her relax.” Harald clapped his hands and six more men appeared into the private courtyard.

  “No, what are you doing?” Rachel screamed as the burly men rounded on her.

  She kicked out at them as they seized her arms and legs. All six pairs of rough callused hands gripped her and lifted her high into the air. Rachel felt the wind rush out of her and the sudden weightlessness made her giddy. The six men extended their arms and held her high above their heads, chanting a strange hymn in low voices. She began to relax and her breathing returned to normal. A strange sense of longing filled her heart.

  This can’t be real, she thought. But it was, and she knew it. These were the kind of men she had adored, venerated and lust for, all her life. She had resigned to the fact that she would never find one, but now, her heard swam at the thought. Some how she had been transported back to a time and place she had always wanted to be. And men who lived by the sharpness of their swords and their wits alike filled the world, well, at least where she was.

  The six men lowered her on to a platform made of wood and leaves and covered with soft moss and furs. They stripped away her garments, leaving her naked to the eyes of the world. Instead of feeling dread, she felt strangely comfortable and wanted to be as she was. Everything around her was surreal and her body seemed to respond better to it all than her mind.

  “What’s the worst that could happen,” she thought, “… in a dream?”

  Rachel gasped out aloud and her back arched in reflex to the six pairs of hands t
hat roamed all over her naked body, kneading her soft resilient flesh, making her skin light up with sparks. The strong hands were gentle and loving, caressing her arms and legs, her quivering belly and her heaving breasts. They moved with practiced ease all over her, filling her with a ravenous need like she had never felt before.

  Suddenly she was lifted off the platform and made to lie face down. A strong scent of nectar filled her nostrils. Her body relaxed, succumbing to the twelve agile hands and their nimble fingers working their magic on her neck, back, buttocks and thighs. They massaged her with a sticky substance that felt warm on her skin; it felt good against the chill in the air. She was flipped over again and more of the sweet smelling unguent was smeared over her breasts and belly, her neck and her thighs. She felt her legs being parted, and did not resist, though her belly clenched.