‘I never think about it.’ He gave a soft growl as she touched his cock, sliding her hands teasingly up and down the shaft, stroking the velvety pouch of his balls.
‘You should,’ she said, leaning forwards to kiss his belly. ‘What if a dispute were to arise between Ragnor and an opposing warlord? The man might kidnap Rianna, and my brother would be forced to do battle to recover what was his.’
‘Such action might well start a war,’ Jorvik said, seeming more interested in what she was doing with her hands than their conversation.
‘And if Ragnor were killed in the battle, you would be forced to take command of his forces, perhaps eventually become lawspeaker yourself?’
‘Surely you do not wish your brother dead?’ he asked, twisting his lips in disgust.
‘Of course I do not, Jorvik,’ she insisted. ‘I just wondered what would happen if such a terrible tragedy should occur. I love my brother in ways you’ll never know.’
‘And he deserves your full loyalty,’ Jorvik replied as she climbed astride his chest, wriggling her pert buttocks teasingly.
‘Pleasure me,’ she demanded. ‘How I showed you before.’ She inched her hips backwards until her pussy was poised temptingly over his face.
‘I told you, I find this demeaning,’ he grumbled. Yet earlier, when she’d first introduced him to pleasuring a woman with his mouth, Niska was certain that despite his complaints he had enjoyed the experience.
‘Don’t deny me what I want,’ she purred, pressing her sodden quim against his lips. ‘For I’ll deny you also,’ she teased.
His tongue wriggled between her swollen lips and probed her sensitive channel. Niska sighed. Jorvik’s first attempt had been clumsy and unskilled but still arousing. She kissed his cock, wrapping her lips around it and sucking hard, encouraging it to grow. She toyed with the sensitive organ while her fingers stroked and teased the soft sack of his balls. Gradually she pulled his long member into her mouth, until it hit the back of her throat. Fighting the urge to wretch, she continued sucking and licking the shaft, while Jorvik’s mouth roughly worked her pussy.
As he pushed his questing tongue into her cunt, and flicked it over her clit, Niska could feel her orgasm beginning to build inside her. It crested and broke like a huge wave when Jorvik unexpectedly thrust a finger deep into her anus. As she came, Jorvik climaxed, his creamy spunk spurting deep into her throat. Then, before she’d even recovered, there was a loud knocking on Jorvik’s door.
‘Yes,’ he growled, pushing Niska roughly aside as if she were no better than the lowest slave.
‘Lord Ragnor commands your presence, sir, in the great hall,’ a man’s voice shouted through the thick wood.
‘One moment.’ Jorvik leaped from the bed and began to fling on his clothes.
Totally ignoring Niska he finished dressing and left the room. Jorvik was a boorish oaf who needed to be taught some manners, Niska thought irritably, as she dressed and dragged a bone comb through her pale locks. It was not often that the jarls were summoned so unexpectedly; something of great importance had obviously occurred.
Filled with curiosity, she hurried towards the gathering place, surprised to find that there was a warrior on guard at the door, which led from the private family quarters into the great hall. ‘What is happening?’ she asked.
‘A stranger arrived at our gates boldly demanding to see Lord Ragnor. He insists he has something of great importance to offer us, yet he is a foreigner, who cannot even speak our tongue. They are bringing him here at once. Lord Ragnor will decide the fool’s fate.’
As the warrior opened the door for her Niska caught sight of Ragnor, not lounging on his throne as usual but sitting bolt upright as befitting the ruler he was. Jorvik stood to his right, and Rianna stood just behind the throne to Ragnor’s left. To Niska’s consternation Rianna was no longer wearing white, as a thrall should, instead she had on a magnificent green velvet gown that matched the colour of her eyes. However, her face was pale and her expression tense, as if something momentous was about to occur.
Few foreigners ventured into Vestfold, and they were mainly mercenaries seeking employment. No man in his right mind would dare come here and demand to speak to Ragnor, not unless he was mad, foolish, or very brave, Niska thought as she moved into the room. There was a small group of jarls clustered behind Ragnor. She edged between them, ignoring their irritated glances, until she was standing only a few feet away from her brother and could see all that was happening.
She caught her breath as she saw two guards leading a tall dark man forwards. He didn’t appear at all fearful or nervous as he shook off their hands and bowed to the throne. ‘Greetings, Lord Ragnor.’
His voice sent shivers down Niska’s spine, and she could hardly believe her eyes. She could understand now why Rianna had looked so strained. Either it was a ghost that had assumed corporeal form or Sarin was far from dead!
‘Who are you? What gives you the right to demand entrance to my stronghold?’ Ragnor said in the loud booming voice he employed on such auspicious occasions.
‘Lord Sarin of Percheron at your service,’ Sarin boldly announced, staring Ragnor in the eye as only one who considered himself equal could.
‘Sarin?’ Ragnor repeated in amazement. ‘I thought you were dead.’ He looked questioningly at Rianna.
‘Tis he,’ she confirmed in an unsteady voice, never tearing her gaze from Sarin.
Niska heard the warriors around her speaking in hushed tones, those who understood translating for those who did not.
‘Lately escaped from Freygard,’ Sarin informed Ragnor. ‘Queen Danara reported me dead, slain by bandits, but at the time I was her prisoner. Lady Rianna knew full well I was alive, but it did not suit her purpose to reveal that fact as she was determined to legalise her adulterous relationship with King Tarn of Kabra.’ He smiled cynically. ‘I regret coming to you, Lord Ragnor, without the necessary pomp and circumstance. Unfortunately, I find my situation somewhat lacking at present. My people have been told I perished and a usurper sits upon my throne.’
Sarin was not foolhardy, and he did not appear to have lost his mind, yet Niska couldn’t understand why he had come to Ragnor alone and unprotected. Strangely enough he appeared quite composed and unafraid as he looked thoughtfully at Ragnor and his followers. When he caught sight of Niska, however, his lips twisted in the semblance of a smile.
‘Why do you come here, Sarin?’ Ragnor asked, not even affording the former monarch the respect of his title. ‘For your wife, mayhap?’ he asked, grabbing hold of Rianna’s hand and pulling her close.
‘My wife?’ Sarin gave a harsh laugh. ‘Which one? They are both here.’
‘Both?’ Ragnor frowned.
Niska had never bothered to inform Ragnor she was once married to Sarin, as it had seemed unimportant when she thought him dead. Also she would have been obliged to explain that Sarin set her aside when he took Rianna as his wife and that would have been demeaning.
‘Your sister, and of course Rianna, although Niska was only a secondary wife,’ Sarin said, pursing his lips. ‘Clearly neither placed much importance on the union, especially Lady Rianna.’ He shrugged his shoulders dismissively. ‘Perhaps I’m well rid of them both, Lord Ragnor. I’ve nothing of substance to offer any woman at present, other than myself.’
‘Yet you still have rights to them both?’ Ragnor growled, glaring furiously at Niska, then back at Sarin as he played pointedly with the dagger at his waist.
‘Rights I am only too happy to forego,’ Sarin said quickly. ‘Your sister makes her own choices and who can blame the noble lady. While you’re welcome to Rianna. She deserted me, cuckolded me, ran off with my worst enemy. She ceased being my wife the moment she entered into her adulterous relationship with Tarn. She’s yours, Lord Ragnor, to do with as you will.’
Judging by Ragnor’s expression he rather resented the magnanimous gesture. ‘If you did not come to claim what was once yours, then why did you come?’ he asked cu
rtly. ‘Would it not have been wiser to return to Percheron and lay claim to your throne?’
‘Indeed it would, but circumstances prevented me,’ Sarin replied with a heavy sigh. ‘I could explain all, if you would find the time to listen. Also I wish to ask for your aid.’
‘Aid,’ Ragnor repeated in amazement. ‘Why should I even consider helping you, Sarin? We are strangers to each other. Percheron and Vestfold have never been allies. I see no reason to give you aid, no reason at all.’
‘You’ll find a reason soon enough,’ Sarin said confidently. ‘Especially as I have something to give you in return,’ he confided with a sly grin. ‘Something which will please you greatly, no doubt. Dismiss your men and we can discuss the matter in private.’
Tarn lay wrapped in both his cloak and a blanket, staring up at the star-spattered sky, willing dawn to come and with it a little warmth. Moonlight filled the snowy clearing, and it was a beautiful sight, but the cold clawed its way into his limbs and every few minutes he had to move to stop his extremities from growing numb. There were no fires here to warm them, no tents to shelter them from the bitter cold. They were close to Ragnor’s stronghold and had to be ready to move at a moment’s notice.
Around him some of the soldiers were snoring and Tarn wondered how they could sleep in such conditions. He must be growing weak, he thought, as he glanced towards the trees ringing the small clearing. One of the guards was sitting against a tree-trunk, and looked to have fallen asleep. His head was lolling forwards and his sword had slipped from his frozen grasp.
Tarn stood up anxiously, stamping his numbed feet, hearing in the distance the howl of a lone wolf calling to its mate. He walked across the freshly fallen snow, intending to berate the sleeping guard. Suddenly he heard a faint crackle and saw dark figures start to emerge from the trees creeping menacingly towards the sleeping men. In his mind Tarn saw daggers flash in the moonlight, the blood of his soldiers flowing, spreading like scarlet blossom across the white snow.
‘Jentius! Faros!’ he yelled, drawing his sword. ‘We’re under attack!’
Tarn ran towards the dark figures as they pounced on his men, before they were even fully awake, let alone had a chance to struggle. Some of the attackers were tall blond northmen. Others were the feared Berserkers, their bare bodies decorated by strange patterns, their only garments wolfskins wrapped around their waists.
Lunging at one group, Tarn swung his sword in a shining arc, slashing and cutting at the attackers. Blade clashed against blade, the sharp metallic sound reverberating through the clearing. One huge Berserker gave a maniacal laugh, swinging his huge sword at Tarn. He parried the blow, his muscles straining under the weight of the attack. As they struggled, their blades locked in mortal combat, the Berserker stared Tarn full in the face. Muttering something, he anxiously drew back, stepping away from Tarn, appearing unwilling to continue the fight.
There were many more to contend with, Tarn thought, as, keeping his balance with catlike skill, he turned and parried another blow from a northman. Tarn slashed aside the attacker’s sword, cutting through flesh and bone. Warm blood sprayed his face as he fought like a man possessed. Yet even as he advanced on the enemy they tried to back away from him, parrying his thrusts and darting aside to avoid his angry blows.
Frustratedly he swung round, seeing even more men stream into the clearing, their heads covered by helms decorated with horns. His men were outnumbered more than five to one, and had little chance of survival. He saw a huge northman, just about to slam his axe into Jentius’s back. ‘Jentius,’ Tarn yelled, leaping forwards, his blade biting into the attacker’s arm.
The northman screamed as he dropped his axe and backed away, clutching his bloody, near-severed limb. Grabbing the axe, Tarn swung round, determined to try and protect his men until he’d breathed his last breath. He heard fearful cries, saw figures dart about like rats, as a number of his soldiers tried desperately to escape but they were ringed by the enemy and could do nothing but stand and fight to the death.
‘By the gods, kill me too,’ Tarn screamed as he hacked at the attackers with axe and sword, but as he forged bravely forwards they all drew back as if fearful of challenging him.
Faros, Jentius and the men still standing, retreated, clustering together in a group in the centre of the clearing, while Tarn strode round them, wildly swinging his weapons, taunting their assailants, daring them to fight, but still they all seemed reluctant to do battle with him.
‘Damn you,’ he yelled as every one, Berserker or northman drew back at his approach. ‘Cowards! Fight me!’
By now they ringed the clearing three or four men deep, yet they still made no attempt to touch Tarn or charge the remaining men. ‘Surrender and no more need die,’ said a gruff voice.
Tarn had no wish to surrender. He had been selfish enough to force these men to follow him into Vestfold and risk their lives to save Rianna. If anyone should die in this frozen land it should be him. ‘And if I don’t?’ he challenged, pointing his sword at the man who had spoken.
‘Then we’ll kill every one of your men, but not you,’ the man replied. ‘Lord Ragnor wants you alive, King Tarn.’
Tarn knew there was no decision to be made, the bitterness of defeat soured his mouth as he lowered his sword.
This was not the way he had planned to enter Ragnor’s stronghold, Tarn thought, as he plodded through the wide gates. He had been stripped of his armour and weapons, left wearing only boots and breeches, his hands tied behind his back. It was a chill morning, but he was immune to the cold now as he was led deeper and deeper into Ragnor’s lair.
Oddly enough there was no hatred or resentment in the eyes of Ragnor’s followers as he was led past them, just a grudging respect. All warriors, friends or enemies, were revered in Vestfold.
‘Faster,’ one of his captors growled as he shoved Tarn in the back, almost making him lose his footing. ‘Lord Ragnor is waiting.’
‘My men?’ Tarn asked the tall brown-haired warrior to his right, the man who he’d been forced to surrender to. ‘How many of them are dead?’
‘Less than you think,’ he said in a thick guttural accent. ‘We had orders to take as many as we could alive.’
‘Why?’ Tarn asked, relieved that some had survived.
‘They are worth far more to us alive than dead. We are always in need of new thralls,’ he added, grinning.
Instead of leading his men into death, he had led them into slavery, Tarn thought. By now Rianna was most probably Ragnor’s slave and, instead of rescuing her as he hoped, he would join her in bondage. Would Ragnor try to ransom him he wondered? He knew that many Kabran nobles would be willing to part with what wealth they had managed to retain to ransom their king. But the thought of the sacrifices they would be forced to make in the process made him feel even more guilty.
Someone must have told Ragnor where he and his men were. They’d been captured like rats in a trap. That someone could only be the weasel Sarin. But how could he have brought himself to betray his own soldiers? He should never have chanced trusting Sarin, even for a moment. He was the scum of the earth, Tarn thought bitterly, as he was led through the gates towards Ragnor’s longhouse.
He was escorted into the hall of the longhouse, and led towards the throne where a tall man, with hair almost as pale as Niska’s, sat. When he saw Tarn approaching he grinned in a sickeningly self-satisfied way. ‘King Tarn,’ Ragnor acknowledged sarcastically. ‘What brings you to my lands?’
‘You know full well,’ Tarn replied coldly. ‘Your bitch of a sister. She kidnapped my betrothed.’
‘Rianna is no longer yours. Forget her,’ Ragnor snapped curtly. ‘Now she is mine.’ He snapped his fingers and Rianna stepped forwards looking as gloriously beautiful as ever and, to Tarn’s relief, unharmed. She was dressed in an elaborate gown, with a barbarous gold ornament hung around her neck. As she looked at Tarn with anguished eyes her face drained of colour, yet she did not speak. ‘The lady has consented to mar
ry me,’ Ragnor announced.
‘Now that I have given up all rights to her myself.’ Sarin stepped into view, not dressed as Tarn had last seen him in clothing fit only for a mercenary. He was now clean-shaven and clad in fine garments of fine wool and velvet, reminding Tarn of the monarch Sarin had once been.
‘I thought you were the traitor. You son of a cur,’ Tarn grated, lunging threateningly forwards, desperate to throttle Sarin. ‘I’ll kill you!’ The guards pulled Tarn back and roughly forced him to his knees in front of Ragnor and Sarin.
‘I had no choice, Tarn,’ Sarin said calmly, appearing unmoved by Tarn’s loathing. ‘You’ll come to understand that in the fullness of time,’ Sarin added, glancing at Rianna.
Her green eyes filled with hatred for a brief moment, then she turned away from him and stared entreatingly at Tarn. He knew then that she still loved him no matter what, and he also knew he could bear her no ill will for whatever she had been forced to do in order to survive.
‘You should be slithering on your belly, like the snake you are, Sarin,’ Tarn spat. ‘Not masquerading as a man. How could I ever . . .’ He shook his head. ‘May the gods strike me down for trusting you.’
‘They do not appear to want you dead, Tarn. Why else would you be kneeling here before me, instead of lying in the snow, your lifeless body stiff and turning black in the icy cold.’
‘When I’m free I’ll kill you with my bare hands,’ Tarn growled.
Sarin seemed amused by the empty threat as he turned to look enquiringly at Ragnor.
‘Have the prisoner taken to the cell that has been prepared for him,’ Ragnor ordered. ‘Ensure any wounds he has are properly tended. I want him to remain in good health.’ He chuckled. ‘He is worth a king’s ransom, is he not?’
Niska was wishing that Chang would return soon as she left the refuge of her room, as she always felt so much more secure when he was around. Sarin’s unexpected appearance had unsettled her, especially as Ragnor had been so ready to welcome him into the longhouse as an honoured guest.
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