Bride of Grendel 2: Night of the Bear Man: A Viking Lore Erotic Tale (Viking Lore Erotic Tales Book 3)

by Gwynn Jones

  "Grendel, my sweet... You know I have no love for Hrothgar or anyone else at Heorot. I do not mourn them, would not mourn them, no matter how many you killed. But I fear for you. I fear for us. I fear that this killing has gotten into your blood. I fear, if you continue at this pace, for what you may become."

  She felt him shift slightly beneath her. She looked up into his face. His eyes looked troubled, but she could not tell whether he understood what she was saying.

  "Do you understand me? Do you understand what I am asking? I want you to stop these attacks on Heorot. I fear that if you don't it will all end badly for everyone."

  He sighed, seemed to shrug his huge shoulders. He ran a clawed finger through her hair. She wondered if she could take this as a sign of acquiescence.

  "Mmm... Beautiful..." he murmured. Whether he understood or agreed or not, she could tell that he was changing the subject.

  Grendel did not heed her request. He waited several days — long enough for her to feel some hope that he had listened, that he had decided to stop. She had fallen asleep in his arms, satisfied and spent from his attentions, her thighs quivering and her clit still trilling from the play of his tongue upon it.

  He had covered every inch of her body with his touch, the gentle raking of his claws and rasp of his catlike tongue. He had worked interminably at her pussy and ass, probing and massaging, making her come again and again. When he had finally set to fucking her with his tremendous cock, she was like putty, like butter, melting around him. When he came, it was like they were one.

  But when she awoke later, sometime in the middle of the night, he was gone. She felt a chill run down her spine. Something in her gut told her to be afraid.

  She waited for him to return, her eyes never leaving the pool.

  When, hours later, he burst through the water, her heart leaped into her throat.

  His eyes were blazing. Red water dripped from him, clots of blood tangled in his fur. He bared his teeth, and his mouth was crimson. Sigrun felt a surge of nausea at the sight of hair and gobbets of flesh caught between his fangs. She got to her feet. He glared at her, and she could see no recognition, no intelligence at all, in his eyes — only frenzy. He roared, spitting carnage, and bounded toward her.

  She threw up her arms, crossed in front of her, as he hit her, smashing her back against the wall. He would have pinned her, his arm across her throat, had she not gotten her arms up to block him. The blast of his breath, the metallic tang of blood and a sweet smell of rot, was sickening. She felt his massive erection pressing against her, but she wasn't sure whether he intended to fuck her or tear her to pieces. He reached down to lift up her skirt. He wanted sex. But she knew that she couldn't trust him in this state not to kill her in the process. And she would not let him have her like this.

  "No, Grendel," she gasped, mustering all her strength, "No!" Somehow, with a burst of power, she pushed him away. He stumbled back several steps, surprised.

  "Grendel! Stop this!" She hoped that he would come to his senses, but his angry roar told her otherwise. He paused for mere seconds, a few heartbeats, before he was back upon her. She felt, in the first beat, at the sight of his blind rage, paralyzed with fear. She was going to die. She couldn't think. But then, her heart pounding in her ears, it was like everything suddenly slowed down, the seconds stretching out to give her time to react.

  She realized that her back was against the mighty sword that hung on the wall beside the fire. It was huge, surely it was too heavy for her even to lift, let alone pull it from its mount or wield it against a foe. But there was no time for these thoughts to even flicker through her head. She turned, she grasped the sword by the hilt, and she tore it from the wall. The blade flashed as she swung it out in front of her, holding it with both hands and pointing it directly at Grendel's chest as he lunged toward her. He stopped short, inches from impaling himself on the sword. She held it steady. He stepped back, his eyes focused and bright. Then he knelt down before her.

  Whether he knelt for her or for the sword or for the fact that she was holding the sword, she couldn't tell. Her heart was still racing. She didn't care. All that mattered was that she had stopped him, that she wasn't dead. And the sword, she realized, felt surprisingly good in her hands.

  "Go..." Her voice was hoarse, her breath ragged. "Go clean yourself, Grendel."

  He snorted softly. Head hanging, he left the hall, disappearing into one of the passages that led to the hot springs. Her legs were shaking. She thought she might collapse. She leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths to calm herself. Then she looked at the sword again. The blade gleamed. It was heavy, very heavy, and yet it felt natural in her grasp. She sliced it through the air in a wide, whistling arc. She switched from her two-handed grip to one, and it positively sang. "And to think," she marveled, "you've been waiting on the wall all this time. I think you've been waiting for me."

  She still wasn't sure what to do. She still had a pit in her stomach over Grendel. This couldn't continue. But she suddenly felt a bit safer, whatever came next.

  Sigrun knew that she had to leave.

  It was a wrenching thought. She had grown strangely fond of her life amongst the monsters, and she had hoped to somehow unlock the secrets of the hall. She was still growing even in her understanding of herself. And yet she knew that she was running out of time. Grendel was set on a path to destruction, and one of them was sure to die as a result. She may have thought her death was a certainty when she first became Hrothgar's sacrificial queen, but now she had changed her mind. She preferred to live. Nor did she want to kill her dear Grendel. She wasn't even sure if she could. But with the giant blade in her hands, she felt increasingly that it was a strong possibility.

  She had never practiced swordplay herself, but she had spent long hours while imprisoned at Heorot watching the warriors at practice. She had picked up a great deal of knowledge as a result, and now, with sword in hand, she found her body easily mimicking everything she had seen. She seemed to be a natural.

  So, she would equip herself and run away. She would run far away and somehow find something to do. Maybe there were other sea dragons waiting in some other haunted mere, who would gladly take her in. She chuckled at that thought. She had no trust for mankind, but she was sure she could find some wild place where she could get by.

  She began prowling the labyrinth of treasure chambers, searching for gear that would serve her. She felt a slight tremor of guilt at plundering the ancient hoard — was this thievery? And what of the sword? Was she wrong to make it hers? But, she reasoned to herself, consider this: Hrothgar had never given her a bridal gift. It was the price a husband was supposed to pay his wife to ensure her material security within her new home. Nor had Grendel, for that matter. A bride twice over, surely she was entitled to her security. So she would choose her gifts for herself.

  Her dress, heavy and cumbersome, would not do. She needed to be agile. She searched through the rooms for better attire, but all the leather she found was stiff and cracked with age, the fabrics likewise fragile from the passage of countless years. She was ready to give up hope and resign herself to her heavy skirts for the time being when she came upon a carved bone chest hidden in the corner of one of the armories, amongst a disorganized heap of helmets. A gorgeous, twisted-metal, wickedly sharp horn had caught her eye, and she was pulling out the helmet to which it belonged when she discovered the chest beneath.

  She caught her breath when she saw the contents, a full kit of gear — leggings, boots, tunic — fashioned from what looked for all the world like it must be dragon skin. It was a green so dark it was almost charcoal black, covered with tiny scales that faintly glistened. But would it, too, be ruined by age? She pulled out the light, hooded tunic and found it buttery-soft and supple. Depending on how the light hit it, the dark green became more charcoal, or silver, or even a sort of soft gray. This was otherworldly stuff, stuff that was meant to endure for eons. More miraculous still, the clothes and boots seemed t
o have been cut to fit a woman. She pulled them on, and it was like wearing a second skin. There were thicker, heavier cuffs for her arms and upper legs, a belt — with a dagger! A slim, light, wicked-looking dagger — and a sort of light breastplate, also of the same material, layered and fused, to buckle around her waist and chest.

  "Mysteries upon mysteries," she murmured, delighted with her outfit, "have you been waiting for me, too? I think we're meant for one another."

  Properly outfitted, with dagger, helm, and sword, she was nearly ready. She found a scabbard that would allow her to carry the great sword, too big to keep at her side, on her back. Her old cloak would suit her until she found something better. She constructed a small pack and some pouches to hang from her belt and filled them with gold coins and jewels. It was not so much to overburden her, and nothing, an unnoticeable theft, in comparison to the heaps of treasure from which it came, but even a single handful would have been enough to make her a wealthy woman. This would make her a very, very wealthy woman. Perhaps she would buy herself a ship and go a'viking...

  Now to get away. Should she fear Grendel's interference? She wanted to slip away without his knowledge and hoped that he would not give chase when he realized she was gone. She suspected, hoped, that he was too attached to this place to leave it. She suspected as well that he was too far gone to even miss her very much. She had not seen him for days. She had briefly caught sight of him shortly after their terrible encounter. He had cleaned off the gore and was sitting, slumped, dejected-seeming, at the table in the great hall. She had felt pity for him, wanted to go to him and comfort him, forgive him his attack. But when he looked up and saw her, saw the sword still in her hand, he scowled. When she spoke his name he growled in response, baring his teeth. She had retreated to the maze of rooms and corridors after that.

  She had not left the cave for days, either. It was hard to tell time underground, but she trusted that her internal sense of day and night had not gotten too skewed yet. Grendel went out prowling at night and generally returned early in the morning. She would be best off trying to leave shortly thereafter, while he was asleep, and when she had most of the day to cover ground quickly while there was light. She had gathered everything that the hall could offer that would be of use to her. As a child she had developed strong woodsman's skills. Once above ground, she would fashion a bow and arrows for hunting, and she knew how to forage until she was able to hunt.

  She would sleep here one last night, and then she would make her escape. She was tired, and she had eaten very little in the past few days, too intent on avoiding Grendel and making her plans. She bedded down in a small, secure room that was close to the main hall. She wanted quick access to the exit, and she hoped that she would be able to hear when Grendel returned. She kept her sword unsheathed by her side. And then she fell asleep.

  Exhaustion made Sigrun sleep deeply, but at some point in the middle of the night, she was jolted awake. The cobwebs of sleep cleared quickly enough, blasted away by an awful bloodcurdling noise, but she struggled to understand what she was hearing.

  She finally realized that it was howling. A terrible howling sound coming from the hall, a sound of pure pain and anguish, that made her hair stand on end. Was it Grendel? What had happened to him? She stood up. She hesitated. Grendel was dangerous. Could it be a trick? Or was he hurt? Or was he angry? Was it something else?

  The howl was growing weaker. What if someone needed her help? She regretted that she had not already changed into her dragonskin attire. It would have afforded her more protection. With her skirts pulled up in one hand and her sword held in the other, she slipped from the room and moved cautiously toward the hall.

  She stopped in the shadow of the doorframe, afraid to walk into any surprises. The howling had died down into eerie silence. She couldn't see anyone from here. She could see the pool and the puddles of wetness from someone's recent emergence. The wet spots were dark, though. Very dark. And there was a great deal of wetness. It did not look like water. It looked like something else.

  Sigrun shuddered. It looked like blood. And more of it than Grendel had ever brought back on him before. There was a trail of it leading toward the hearth, but from her vantage she could not see where it ended. Part of her wanted to slink away, to creep quietly back to her room. But this hall was her exit. She would have to come back through here if she wanted to leave. There was nothing to be done about it. She took a deep breath and stepped into the hall, sword raised.

  First making sure that Grendel was not lying in wait for her on either side of the doorway, she turned her attention to the hearth. The gruesome sight that met her eyes made her grip fail and sent her sword clattering to the floor.

  Grendel sat slumped against the wall in a pool of his own blood. She gasped and choked back a sob. Grendel, so impervious to any and all weapons ever used against him, seemed entirely unwounded, not a bruise or a scratch on him, with the sole, ghastly exception that one of his arms was completely gone. It looked like it had been pulled from the socket. Blood continued to seep from the hole, and Sigrun shuddered at the thought of how far Grendel must have come, bleeding so profusely from such an injury. This was not the doing of the sea dragons. No beasts in the woods could have hurt him so. No, this must have happened at Heorot.

  She must stop the bleeding. She grabbed up her blade and thrust it into the fire. The flames flared up white and green and silver at the touch of the sword, but she barely noticed. She needed to heat the metal to cauterize the wound. Grendel's breath was shallow, rasping. He had not even lifted his head at her approach. She straddled him, pressing her arm against his chest to try to hold him still. It would be excruciating when he felt the burn of the hot steel.

  "Grendel." She felt tears sliding down her cheeks. "Grendel, my sweet, I must help you, I must stop the bleeding." His flesh hissed when she applied the blade, and the acrid smell of burnt hair and seared skin and blood stung her nostrils and made her stomach turn, but she continued until she had sealed the wound. He howled again with pain, but she did not need to hold him down. He was too weak to move, and this realization made her tears run afresh.

  She dropped the sword to the floor and wrapped her arms around his chest. He had lost so much blood. He felt cold. His heartbeat, always so strong and steady, was slow and faint. She must warm him. She pressed herself against him, willing her own warmth into him. He lifted his hand and ran his claws through her hair.

  "Hmm... Beautiful." His voice was a low growl, barely a whisper.

  "Rest, my dear thing. You'll be fine. You just need to rest."

  But he was dying, and she knew it. She kissed his cheeks, caressed his brow, held him tightly while he continued to fade. She continued holding him long after his heartbeat became too faint to feel, long after he sighed out his last breath. She held him while his body grew cold and stiff. She soaked his chest with her tears.

  When she finally roused herself, her thoughts were reeling. She had known that his violent turn would end badly. She had thought that it would end in him killing her, or her killing him. She had not imagined that anyone or anything else could have done him in. Certainly no one at Heorot. Hrothgar did not deserve this victory. Hrothgar should have left long, long ago, and none of this ever would have happened. Her sorrow turned into rage. Her need to escape was replaced by a burning need for revenge.

  Hrothgar must pay.

  Sigrun had thought that she would never return to Heorot. She scowled at it now from the edge of the woods, marking the pattern of the watchmen who circled the perimeter. Hrothgar's fabled hall was only the centerpiece of a larger compound, a stronghold on an elevated ring, circled by thick, sloping turf walls which were themselves surrounded and topped by fences of sharply pointed wooden stakes. The high fence was a newer addition, a futile measure against Grendel. What a shame, she thought, remembering long hours spent staring out the small window of her turf prison-hut; the newest fortifications surely blocked the view of the woods.

  Th
ere were few guards on watch, and Sigrun could hear sounds of merrymaking coming from the hall. She had followed the trail of Grendel's blood to confirm that this was where he had suffered that terrible, life-ending wound; the denizens of Heorot probably thought they had no further need for vigilance, now that the monster was beaten. She gritted her teeth at their celebrations. She would show them that they were not safe yet.

  Her dragon skin garb blended with the shadows, and she had smeared her face with dark soil. She had braided and wrapped her bright, silver-white hair, so that other than the flash of her eyes and the faint metallic glint of her helmet, she was nearly invisible if she kept out of the light. She easily vaulted over the perimeter fence, scaled the steep turf slope, and pulled herself up and over the interior wall. Her physical abilities had long since surpassed those of any mere human. Whatever it was that she had become as Grendel's bride, she was not one to be repelled by the puny safety measures of common men. She kept to the shadows of the outbuildings, but the compound seemed almost deserted. Clearly everyone had gathered in the hall.

  As she drew near the mead hall, she stifled a sob. Grendel's arm had been nailed up on the wall above the front entrance door. Her rage surged.

  Thick, slanted beams extended from the heavily shingled golden roof all the way to the ground, creating a sort of shaded gallery along the sides of the mead hall. Sigrun darted across the open space to the shelter of the beams and moved from there along the wall to the entrance vestibule. There was little need to be quiet, since the music and laughter within would have obscured even the noisiest of intrusions, but she did not want to be seen. She slipped into the vestibule and was relieved to find it empty. From here, she thought she could pull herself up into the roof beams and get a view of the interior hall. The revelers were unlikely to be peering too intently into the shadows above their heads.