Dye's Kingdom: Wanting It Forever

by Madison Hayes

  Sending his army on ahead, under the command of his Senior Lieutenant, he’d only just caught up with his men. Normally, he’d have accompanied his army, despite their slow rate of travel, but complications at home had kept him from setting out with his troops.

  Dye sighed. At the same time he’d received Amdahl’s request for help, there had been rumblings and threats from Vandaland in the north. He snorted. No surprise there. Damn Vandals.

  Well aware of the dangers involved in fighting battles on two separate fronts, he’d bought the Vandals off with a contract. A shrewd move on his part. One that might finally put an end to a hundred years of animosity, not to mention at least a thousand deaths every year—those deaths the result of border skirmishes for which the Vandals were largely to blame. He’d drawn up the contract himself, and signed it. Dye shrugged. The yellow-haired Vandal princess was nice enough to look at. She’d make as good a wife as any other woman.

  Nodding to himself, he stared at the canvas ceiling then shook his head again, palming the front of his leggings as he did so.

  Chapter Two

  The king’s tent was silent as Martigay was ushered through the opening, stopping just inside. He was seated at the head of a long, light, folding table, his many officers filling out the sides. Saluting him with a closed fist, Martigay awaited his command.

  Leaning back in his chair, Dye gave the pawyn a long, appraising stare. “Thank you for reporting, soldier. I have a task that requires some special talent…and you came immediately to mind.” At that, he paused. “I would have my boots cleaned.”

  She felt—actually felt—red anger climb her neck and paint her cheeks. “Yes, sir,” she answered. Scanning the room, she located a shining pair of boots next to a closed trunk.

  “With your tongue.”

  Martigay’s eyes closed to slits as her head tilted and she regarded the King of Thrall. Then she was moving. A few rapid steps moved her around the thick tent post supporting the pavilion and placed her before the king. Dropping to her knees, she pushed his knees apart. Her angry eyes connected with his for an instant before she lowered her head between his legs and put her tongue on top of his knee-high boots.

  “Not these boots!”

  She raised her head. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, but it sounded more like a threat than an apology.

  “The black pair, there against the trunk.”

  She didn’t move. “But, My Lord. The black pair is clean. Here is where my tongue will be most useful. If his Lordship would just spread his knees,” she grated as she jabbed her elbows against the inside of his thighs, “I’ll give these the licking they deserve!”

  Behind her, she heard a muffled whine of suppressed laughter and glanced up to see Dye glare across the table at one of his lieutenants.

  “Why,” he almost shouted, “do you have so much trouble following orders, soldier? I would have the black boots polished.”

  Her fingers tightened to clutch the muscles above his knees as she pushed herself up and away. “As you say, sir.” Crossing the room, Martigay swept one of the boots from the floor. Ten officers watched her tongue lick out of her mouth as she nestled the boot between her fabulous breasts.

  “Continue your report, Marcan,” Dye ordered as his patience began to fray.

  But all ten of the king’s officers were staring at the woman who stood behind their leader. Small moans of pleasure issued from her throat as she ran her tongue down the long, glistening surface of the shining boot.

  Dye’s shoulders knotted as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. When he opened them again, he found his youngest lieutenant slack-jawed and staring beyond his left shoulder. “Marcan! Your report.”

  His lieutenant shook himself and continued his report in a distracted monotone, his attention fixed elsewhere. And Dye knew exactly where his attention was fixed. Dye’s fist tightened as the girl’s moans and sighs increased in volume. In the middle of Marcan’s broken monologue, he stood abruptly and whipped around to face his pawyn. “Thank you, soldier. That will do.”

  Slowly, Martigay leaned over to return the boot to the ground. The low scoop of her simple jerkin fell open and every man on the left side of the table craned forward to watch her descent. She straightened with a sharp snap, suddenly the soldier again. “Yes, sir. Anything else you want cleaned, sir?”

  His fists bunched at his sides and he shook his head. “You’re dismissed,” he gritted out in three separate syllables.

  Her stance relaxed as she began her sauntering exit. “No? Sure you don’t want your bollocks polished? Your testes tasted?” She threw him a final arch look. “Let me know if you have any further use for my…talents,” she suggested just before she disappeared through the open flaps of the tent.

  As Dye stood staring at the tent’s exit, several of his lieutenants coughed loudly, their hands covering their mouths and their eyebrows pinched together. With his knuckle, Lieutenant Greegor wiped at the corner of one eye as Dye dropped back into his chair. For a long time he just stared at the door while his lieutenants caught their breaths.

  At last, his most senior officer, Lieutenant Greegor, spoke up. “If she can do that to a man’s boots—with her tongue…I wonder what she might do…with a little polish.” His voice trailed away as he caught the king’s expression.

  Lieutenant Marcan, like the king, still stared at the door. Having missed the king’s expression, he cleared his throat. “Do you suppose she likes flowers?”

  Greegor nodded. “If you’re thinking to impress the young woman, the way to that girl’s heart is through her horse,” he volunteered. “What’s she call him?”

  “Scarface.”

  Dye’s eyes swung around to the officer who had named her mount. “Lieutenant Prithan. Has she been a discipline problem before?”

  “Sir!” The man seemed surprised by the question. “She’s in my unit. Captain…Pawyn Martigay has never been any kind of a problem. She’s hard-working, dedicated, very ambitious, sir.”

  “Ambitious.” The king’s word hung there in the air and everyone understood its meaning. “How ambitious?”

  Quickly, the officer shook his head. “Not like that, sir. Not at all. At least,” the man smiled, “I never got that lucky.” Lieutenant Prithan glanced around the table, almost furtively. Most of the men were smiling but giving nothing away.

  “Gentlemen?” the king inquired in a soft, edgy voice.

  One by one, each man shook his head.

  “Is that a problem, sir?” one of his officers ventured carefully, “because there’s a woman in the archers and we…”

  “Your relationships are your own business,” the king said shortly. “But they shouldn’t be mixed with a soldier’s advancement. Make sure you keep your personal relationships separate from your work.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The officer hesitated before continuing. “Sir, several of the women have expressed an interest in…meeting you, sir.”

  “I’ll remind you I’m to be wed to the Princess Bruthinia,” he said in a voice like ice floes locking. “We’ll leave it at that.”

  * * * * *

  Martigay whistled—two short bursts and one long. From a distance came an answering whinny. Moments later a small paint stallion was cantering through camp, weaving through the tents toward his mistress. Martigay rubbed his nose with her closed fist, teasing him with the oats she held wrapped inside her small hand. “Hey boy,” she murmured. “Check out the new little gray?”

  Scarface threw his head with a snort, nosing at her fist.

  “What?! What’s wrong with her?” Martigay turned to where the mare stood. “So she’s got a spotty ass. Like you’re such a prize.” She slapped the paint’s rump. “She’s just your size.”

  The paint nudged his head against Martigay’s face, took hold of her braid and tugged it as he backed up a few steps.

  “Stop that,” she chided as the horse pulled her face around. “Oh,” she said, staring at a long, leggy bay. “Well, you’re
ambitious, aren’t you?” She cocked her head. “Dresses a bit sluttishly, don’t you think?”

  Letting go of the braid, the horse swung his head vigorously.

  Martigay sighed. “You’re right. It’s a beautiful saddle.” Wistfully, she gazed at the ruddy leather harness that must have cost at least five gold. Curling scrolls of silver were inset on the saddlebow. “You’d look good in it, boy. It’d match your eyes perfectly.” Opening her hand, she let her horse pick the grain out of her palm. “Well, good luck with the mare, Scarface. But I’m warning you, if you want that one, you’re going to have to bring her to her knees…just to mount her.”

  A flash of light at the king’s tent drew her attention, just as Pall scuffed across the clearing to join her.

  Half of the king’s Royal Guard, traditionally made up of Thralls, was reporting for duty. Twenty-five of the small, pale men marched to their station, pink eyes fixed in the chalk-white of their faces. The Thralls’ captain marched separately from the guards’ ranks and, as he moved, the light was caught and reflected on the many gold bands he wore on his long arms.

  Pall looked at Martigay, her eyes fixed across the clearing. His gaze followed hers to the king’s tent. “What’s up?” he asked, as Dye ducked out of the tent.

  “Why does the king keep a Thrallish guard?” Martigay asked, her eyes on the redhead.

  “Tradition,” Pall answered. “Morghan started it—to honor the people of Thrall.” He shrugged. “Morghan was no fool. He must have looked like a giant when he was surrounded by his Thrallish guard.”

  “From what I’ve heard, Morghan would have been a giant next to any man.”

  “That’s probably true,” Pall agreed. “And it’s not as though Morghan needed a guard. He could take on a small army alone, without breaking a sweat. On the other hand,” Pall mused, “though Thralls aren’t large, they’re reliable if somewhat inflexible. They’ll follow an order to the death.” Pall smiled at Martigay, whose eyes were fixed on the tall red-haired king. Leaning toward her, he whispered in her ear, “You’re staring.”

  She lifted her chin a fraction, in the king’s direction. “Those doeskins appear to have seen rough trade. You’d think the king could afford a new pair.”

  “You’d think so,” Pall agreed.

  “Wonder what he’s got under those leggings.”

  “Martigay! If you need a man, I’ll be more than happy to—”

  She snorted in response, squinting at the king as he shared a few words with his captain. “Do you think that was a smile?” she asked Palleden.

  “Hard to say,” he returned stingily, disinclined to encourage her interest in the king.

  A slight breeze tugged at her hair. Absently, she pulled a few strands from her mouth as she watched the breeze riff through the king’s straight mane of polished copper. As his hair moved, the sun put streaks of fire into the sheet of hair he wore pushed behind his ears.

  “Wonder what that mouth looks like when it smiles.”

  “Thought you were mad at him.”

  “Furious,” she answered absently. “I’d like to get him in bed. Show him a thing or two.”

  Pall fixed his eyes pointedly on her chest. “And you’re just the girl for the job.”

  She laughed. “Going down to watch the race?”

  “Maybe. How about you?”

  “I’m in it.”

  “How fair is that?” Pall protested.

  Martigay shrugged. “I’m giving the others a lead of fifty paces.”

  “You going to win?”

  “You know Scarface.”

  Pall nodded. The little stallion couldn’t bear for another horse to lead him. Reaching for his pouch, he clinked out several coins and then closed his fist on the handful of silver. “My money’s on you, then,” he said, backing away from her.

  But her eyes had returned to the red-haired king.

  “It’s bent,” he threw at her as he withdrew.

  “What?”

  “Rumor is—it’s bent,” he said again, grinning at her.

  Martigay shook her head, her eyes narrowing on the retreating figure of her friend. Raising her shoulders, she shook her head at him. “What’s bent?”

  Pall motioned toward the king in the distance. “You wanted to know what he had under his doeskins,” he reminded her with a laugh.

  Martigay’s jaw dropped suddenly as she slowly turned to stare at the king. Behind her, she heard the receding sound of Pall’s amusement.

  “Like a bow!” he chortled from a distance “Only, from what I understand, your hand would be a bit small for the grip.”

  Chapter Three

  On the bluff above the valley, Dye pulled his mount to a stop as he frowned at the crowd of milling horses on the open floor below. “What’s going on?” Twisting in his saddle, he put the question to his lieutenant, Greegor.

  “Looks like a race, sir.”

  In the valley below, horses and men crowded and jostled together as the riders struggled to keep their impatient mounts pointed in the right direction. As Dye watched, there must have been some sort of signal because, all at once, the mass of riders surged forward toward the open end of the valley.

  Turning his head, Dye watched as the clump separated out into leaders and followers. He didn’t notice the paint at first. It certainly hadn’t started with the lead. Halfway up the straight valley it caught his eye, eating up the distance that separated it from the pack of horses leading the race. At one point the track narrowed, pinched in by brush on both sides, and Dye held his breath as the beasts pushed through the bottleneck, bumping against one another. The paint alone veered from the path to fight its way through the low tangle of brush before it continued on to make two similar jumps. Dye watched with keen interest as the little horse screamed into the lead, its rider hunched forward over the pony’s neck as it barreled ahead to reach the mouth of the canyon alone, the other riders trailing in its dust.

  Dye smiled at his lieutenant. “How many messengers do I have?”

  “Three, My Lord.”

  He pointed to the mouth of the canyon. “Is that rider one of them?”

  The man squinted into the valley, opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I don’t believe so, sir.”

  “Make that soldier Captain of my Messengers.”

  * * * * *

  As Martigay breezed into the king’s tent, the door’s flaps were sucked up in her wake to follow her partway inside. Abruptly, she halted in mid-stride, leaning to stare past the wide tent post at the king, her eyes fastened on his bared chest. Impressive slabs of muscle shifted in his upper body as he turned toward her. A light covering of burnished hair glowed on the gold skin between his nipples, before it collected into a line and dove into the doeskin leggings that hung low on his hips.

  His ties were undone, lank and loose like an unfinished story. A story that needed finishing. A story she’d like to finish. Slowly, the back of Martigay’s wrist moved up to wipe her bottom lip as she gazed at the point at which the line of hair disappeared beneath the loose ties.

  A deep bowl of water sat on the table before the king as he’d just finished scraping his chin. A few damp strands of hair hung over his forehead to shadow the dark tattoo slashing his left eyebrow. Martigay watched as water ran down the hard line of his jaw, dripped from the square of his chin and splashed to trail down the hard, granite lines of his chest.

  The fine copper hair on his chest failed to hide a large scar that ripped from collarbone to breastbone while numerous smaller scars strafed shoulders and arms that were neither soft nor white.

  “Soldier,” he prompted her impatiently, then froze. “What is that blue ribbon doing back in your hair?” he inquired coldly. “And what are you doing here?”

  “Sir. You asked me to report.”

  “I did nothing—” his eyes flicked to the blue ribbon in her hair. She hadn’t been announced which meant…he’d sent for her.

  “You ride a paint pony,” h
e stated—gathering himself quickly. “Captain…Martigay. Thanks for reporting.” Reaching around behind him he lifted a scroll from the table and held it toward her. “For Lieutenant Marcan. It’s not urgent,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “Skirt the mud flats if you must.”

  “The mud’s not a problem, sir.”

  He nodded. “I’ll expect you back before dusk, then. Check in with me on your return. Be care—keep your eyes open. Avoid any other riders you might see.”

  “Sir.” She acknowledged this order with the professionalism of a soldier then delayed in her departure, halted by a very female curiosity. “Where’d you get that scar?” she asked, her eyes on his chest.

  He stared at her for a moment. “This one?” His finger traced the thin white line that slashed across his chest as she nodded without speaking. “The civil war. In Khal.”

  “I…didn’t think Thrall was involved in that conflict.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Then what were you doing there?”

  “I grew up in Khal. Fought for the North.”

  She nodded again, though her expression was still puzzled. “How about that one? There on your shoulder.”

  “I got that one on Earth.”

  “Earth? Is that an island?”

  This question stopped him for a moment as he considered his answer. “In a manner of speaking,” he finally agreed. Reaching for his jerkin, he pulled the linen shirt over his head. “But it’s a long story, soldier,” he told her dismissively.

  In answer to this, Martigay hit her forehead with her fist and turned to leave.

  “Two fingers, Martigay,” he corrected her quietly.

  Slowly she turned back to face him, eyes narrowed in daring challenge.

  “Two fingers in my army, soldier.”