Dye's Kingdom: Wanting It Forever

by Madison Hayes

  He’d been thinking about Martigay, and last night—Martigay twisting beneath his body, her cunt torturing his cock in a carnal embrace—when the princess had stalked into his tent wearing a black gown closed with only two ties. In an instant, she had it open. As he stared at Bruthinia’s nude body, the princess took the three steps that separated them—and was on his lap.

  More than a little stunned, he leaned away from her. “What are you doing here, Bruthinia?”

  “Just keeping an eye on my interests, My Lord. News from my informants was troubling enough to warrant a little further investment on my part.” With these words, she let her eyes drop to her chest. At the same time, she caressed her sides lovingly as her hands slid up to cup her breasts and push them forward.

  “Investment,” he said.

  “I’d like to offer you a little collateral, a little taste up front, in return for a small deposit on your part.”

  “Deposit?”

  Her hands dropped to tug at his ties. “I want your silver, Dye. I want your cock inside me. I want your seed and the promise of your child.”

  He stood so quickly, the princess landed her delicate bottom on the ground—and none too gently. Dye stared down at the startled princess. “I can’t do that,” he said.

  The princess worked her way onto her knees, which put her on eye level with his ties. Guessing her intent, Dye took a step backward. “I can’t do that,” he repeated.

  She frowned at his ties, stretched tight across the thick mound of male flesh tucked inside his leggings. “What’s that, then?”

  “That’s for…that’s not for you.”

  The royal princess knelt before him, head tilted to one side. “Well, that’s a disappointment. I hope that isn’t a sample of what I might expect on my wedding night.”

  Dye’s heart stopped. For at least two instants, it stopped. And, as he stared at the Vandal princess, the fact he’d been ignoring for so long started to come home. He was wedding this woman. This yellow-haired Vandal kneeling before him.

  She was all wrong!

  Everything about her was wrong! Her breasts were too small, her hips too narrow. Her smokeless blue eyes were like chips of ice. Her cold heart lacked warmth or fire. Her hair was too…yellow. She wasn’t…she wasn’t Martigay. She was all wrong! And he was wedding her upon a resolution at Amdahl.

  * * * * *

  On the other side of camp, Pall wrestled with his angry friend. “But, Martigay,” he protested, his eyes flitting across the clearing to the king’s tent as he locked his fingers in the palomino’s halter and hoped for some sort of help from the royal pavilion. “What are you going to do? You’re too ambitious to be a merchant’s wife, or a merchant for that matter. You’re a good soldier, Martigay.”

  With one hand, she palmed the tears from the sides of her face. “There’s more than one army, Pall,” she delivered resolutely as she swung into the saddle.

  “Wha—are you mad? You’re not traitor material, Martigay. Even if you were, the Saharat don’t like women in their army. They don’t like women, period! If the enemy doesn’t catch you and burn you alive, Dye will catch you and kill you after he skins you alive! Martigay, don’t do this! What in Hadi’s name happened between you and the king?”

  “Bruthinia happened.”

  “What? That little yellow-haired trollop? You can’t be serious! He’s only wedding her because he has to. Everyone knows he loves you!”

  Martigay put her foot in Pall’s chest and shoved. “How?” she shouted, gulping back the next round of tears. “How would everyone know that?”

  Pall watched helplessly as she wheeled her mount away. “Because the only time he ever fucking smiles,” he shouted after her, “is when he’s with you!” Standing in the middle of camp, Pall glared first at the cloud of dust that marked Martigay’s departure, then at the king’s tent. “Shit!” Pall ground out. “Shit!” he delivered again in a short, violent burst as he started toward the king’s tent.

  “Well, that explains a lot,” Pall said as he pushed into the king’s tent, the two guards at the door dragging on his arms like two impotent anchors. As the Thrallish guards wrestled him, Pall stared at the nude princess kneeling before Dye, her mouth about four inches from his groin.

  “Martigay just deserted your army, My Lord. Quit fucking around here and stop her before she gets herself killed.”

  * * * * *

  Riding east through open, wooded hills, Martigay pushed the palomino to its limit and didn’t slow until she thought the mare must finally rest. Even then, she loped along for another league, eventually stopping when she reached one of the many rivers that wound out of the Kelty Mountains and hurried down to the sea in a narrow rush. While her horse drank, she crouched on a rock at the water’s edge and let the river’s spray cool her anger.

  The roar of water on rocks filled her head and she closed her eyes, letting the sound and the river fill her mind, pushing everything else aside—including those words from the king—uttered at the moment of arrival, she reminded herself. Uttered as he had come inside her.

  She almost screamed when tough fingers dug into her arm and slung her sideways to spin onto the gravelly bank.

  Chest heaving, heart racketing, Martigay spun around to face the angry redhead towering before her. Outraged, she gulped in a few breaths. “What are you doing here? I’m not your soldier anymore,” she spat out. As she said this, her eyes slid behind him, expecting to find his following guard. The brush and willow was thick next to the river and it took her a few dread instants to conclude that he was alone. His sorrel stood next to her own palomino, nose lowered to the water.

  “That’s why I’m here.” His expression was an almost black, menacing mask of fury.

  “Get out of here! I’m not coming back to your army,” she insisted as she backed away from him, stumbling on the loose rock at the river’s edge.

  “I don’t want you in my fucking army,” he said in the first two steps. “I want you in my bed,” he said in the next two, which put him back within grasping distance of her round, warm body. Planting his feet, he yanked her toward him and covered her lips with his.

  Her feet left the ground as he picked her up, turned her and moved toward the nearest wide tree. Without breaking the kiss, he slammed her into the smooth hide of an old birch as his thumbs hooked into the top of her leggings and he yanked downward.

  Twisting beneath his grasp, Martigay fought to get her lips back long enough to ask the question. “What about Bruthinia?”

  “Bruthinia who?” he grated with a lust-roughened voice.

  “Bruthinia—who—you’re going to wed.”

  “How much did you see?” he growled in a threatening voice.

  “Pretty much all of her,” Martigay shot back. “How much did you see?”

  “I saw the same as you,” he informed her roughly. “But evidently you missed her fall from favor—when I stood up and she landed on her ass. She’s on her way back to Tharran.” His lips dragged into the corner of her mouth. “Listen. We can hammer out the details later,” he rasped. “Right now I’ve got to get inside you before I explode inside my leggings.”

  The next instant, Martigay’s back was sliding down the uneven surface of the tree. Dye was standing before her, back turned, steel out. A dozen men stood before him in the forest, spaced out in a rough crescent. As Martigay watched, a dozen more appeared to fill in the gaps, bows raised, arrows trained on the King of Thrall.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dye balled one large fist and heaved his shoulder forward, testing the chain pegged into the stone wall at his back. The result of this effort was nothing more than a rasping grate of sound. As his eyes went around the small, dank cell built up against the inner wall of the city, a small amount of light fought its way through the tiny barred window to fall into the chamber.

  In an attempt to hide his concern, he shrugged at the girl chained opposite him. “We’ll be all right,” he reassured her. “They won�
��t harm the King of Greater Thrall.” Dye grunted as he threw his fist forward again, yanking on his chain. “Now I just have to convince them that’s who I am.”

  “We’ll be all right,” Martigay echoed. “We’ll be out of here come dusk.” Slowly, she smiled at him. “You know, people might take you more seriously if you paid a little more attention to your wardrobe.”

  Dye stopped to stare at her. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Your clothing doesn’t exactly reflect your station in life. I can understand how…a person might underestimate you.”

  Dye grimaced as he considered his worn doeskins. “Everything happened so fast after my grandmother’s death,” he explained. “Clothing was the least of my concerns. I’m not a vain man,” he added. “My doeskins are comfortable.”

  “Couldn’t you at least turn in your old cloak for something…oh…something in velvet, perhaps?”

  “Velvet!” Dye shot her a look meant to advise her that she shouldn’t hold her breath. “Wool’s warmer,” he grunted, giving the chain another yank.

  Martigay sighed. “I’m sorry about Bruthinia. I was tired. Otherwise I might have reacted differently.”

  Eyes burning with reproach, Dye gave her a curt nod. “I can’t believe you were going to desert my army over that Vandal.” Dye glowered at her. “That’s…treason. What kind of soldier are you, anyway?”

  “Desert? I was mad but I wasn’t exactly deserting. The Saharat don’t allow women in their army,” she reminded him. “I was just planning to get inside the walls, help to get the gate down,” she grinned, “get my next promotion.”

  “And exactly how did you plan to get inside the walls?”

  “Pretty much the way it turned out,” she admitted airily.

  “You were going to let yourself be captured? And then what?”

  Martigay shrugged. “Seduce the guards?” she suggested, looking at the heavy door across the cell.

  Dye shook his head in stunned disbelief. “Seduce the—you wouldn’t,” he informed her in no uncertain terms.

  “I was mad about Bruthinia,” she reminded him. “Furious.”

  Dye stared at her.

  Eventually she sighed. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t care for her.” She gave him a glum look. “Are you still planning to wed her?” Dye’s grim expression was his only answer and Martigay sighed again. “If only you weren’t so damn ambitious,” she complained disconsolately. “If only you weren’t so damn set on being king and ruling the entire world—as we know it.”

  “Set on being—” He snorted, but there was bitterness in it. “Amdahl sent a plea for help. It’s part of Greater Thrall. I couldn’t ignore their request for assistance. I never wanted to be king,” he added in a low voice. “My sister was supposed to rule.”

  “Your sister? What happened?”

  “Democracy.”

  “What?” Martigay shook her head.

  “Khal is moving toward self-rule. One of the first decisions put to the vote was whether Thrall and Khal should be joined Kingdoms. The people of Khal voted against.” A little surprised light sifted into her expression. “I’ve a whole slew of cousins,” he continued, “some more deserving to rule than I, but Grandmother felt half of them too hotheaded and the other half too easygoing. I had the dubious distinction of falling somewhere in the middle.” He sighed. “I’m a farmer,” he said.

  “But you fought—for Khal, for the north—in the Civil War.”

  “Long story,” he said shortly.

  She raised her chained wrists. “I’ve nothing but time.”

  He smiled grimly. “My farm is in Northern Khal at the edge of the foothills, just before the land drops down to the beaches and sea. It’s a big farm. It employs twenty men. The men and their families live on the grounds.

  “I had no interest in the war, whatsoever, though my family favored a united Khal—so I suppose, in a way, we favored the South. My sister was wild. She got into trouble and ended up in a Southern Prison in Taranis. My younger brother went to get her out and I followed—just in time to see him die. Petra and I joined the Northern Fight with enough bitterness to wish we could wipe every Southern Flatlander off of the map.

  “The conflict was ended when Petra wed Davik, the Southern Prince.” Dye’s chains chinked as he shrugged. “We’re not very good haters.”

  She smiled softly. “The fact stands in your favor.”

  “My great-grandfather was a good hater they say.”

  “Morghan, The Bear of Amdahl—Tien’s father. Your great-grandfather was an amazing soldier,” she said, without hiding her admiration. “What kind of a soldier does a farmer make?”

  Dye shrugged. “An efficient one, when he wants the conflict quickly ended so he can return to his farm. And that’s where I went when the war was over. Unfortunately, Queen Tien died not long afterward and the crown fell to me. When Amdahl was attacked, Thrall had to help. This Kingdom—The Kingdom of Amdahl—was the first of Morghan’s acquisitions. King Berri left it to him on his death.” Martigay nodded, familiar with this history. “But I doubt I’m much like my great-grandfather.”

  “Not with that red hair! Where does that come from?” His eyes filled with a teasing challenge and his hard lips formed a half smile. “What?”

  “Don’t you know?” he asked, shaking out his silken sheet of hair. “Can’t you guess?”

  Martigay gave him a blank look that lasted several instants before starting uncertainly. “It’s not…Maghmarin red?” Slowly, Dye nodded. “No. That would make you Chay’s—”

  “Grandson.”

  “You’re related to Chay and the Maghmarins as well as Morghan? Chay…Morghan’s general?”

  He nodded, pleased that he’d impressed her. “One of Chay’s sons wed one of Tien’s daughters. My parents.”

  “But” her eyes narrowed with a mean glint, “I understood the Maghmarins had a sense of humor!”

  “Meaning?”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Thanks,” Dye complained wryly.

  Martigay laughed as she thought about this. “At least, I imagine it would take a sense of humor for three brothers to share a woman like Chay. Do you have any idea which of them was your grandfather?”

  Dye snorted. “That’s a myth—about Chay and the Maghmarin brothers. And I know exactly who my grandfather—” Dye’s head came around rapidly to stare at the door just before a rattling clank sounded a warning in the keyhole.

  Martigay’s concerned gaze followed his. “I’m sorry about this,” she apologized quickly. “This is my fault—again.”

  Apprehensively, Dye watched the heavy door scrape open. Without a word, an armed guard strode across the small cell while another stood in the opening. Martigay stood to meet the men while Dye got to his feet. A key loosed her chain from the wall and the guard tugged her after him toward the door.

  “Take me with her,” he commanded, accustomed to giving orders, but the guard ignored him. “Take me as well,” Dye again ordered. “Be sensible man. I’m the King of Greater Thrall. I can make you rich.”

  “And I can make you dead,” the guard sneered back. “Are you that anxious to join the girl against the wall?”

  A cold chill of panic gripped his spine. Manacled up against the wall, helpless to stop the headlong rush of fate, he experienced an overwhelming terror he’d never faced before in his lifetime.

  “Against the—take me too!” Dye roared, yanking at his chains to no effect.

  The guard motioned toward the small, barred opening in the wall. “You should be able to catch most of it from that window.”

  “Nay!” Dye shouted.

  “I’ll be all right, Dye,” Martigay reassured him in a rush, as the man dragged her through the doorway.

  “Martigay,” he roared as the door thumped closed. “Martigay!”

  He tore at his chains like a madman. Then, collecting himself, he braced his feet against the wall behind him and straightened his body, trying to tea
r his hands through the manacles. Sweat burst from his skin to run into his eyes, while a slick flood of bright scarlet coated his hands and warmed his wrists, then dripped from his fingers. With a roar of anguish, he held his bloodied wrists before his face. His wrists and heels were stripped of skin, and still the iron shackles wouldn’t pass over the big bones of his hands.

  Outside the small casement, he could see the archers laughing and talking, while a number of Saharat guards prodded a long line of stumbling captives toward their end—hapless citizens of Amdahl. In the jumble of large and small, male and female, he couldn’t see Martigay, though he saw the two men who’d taken her. The archers formed a rough line, shuffling their feet, waiting for the command to draw and fire. Helplessly, he watched the bowstrings go back. Hopelessly, he heard the stinging slap of fifty bowstrings as the arrows jumped from the bows. There were screams and hoarse cries, the thudding sound of arrows slicing through flesh, the clattering sound of arrows striking the sandstone wall, followed by another round of arrows. He strained to see the wall, but could only see the archers. There was a final volley of arrows, then nothing but the archers’ quiet chatter and conversation.

  Dye lunged against his manacles and threw up.

  * * * * *

  He thought he’d not sleep again so long as he lived, and yet that must have been the first thing he did. He slept to escape to a world where Martigay still lived. He slept to escape the stinging surface of pain that seared his wrists and the deep well of agony that swamped his heart. A noise in the cell brought him unwillingly back. He didn’t want to face reality.

  He opened his eyes to a woman’s shadowed form and thought his dreams had followed him back to wakefulness. He thought, as well, that he might be mad…and he didn’t give a damn if he was. “Are you a ghost?” he queried dully.

  The vision shook her head.

  “I’ve died then, and gone to join you.”

  “What would you have died of?” the woman asked in Martigay’s voice.