Love Charms (79 page)

Chapter 2

They
saw no more men that night, and it wasn’t until the red of dawn broke on the
horizon that the two women were visited again. Startled from their uneasy rest,
it wasn’t more of the savage men that came for them, but two women.

Obviously
of the same northern stock, they were tall, strong, with black hair either tied
back in a ponytail or cut no longer than their jaws. They had harsh looks on
their faces, and though Mirella could tell they had a certain attraction to
them, their ragged furs and harsh demeanours did not make her think of
concubines.

With
hands on the large, curved knives at their waists, they watched the two of them
in creepy silence. It was only the princess, of course, to break the quiet,
“What are they doing here, Mirella?” she demanded in what was supposed to be a
whisper, but hardly sufficed as one. “I won’t be that dark spawn’s concubine!
You said everything would be alright, you said—” she struggled with her
own overwhelming outrage and worry.

“Everything
will be all right,” she said, though her eyes remained locked on the two women.
“Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to in order to see another
morning, my loving Princess. This is one of those times. I realize this must be
difficult for you, but if you keep a cool head, you will make things easier on
yourself.”

She had
only slept restlessly, yet her face barely registered the lack of sleep. She
had become so used to just scraping by with what she could get that she seemed
almost fresh, especially compared to the red faced princess.

“Where’s
father?” the princess insisted, “He went out with the army to find out what
happened to the Forward Guard! He should have been back by now!” she exclaimed,
stress in her haughty but frail voice. Of course, the possibility that the
reason why they were now prisoners might have been due to the King’s death with
his troops was not entertained in her mind.

“Princess,
just focus on remaining alive. When your father returns for you, he will care
for and avenge you, but you must live to see that day,” she lied so easily, so
calmly, that it was hard to pick up on. Mirella was a practical, mid-age woman
and understood what had happened quite clearly—a god had overtaken the
town, and now they were to serve. She had served all her life, and for her,
this was a promotion. For the Princess...

Mirella’s
face turned to her blonde ward and the soft smile that touched her eyes was
sympathetic, “You just simply must behave while you are here. Do as you are
asked, and you will see your father soon.”

The
pale little princess looked almost dumbfounded by her handmaiden’s suggestion.
With a weak shove of her frail little arms to the other woman she scoffed
haughtily, “Mirella, I am no serving woman. When father returns he shall not
find me... de-... de—” she flustered, her pale features going such a deep
hue of red, she simply couldn't’ say ‘defiled’.

“If you
have a way that you can keep your purity and your head, Princess, I would love
to know it. I can simply assure you that the god will not smile kindly on
disobedience. I know this is a bitter concoction, but I only want what is best
for you,” her green eyes stared into the ice blue of her employer, bidding her
acquiescence.

Staring
at her in utter disbelief and horror, Princess Annabelle visibly recoiled.
“God?” she said with such complete distaste.

Before
she had a chance to blaspheme any further, the two female guards thudded their
chests with their fists and bowed their heads. “The God-King has chosen you
both,” they said in their savage voices, so much harsher than the ladies of
court. “You will come now and be taken to his tent, where no man shall touch or
look upon you until you have been made his,” they declared with the certainty
of fanatics.

Suddenly
the actions of the men the night before made sense; they couldn’t reprimand
chosen concubines of their God-King. They couldn’t even look at them, let alone
hurt or speak to them.

Mirella
felt a smug sense of satisfaction at having so quickly and accurately
understood his status, but she looked nothing more than sympathetic. “See,
Princess? He will protect you. You just have to be good. He will be able to
return you to your father in good faith.” Her lies would soon unravel, she
realized, but it didn’t matter.

She and
the princess were on equal footing now. The princess was just too daft to
realize it.

True to
their words, the female guards escorted them out through the palace and nary a
male dared look upon them. The two guards themselves were immune to this,
having to speak with and yell at the occasional savage, but none dared look at
Mirella or Anabelle as they were escorted through the ruins of the once
decadent palace.

For her
part, the dainty princess gasped and looked shocked at all the signs of
carnage. Every door was seemingly broken open, most of the pottery smashed, and
rare was it to see a painting that was still intact, never were they still hung
on the wall. The accumulated culture and riches of a royal line that extended
back nearly five thousand years was utterly in ruin after only a single night.
The frail woman looked about ready to faint from it all, though was thankfully
made speechless.

Somehow
it was the sight of the expertly crafted wooden doors in a heap at the main
entry hall—piled high for fires for the camped out barbarians—that
got to the princess the most and she screamed in fruitless anger. “Savages!”

Mirella
was at best annoyed by the wanton carnage. For years she had coveted the wealth
of the castle and to see it ruined was both satisfactory and disappointing. If
she couldn’t have it, she was pleased that no one could, yet it did little to
help her personally. Her hand rested on the shoulder of the princess, but she
barely cared to console the woman as instead she stared at the men disallowed
from looking at her, musing to herself thoughtfully.

Apparently
the God-King did not reside within the conquered palace, for the mighty
tent—made of some thick, stretched hide it seemed—dominated the
courtyard outside the palace proper, still overlooking the smoking ruins of
Ariste below.

It
sloped along in a strange pattern that made the tent itself look spiked and
ominous, and all about the outside of it were arrayed pikes, holding the heads
of slain men. Most soldiers, though there were the occasional nobles, and
Anabelle finally fainted when she saw the visage of a man she once knew from
court.

Mirella
caught the woman, keeping her from hitting the marble walkway and injuring
herself, but with an irritated look, the two guards kept them going ahead and
into the tent.

Inside,
the handmaiden found herself gazing upon something truly astounding.

It
wasn’t the decadence and wealth of the palace, but it was something remarkable
nonetheless. All about were strewn rich silk cushions, piled high in great
mounds, upon which lounged other women in various states of undress or duress.
Few had the appearance of the two guard women, but they stood watch. Most
appeared to be other captives recently taken for the God-King following this
conquest, and looked as confused and lost as did the haughty princess.

A great
table filled the center of the tent, and upon it was heaped food. A mix of the
rich pantry of the palace with the flavours of the harsh tundra, making for the
oddest banquet Mirella had ever seen.

But at
the heart of it stood a statue, carved from obsidian stone. It was unmistakable
though the craftsmanship was not as refined as that of the courtly artists who
decorated the millennia old palace. The presence of the mighty man, albeit nude
and holding a great scimitar that was lodged into the spine of some defeated
foe, inspired all the other women, even the guards, to fear. Mirella could tell
they—unlike her—knew much greater terror of the God-King, even in
his lifeless representation.

It was
curious to her why the man of such taste would be so destructive, but it didn’t
matter. She barely glanced to the other women. The evening prior she might have
been a handmaiden, but now she was on equal footing with all of them, and it
filled her with a strange sense of righteousness. Her eyes worked over the
statue as she left the princess to recover on top of some pillows, her gaze one
of wonderment and a lingering, heated desire.

His
power radiated from the stone and she briefly wondered at what the more skilled
artisans could do for him.

She
couldn’t recall at how long she might’ve been staring at that statue when she
was disturbed, her gaze lost on that harsh stone depiction, entranced by the
generous proportions of his muscles and loins. It was, as far as she could
tell, true to form, but lacking in the expert subtleties a court artisan would
bring to it.

“Most
don’t even dare to look at it,” came that otherworldly voice, so richly
masculine, irradiating such strength and command in a manner she’d never heard
before.

In the
torchlight of the tent she could make him out all the clearer. His charcoal
skin was smooth and flawless. His face so chiselled and handsome. Hair long and
perfectly shiny. Her first guess only seemed all the more right; a god. Though
with the dark clothes he wore, looking a blend of velvet and leather, mixed
with his piercing dark gaze and skin, it didn’t take much guessing to place as
what kind of deity he might be.

She
bowed before him so gracefully, filled with respect and awe, though her eyes
didn’t drop demurely as she felt that, perhaps, they should. Instead she was
simply entranced with the man, and was an absolute slave to the need to see him
fully, “They don’t know what they’re missing.” She waited a heartbeat before adding,
“What should I call you?”

She had
taken some time on the walk over, prior to the Princess fainting, to fix her
hair by some of the shattered mirrors. Though she certainly didn’t look all she
could—if only she had been able to steal some makeup from the Princess’
room!—but she was quite the exotic beauty nonetheless. With her feminine
curves under the soft material of her dressing gown, she looked quite lovely,
especially knelt before him with such subservience.

The
entirety of the sprawling tent was silent around her. She hadn’t noticed the
eerie silence descend as she stared at the statue, but now it was unmistakable.
The other women were cowering away, shaking and looking petrified. None dared
look in his direction though; not even the guards who seemed exceptionally
trusted showed him the kind of obeisance Mirella did. In fact, they showed the
same signs of fear, their eyes downcast, their positions shuffled away to the
edges of the tent.

With a
hand upon his hip, he strummed those strong fingers of his upon his waist and
circled partly about her, standing near her side as he looked up over his own
statue. In a rather conversational tone, the dark, otherworldly man spoke in
his husky voice, “At least it keeps them from noticing the crude imitation of
me this makes for.”

Sliding
his dark gaze down to her again, his broad chest pushed out and mostly visible
with the half-cloak hardly covering him, he said, “‘My Lord’ is the most common
term.”

“I was
just thinking the same thing and was wondering to myself if any artisan still
lives, My Lord. Is that what you prefer I use for you?” she asked, a smile
creeping to her lips at his humour. She couldn’t help it. Everything in her
body stood primed and ready, as if she’d spent her life training for this one,
single moment in time. She felt it was destined for her, and the heated
prickling of her skin was just delightful.

Her
voice was kind and subservient, and she had to do very little to alter it for
him, yet there was a new genuineness that hadn’t been there before. In all her
years serving her princess, she had never shown such an honest desire to serve.

She had
seen the wide array of women the dark God-King had at his disposal, but it
hadn’t deterred her. Perhaps he somehow recognized this, her curiously unique
nature in that she was not intimidated in the face of his power. Where others
saw something to fear and loathe, she saw potential for herself.

His
charcoal dark face gazed down at her, soaking her in and piercing her all at
once before his authoritative voice broke the spell of silence again. “The
princess,” he said, pointing towards the passed out woman without looking in
her direction, “is she alright?” he asked, ignoring the woman's previous
question, for now at least.

“One of
the heads on the pike used to belong to someone she knew, though I cannot speak
to her being all right, My Lord. I am trying to help her through this time,
though it’s troubling for someone as pampered as she.” Mirella’s voice was even
and respectful, her manner forthright as she gazed over his body. She tried not
to be so wanton, but it was difficult. How long had it been since she’d seen
even a mortal in all his glory?

She
swallowed and dabbed her pink tongue to the bottom of her lip, “She is not used
to serving another.”

Knelt
as she was, it made it easy to gaze up at his impressive package, that bulge
which contained his loins so massive through the black leather of his pants.
The statue had done him little disservice in its representation of what lay
beneath, but to be so close to the actual thing...