“Nay, milady!” he said, his breath coming in quick pants. “I am about to burst!”
The door opened quietly and from the corner of her eye, Jameela could see the man who had Joined them. She did not look at him but straddled her husband’s hips and reached down to position his throbbing love weapon at the entrance to her velvet sheath.
“Jameela, please!” Hagan pleaded.
She sank down upon his rock-hard penis and even before she could move, felt his seed coursing into her. His hands were still on her upper arms, his fingers digging into her flesh as the last of his spasms subsided. She stared into his eyes, watching him drawing in gasps of breath. She vaguely heard the door close behind the Lord Abbot’s departure.
“By the gods,” the Grand Master panted. “I have never felt such pleasure.”
Remembering her training, Jameela stretched out atop her husband—his manhood limp but still inside her—and laid her head upon his shoulder. “Are you sleepy, milord?” she asked.
“Hell, no,” he said, surprise rife in his voice. “How can that be? I have always fallen asleep after all our other times together.”
“Then perhaps you would like me to pleasure you again?” she asked.
Wrapping his arms securely around his wife, the Grand Master grunted. “Aye, milady. I am willing and eager if you are!”
As she stroked her husband’s chest, a part of Jameela felt great shame at what she had proposed to him; but the peasant part of her—the part that ever watched out for her own well-being—knew that by getting herself with the Grand Master’s child, she would be free from his embraces for awhile. Though she knew he had meant what he said about not overly abusing his place as her husband, it was not his arms she wished to have wrapped about her.
“Milady?” the Grand Master asked.
“Aye, milord?” she mumbled. There was a moment of silence then she craned her head to look up at him. “Milord?”
Hagan Kiel swallowed hard then locked his eyes on her. “Can you teach me what Dagan does to pleasure you?” he asked. At her widening eyes, he cocked one shoulder. “I would make our time together as good for you as you make it for me. I am not a selfish man.”
Bright crimson spread over Jameela’s face and as she began to stammer, her husband held up a hand.
“Never mind, Sweeting,” he said. “I’ll have Dagan instruct me when he comes home.” He reached up to pull her head to his chest once more.
Chapter Ten
The breeze was strong as it wafted the cape around Lord Dagan’s legs. He stood atop a hill with his men ranged behind him and squinted into the brisk Highland’s wind.
“Gaoth, Prince Sekhem’s keep, is just over that rise, Lord Dagan,” Lieutenant Ushabti informed him. “It is heavily guarded and has never been under siege. I doubt he will be expecting us.”
Dagan grunted. “He thinks we will ignore this raid as we have ignored the others.”
“He picked the wrong man to steal from this time,” Lord Fadil said nastily. “I’ll have his head on my pike ere the sun sets!”
“It will take us longer than that, Fadil,” Dagan warned. “Gaoth Keep is nearly impregnable as Ushabti says.”
Lord Fadil threw out a negligent hand. “The word is nearly,” he said with a snort. “No keep is entirely invulnerable.”
Hunkering down, Dagan released a long sigh. Fadil was not one of his favorite Brothers and he knew if he was truthful to himself, one of those he neither respected nor trusted. “Have you wondered what the Ordonese do with the herds if they do not eat the meat?” he queried. When Fadil remained silent, he looked up at the man. “That killing field was unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”
It had been just a few miles back, when they had crossed the Aquert River that Dagan and his men had come upon a sight that had turned their blood to ice. Fadil’s entire herd lay on its sides, the throats cut, and every drop of blood drained from the carcasses. The stench had been horrendous but the implication was even more disturbing.
Lord Fadil frowned. “I was too upset to wonder at Sekhem’s foolishness. Perhaps it was his way of taunting us.”
“With all due respect, Lord Fadil,” Lieutenant Ushabti put in. “I don’t think they believed we would follow.”
“Nor do I,” Dagan agreed. “And there was more than just those freshly killed beastees scattered across that barren plain. There were others in all degrees of deterioration. Bones were intermingled with pelts of later killed animals. None looked as though the first slice of meat had been taken.”
A gagging sound made Dagan turn and look behind him. One of his soldiers was spewing his breakfast and a look at many of the others revealed not only upset stomachs but also grave unease.
“Do you think the old tales could be true, Lord Dagan?” Ushabti asked.
“Certainly not!” Lord Fadil snapped but there was disquiet on his beefy features. His gaze shifted back and forth as though he expected demons to jump out at him at any moment.
The Master Trainer got to his feet and sighed heavily once more. The wind was turning colder, making his eyes water as he stared off into the distance. “I thought the old tales were nothing more than yarns to keep us on our side of the border, but that field of death concerns me.”
“Even more reason to take Sekhem’s keep and put every man, woman and child there to the sword!” Lord Fadil stated. “The only good Ordonese is a dead one in my book!”
“The Conclave does not make war on women and children,” Dagan growled, his eyes narrowed toward the man he was beginning actively to hate.
“My sword makes no such distinction when it comes to demons,” Fadil sneered.
“If demons they are,” Dagan replied.
“We’ll know soon enough, now, won’t we?” Fadil queried, his stubby nose lifted in challenge.
“Aye,” Dagan mumbled as he headed for his mount. “That we will.”
* * * * *
Prince Sekhem drained his golden goblet and leaned back in his chair, his belly sated, his thirst slaked for the moment. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and belched. “Nothing like good Conclave beef to fill a warrior’s belly, eh?” he asked.
The warriors sitting at the table with him laughed and banged their goblets with approval upon the thick mahogany wood. Here and there a slave rushed to refill the goblets of their masters.
“Think you it would be a better treat to have a few of the Brothers here to slack our hunger?” Lady Neith, the only female present save the slaves, inquired with an arched brow. She brought her filled goblet to her lips and smiled evilly before she took a long drink.
“Have you one of them in particular you would like to have join us?” Sekhem inquired.
Lady Neith licked her lips upon finishing her drink and motioned a slave to fill her goblet. “I was thinking of Dagan Kiel,” she replied.
“Ah, yes,” Sekhem said, nodding. “I’ve seen drawings of him our spies have made.” He grinned. “I can see why you would like a taste of that one.”
“And you would not?” Lady Neith countered.
Sekhem chuckled. “I believe I could feast quite nicely upon such a glorious male.”
“What if I had other things in mind for him?” Lady Neith asked, turning her head to look through the windows at the moon beginning its ascent in the heavens.
Those at the long table grew quiet. Even the slurping of their goblets ceased as the men turned their attention to the female warrior. They knew the woman well and her sorceress abilities often filled them with a dread they neither understood nor with which they felt comfortable. No other woman had ever sat at the table of the Prince and this one had won that spot through a brutal fight that had stunned each of them to the core of his being.
Sekhem steepled his long fingers, placing the sharp nails across his think lips. “Such as what, my sweet lady?”
Lady Neith rocked the base of her goblet against the table. Not looking at any of the men but directing her attention to the liquid in the golden vessel, she reminded them she was of childbearing age.
A gasp shifted through those assembled but not a single word was spoken, not even from their Prince. As quiet settled once more upon the room, Lady Neith lifted her gaze to Sekhem.
“I journeyed to Sahar Colony awhile back…” she began but Sekhem interrupted her.
“You did not dare!” he shouted.
A slow, venomous smile plied Neith’s lips. “I have no fear of the colonists nor the Brothers of the Conclave,” she informed him. “I have traveled to much of that area and have seen Dagan Kiel in the glorious flesh.” She circled the rim of her goblet with one elegant, vermeil-painted fingernail. “And have stood as close to him as I am to you, Khnum.”
Lord Khnum, the oldest of the warriors present, sat two men down from the lady warrior. He stared at her as though she had grown an additional head. “Foolhardy,” he pronounced. “That was a very foolhardy reconnaissance, Lady.”
“No more foolhardy than it was for you to experiment with me,” she reminded him and at his wince, laughed. “Oh, what a triumph that was for you, eh, milord Khnum?”
“A grave mistake,” Khnum muttered, unable to meet the glares of his fellow warriors.
“Mistake or not, I am grateful you chose me over the others,” she acknowledged with a bow of her lovely head.
“What was your purpose in going to Sahar?” Sekhem demanded. “Were you spying or was there something in particular you sought?”
Neith shrugged. “I was looking for a slave girl with whom to wile away the tedious hours between raids,” she answered.
Sekhem frowned. “I have seen no colonist here,” he accused.
“Unfortunately I did not win the bid on the one I sought,” Neith explained. “But Dagan Kiel did.”
“Ah,” Sekhem drawled. “So you would like to punish him for outbidding you.” Vengeance was something of which the Prince both agreed and approved.
“In a manner of speaking,” Neith said. “But again I remind you, I am of childbearing age.”
It was Lord Khnum who beat his fist upon the table. “You can not make a female warrior!” he snarled. “Only I can do that, if such is your intention, Wench!”
“And that is something you will never be allowed to do again,” Sekhem warned as all eyes fell angrily on Khnum.
“I agree,” Neith said, bringing the stares of the men to her. “Gaoth Keep needs no other female save me.” She lifted her chin. “I want Dagan Kiel’s get. I want a son of his flesh.”
Shocked murmurs spread along the table. Heads were put together and whispers hissed among the men.
“For what purpose?” Sekhem queried, his eyes narrowed to thin slits as his sharp fingernails pressed indentions into his chin.
“Because it would amuse me,” Neith replied although her own eyes were hard with what each man knew was a hidden purpose.
Sekhem stared at her for a long moment then waved a dismissive hand. “Then go to Lalssu Keep and lie in wait for him. Bring him back here and we will partake of him when you are finished.”
Neith’s lovely features tightened. “Let me make something clear to the lot of you,” she said, coming slowly to her feet. The only sound in the room came from the scraping of her chair upon the marble floor as her fevered gaze shifted from one warrior to the next until it landed with force on Prince Sekhem’s pale face.
“Dagan Kiel will be mine and mine alone,” she told the men, her words directed to her Prince. “No other will be allowed to lay hands to him.”
A challenge was being issued and Sekhem’s jaw clenched, a muscle working in his lean jaw. He glared at Neith, his hands now curled into claws on the arms of his chair.
“I have claimed this warrior as my consort and as such, he will be entirely mine to use or abuse or set free as I see fit,” Neith continued.
Lord Khnum laughed, drawing Neith’s withering stare. He cocked a brow at her. “Know you he was turned into a steer lo these many years ago, Wench?” he asked.
Neith narrowed her eyes. “Know you I have powers of which not even you are aware?”
Khnum lifted his other brow. “You think you can put starch in cloth that is wrinkled and limp?” he taunted.
In answer to the old warrior’s question, Neith turned her attention to the napkin lying beside Khnum’s goblet. In the flicker of an eye, the linen shifted upon the table, twisting until it was a tightly rolled tube that lifted straight up from the wooden surface.
“Ah…” those assembled breathed, their beady gazes beholding the rigid cloth.
Khnum frowned then shrugged. “You might put starch in the cloth, Wench, but you can not bring seed from pods no longer there.”
The napkin dropped back to the table and the men laughed nervously, though none dared look into Neith’s angry eyes.
“Perhaps not, Old One,” Neith said through clenched teeth. “But you can put the parasite in him then once it reaches maturity, put one of its nestlings inside my womb. The restorative powers of the parasite are marvelous. Don’t you agree?”
Shock spread over the men. Even Khnum stared at her with stunned realization of what she intended. The older warrior turned his beseeching eyes to his Prince.
“Please tell me you do not sanction such insanity!” Khnum pleaded.
It was apparent to every warrior there that the wheels of thought were turning inside Prince Sekhem’s head. His attention was riveted to Lady Neith, his long fingers tapping a rhythm against his chair arms.