Dark Warriors: A Dark Lands Anthology (Darklands) (6 page)

“How is it an election, then?”

“He must be elected by his peers before he can compete in the trials.”

“Humph. King Dagon, is it?” That was the first she’d heard the title. Figured. He had the arrogance to be a king. But arrogance or not, she had some things to say to him.

To her surprise, she had no trouble getting an audience with him. She had expected to be treated like a prisoner, so it was a surprise to see women coming and going with their escorts, touring various parts of the Bride House. She planned to take the tour and look for a likely escape route, but first she had business to take care of.

The guards let her into Dagon’s office, leaving the heavy door open a discreet crack. She glanced at it in surprise. It had been a long time since she’d been around people so conscientious about proprieties.

One glance at Dagon and she understood. The man was still dressed in only black pants and red sash. The hard expanse of his bare chest and the power in his arms were magnetic. It was all she could do to drag her eyes away and look him in the eye. Even so, she felt her face burning and prayed she wasn’t blushing.

“You look warm,” he drawled, eyeing the bright sunset orange, yellow and reds of her sarong. Her top was a more sedate rust color, a long-sleeved, cropped shirt with a V-neck that clung to her curves and showed a generous length of smooth abdomen. His eyes lingered there, causing her color to heighten, before he gestured her to a low table spread with refreshments and pile of cushions. “Be seated and I’ll pour you a cool drink.”

Glad of the excuse, she quickly sat on a geometric-patterned cushion. Strong like the man who owned them, the sapphire, ruby and bronze colors of the cushions supported her in silky comfort. There was something disturbingly intimate about the way he reclined on their softness, rarely taking his eyes off her as he ate.

Unaccountably, she felt shy. She’d sought him out with an agenda, but now had difficulty untying her tongue. It would help if he would stop staring at her like that.

Dagon didn’t care if she spoke or not. He was engaged in a pleasant fantasy of dragging his tongue down the centerline of her pretty stomach. The temptation to suck on her skin, to caress the tempting softness there was powerful. She might like it. By the way she kept sneaking looks at his bare skin, she might even welcome a little body play.

Perhaps he should save room for dessert.

Her throat worked as she swallowed, drawing his eyes there. Oh, yes. He could feel the hunger growing.

As if girding for battle, she stiffened. “I would like translators put in the women’s room,” she said finally, with a militant gleam in her eye. “We would like to read in your language.”

“Certainly. I’ll have video translations made available as well. I’m glad to see you taking such an interest in your new home,” he said without hesitation. He grinned at her look of confusion.

Her shoulders slumped as she lost momentum, then an irked expression crossed her face. “Good. Then you don’t mind if I study the problem of your women’s fertility. A fresh perspective may shed light on the problem.”

Puzzled at her motive, he said cautiously, “Even if you solved the mystery tomorrow, I would not let you leave. None of the women we have left is young. You will still bear a daughter.” Many of them, in fact, but there was no need to remind her of that just then.

Resentment showed in her eyes. “Have you considered that the daughters you are so set on will carry your genes? What if they have trouble bearing daughters? It would be smart to study the matter further now, before you have another crisis.”

He hadn’t considered that. But somehow he doubted it was concern for his people that motivated her. “And what do you get out of it?”

“It will keep my mind busy. I didn’t spend all my time working myself to death for an education to let my mind go to pot now.”

He’d bet his armor there was more motivating her than just that. Maybe she planned to gain access to tools that could help her escape. He would have to set someone to watch her, perhaps one of younger men. Someone tolerant. The time spent together might even form into a match. Surely the sooner she was wedded and bedded, the more tractable she would be.

A flash of heat at the thought made his nostrils flare.

The pros and cons of letting her have her way flashed through his mind. What could it hurt? And if it kept her busy… Besides, it would be the perfect opportunity to win a boon from her. After all, it wasn’t very often that he had a pretty woman indebted to him. “Very well. But it will cost you. Are you familiar with the art of massage?”

She looked at him like something foul that she didn’t want to step in. “Why?”

Dagon flashed a predator’s smile. “It’s the price of my cooperation. And it would be a pleasant gesture on your part.” Without waiting for her answer, he rolled over on his stomach, laid his head on his arms and closed his eyes. She might as well get used to accepting a man’s will. Her future husband would thank him for beginning her training.

As he’d known she would, she eventually rounded the table and sank down by his side, but not without some muttering. As her hands gingerly touched his back, she grumbled, “Is there anything else you want, your greatness?”

Amused by the way she made a slur of his title, he murmured, “Mm. I don’t think you’re ready for what I’d really like.”

Her hands stilled, and then commenced pounding on his back with satisfying force. It didn’t last, though. Those small hands took more punishment than he did, and soon she had to resume a slower rubbing motion.

It felt incredibly good, and very erotic. He was tempted to roll over and offer to give her the same service, though his version would be considerably more provocative. Glad he was on his belly, covering the result of his heated thoughts, he quieted himself to enjoy her attentions. After all, he had not chosen her…yet.

But she had come to him. Surely that entitled him to some playfulness?

The temptation was too great to bear. “Tell me, adajah, how is it that you remained chaste in a world as promiscuous as your own? You’re quite old to still be a—ow!” He rolled over so quickly she fell away from him. No one had dared to strike him outside of battle in many years. It may have only been a cuff on the back of his head, but her audacity shocked him.

It turned him on a little, too. Or maybe that was a result of her inelegant sprawl, which put her within easy reach. The length of leg she was showing didn’t hurt either.

Before he could thunder at her, she snapped, “That’s rude to mention, you jerk! How could you guys sneak around, taking secret photos of us...or whatever you did? If I’d wanted a bunch of horny guys to see me naked, I’d have posed for Playboy and gotten paid for it!”

Dagon gaped at her. “Had I seen you naked, woman, I’d have remembered it! We did scans, true, but…”

“You invaded my privacy, and every other woman’s here. As for how you could know that we, that I…” She trailed off and looked away.

“That’s a very small thing, compared to what we intend to do to you.” The heated words were a threat, true, but one he regarded with sensual promise. Too late, he realized how it would sound. He reached for her, trying to apologize.

Vana shot to her feet and backed away. Aiming for the door, she circled him, careful to stay out of reach.

“Vana.” He stood up, extended his hand toward her.

She slipped through the door and was gone.

Frustrated, he glared at the floor. That had been foolish of him. A man never threatened a woman with such things. But when she stood up to him as if she were twice her size and muscled as well, he forgot that inside she was nothing but soft woman, easily wounded.

Well, maybe not entirely soft, he corrected ruefully as he considered the last few minutes. The woman had spine. It made him want to dominate her, and the fire in his blood told him how. Unfortunately, he was not free to choose a woman based on lustful attraction. As leader of his people, he needed something more; someone with queenly qualities. Though he hadn’t quite defined what those were, he doubted Vana had them. How could she? It was unlikely that the first woman he’d gotten to know would possess every quality he’d ever need in a wife. A wise man would get to know the others before he even thought about making a choice.

Unaccountably restless, he paced to the window and looked out. The spires of the city he cared for did not soothe him as they usually did. He knew the cause. The women were in the Bride House, waiting. Years of sexual frustration told him that nothing was more important than seeking them out. Yet his father’s example stayed him.

Though long dead, Dagon’s father Nadir still influenced his choices. He’d been a good father, but a poor husband. Anything his wife Ellyn had wanted, she’d gotten. In return she’d borne him son after son. While it had given Nadir much happiness, for only a son could hold the throne, it had not pleased Ellyn. Instead of correcting her increasingly objectionable behavior, Nadir had simply hired male caretakers (females did not do such menial things) for his children and spent more time on matters of state. He’d practically raised his sons, while Ellyn withdrew to the point of a bitter wraith. While she’d mellowed with time and adjustment to her disappointment, Dagon had not forgotten how she’d been.

He did not want a woman like her.

Vana’s moods reminded him too much of his mother.

Perhaps he should take a closer look at the girl Jen. She’d held up well under pressure, and her golden hair was lovely. Ser might consider it poaching, but Dagon had a right to look where he chose. After all, it wasn’t as if the two were promised yet.

Feeling better, he turned from the window and selected some clothes. He had a queen to find.

Vana knew he was there, but she didn’t care. The way Dagon looked over the women, as if choosing his dinner from a finely stocked table, sickened her. Not once did he glance her way, and that was fine with her, too. She retreated to her alcove, found a pair of loose midnight pants and a scarlet top that bound her chest adequately. A gold sash bound the pants securely to her middle. Moments later, she flung her curtain aside and marched off to glare at one of the guard-escorts. Silently, he followed her from the harem.

The huge practice room the men worked in was mostly empty. She chose a side room, looked to see that it had no exits or windows, and turned to her guard. “You can see I can’t give you the slip in here. I’d appreciate it if you stayed outside while I worked out. I like my privacy.” She stared at him.

He stared back. Slowly, he nodded.

Relieved, she shut the door and faced the mirrored walls. Since the age of nine, when they’d introduced it in her school, she’d practiced Jujitsu. In college she’d taken whatever martial art was available. Since she’d sucked at team sports and anything involving a ball, it had seemed wise. Besides, she’d enjoyed it, and it was practical. There’d even been some weapons training, and she was delighted to find several staffs in racks along one wall. Later she would practice with those.

Nature had been kind to her. Blessed with stretchy ligaments, it hadn’t taken her long to manage both the Chinese and American splits. It felt good to indulge in them now. And while she had always hated patterns and had difficultly remembering them, she’d practiced enough strikes, blocks and kicks to keep her sweaty. It was hard to say how effective she’d be in an actual fight, but that didn’t keep her from practicing. At least the movements kept her fit.

It was a relief to forget where she was, and what was expected of her. The outlet for her anger alone made all the practice hours she’d spent worth it. The burn was feeling so good that the muscle she tore while sending a roundhouse kick at a shadow target caught her by surprise. She yelped and leaned over, panting. It stung, but it wouldn’t kill her. It did put a damper on her practice, though. Stupid high-kicks. Even when she warmed up, they sometimes popped that silly muscle.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she opened the door.

Her keeper frowned at her as she hobbled out. “Do you need help?”

“No.” The terse word must have been enough, for he didn’t bother her again. She gauged the limping distance to the door and blinked in surprise. There was a gaggle of four children gathered around her, staring at her curiously.

“What were you doing?” a tow-headed lad who must have been eleven asked. He looked very grave, as if he were addressing someone of importance. “We heard shouting.”

Pleasantly surprised by the young ones, she shrugged. “I was working out.”

“Yes, but what were you doing?” a younger lad of maybe nine asked. He was missing a tooth, and had a black tattoo on his right cheek. “Do you dance?” He looked eager.

“Jujitsu is a martial art, not a dance. I hate to disappoint you, but I’m a terrible dancer.”

There was a hum of surprise among the boys. The blond said suspiciously, “But women aren’t allowed to do such things.”

Vana glanced at her guard. He was frowning at her like someone who’d love to give a lecture but wasn’t certain it was his place.

“What’s your name?” she asked, stalling.

“Devin,” the boy answered. “This little dark one is Vij, the twins are Gamin and Bajeng.” The twins he indicated looked to be six. Both had dark hair caught up in topknots and dark eyes ringed in thick lashes. The stern looks they sent her saved them from the classification of too cute for words, though they edged dangerously close to adorable.