The Warlord's Concubine (2 page)

The savages beside her twitched, and the handmaiden got the
impression that she had committed some taboo merely by speaking
directly to the giant. Neither budged to reprimand her, as if held in
place by something stronger still than reverence for their lord;
fear.

It was hard for Mirella to tell in the dark, but she could swear
she made out a half-smile in the shadows of his face. The princess
coughed through her choking, and gasped in air, “Concubine?!
I’ll never—” and she received a backhanding.
Mirella knew it intimately. It wasn’t intended to hurt the
princess, it was intended to humiliate and quiet her. It was the act
of a master to his slave, and it did its job, for the princess—so
unaccustomed to anything but absolute submission—squealed and
toppled to the marble floor from the strike.

Without word the dark man turned, and the two savages scrambled
away as if their lives depended on it—and perhaps did—leaving
the chamber. The dark prince announced in his booming voice, “Hold
the two of them for my concubines to claim.”

Her own lips curled but she wiped away the grin, instead tending
to her Princess, though the motions had somehow shifted. She remained
dutiful, but something lurked behind her eyes that the Princess would
never know to suspect in her older handmaiden.

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 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?