Lief Irondik

I just dug up another (old) attempt at an Ellora’s Cave submission. I’ve always wanted to write a Viking story but was too darn lazy to do the research.

Let’s put it this way, if those fierce warriors of old were anything like me, they wouldn’t have gone a viking, they would have gone, a sleeping, or a lazing, or a chillin.

Anywho, I decided if I made it a fantasy I could get around all that research stuff. Hey, hey, drop those stones! I did my world-building, and at least I didn’t name any characters L’haim Ret-Ard’d Skullcrusher or some crap like that. For posting I replaced the more explicit words with ### (use your imaginations kiddies). And I’ll cop to the fact that huge chunks of the following (first draft) prose should be in the most hideous, bilious shade of purple font. gg.

Now if only I could add a pack of wolves…

***

Dragon Master ( Vanessa Jaye © 2004)

CyRistra was naked and up to her neck in water when the invaders came. It was washing day, with plenty of it to do, but she and the other female servants had shed their worn rags, taking a rest from the heat and backbreaking work, to swim the clear cool waters for a few stolen minutes.

Then came the warriors. Large men, bared torsos rippling with heavy ropes of muscle, swooping down from the skies on their fearsome winged monsters.

“Run!” The warnings, shrill with dread, came from all sides of her.

Raiders! In a panic CyRistra thrashed about, swimming for the opposite shores and the safety of the forest. She made land and scramble up the muddy beach amid the tearful wails of her fellow slaves, unmindful of the jagged rocks and sharp sticks cutting into her feet, knees and palms as the ominous growls of the griffins and the cries of the warriors roared in her ears--so close she swore she felt the heat of their fury scorch her back.

The Raiders were from the mountains—-a desolate hard place that forged men as roughhewn as the ground that bore them. Where dragons, griffins and other dangerous beasts lived. Not the least of which were these deadly warriors.

She stumbled and fell, her vision impaired by the thick veil of her midnight black hair. But before she could regain her footing, a large hand wrapped around her arm and hauled her up. CyRistra turned wild, scratching and kicking in a fight for her life. She’d heard the stories of these Raiders, how none of them hand-fasted to one woman, instead they used them in the crudest, most cruel ways—sometimes sharing one woman amongst three and then leaving their broken bodies in the caves to be fed upon by the black dragons.

That fate would not be hers. Didst she not already toil as the meanest of slaves in her father’s house under the iron rule of his second wife? Didst she not wear rags befitting only the lowliest beggar and given food barely fit for a dog? Now this! Nay, she would fight!

“Cease!” The order was roared at a deafening decibel as CyRistra found herself lifted off the ground and shaken once with such force every bone in her body seemed to dislodge then snapped back in place. Fright shocked her still. Then a heavy paw brushed the hair from her face and she found herself staring into a visage of cruel savagery.

The face was dark tanned, with high slashing cheekbones and a nose flattened at the bridge then skewed slightly to one side. A wicked scar, from hairline to jaw, carved across a broad forehead, cleaving the thick golden bush of an eyebrow and dragging the outer edge of his eyelid downward, before it ended at what should have been the earlobe—except that part was missing.

Her captor was massive, his throat thick and corded with veins that ran down to his brawny shoulders and arms, and he held her dangling above the ground with ease. What parts she could see of his broad chest—not covered by the leather and iron armor plate—was sprinkled with golden hairs under which an assortment of scars stood out, puckered and ghostly pale on his cinnamon shaded skin. He should have been the most fierce, most ugliest man she’d ever laid eyes on.

But he wasn’t. He was...beautiful.

And now, Cyristra’s heart beat faster. Aware of the heat that radiated from his big solid body, the latent strength in the callused hands wrapped around her arms, the full lips that parted to show strong white teeth.

“Fair lovely are ye,” he said in a rumble of sound as his pale gaze stroked down her naked flesh. Fire leaped across her skin, following in the wake of his icey-blue scrutiny that lowered to the black curls at the juncture of her thighs. To her mortification, CyRistra felt a quick gathering of wet warmth there.

“By Challa’s root, I would take you here and now, but I must save my strength, and your virtue, for the Dragon’s Harvest.” He pulled her closer until his breath fanned her face with a hint of tart wine and sweet mint. “Yet, what harm can one kiss do?” the beast murmured seductively.

His arms, flesh unyielding as steel, embraced her, pressing her body nearer until her breasts were mashed against his chest, her belly wedged to the hard ridges of his stomach, and her thighs rested on the rough twill covering his own. The sounds of chaos swirling around them receded as he moved one hand to cup the curve of her behind while the other tangled itself in her locks. Where he pressed their hips together, CyRistra could feel the large, long ridge of his ### imprint its dimensions from her groin to her navel. She tried to escape their forced closeness, then shuddered as that sensitive nub of flesh, usually hidden by the pouting lips of her ###, rubbed against his erection. Her captor groaned, his hips flexing forward as his spread fingers massaged the generous mound of her ass cheek.

“Nay,” she cried, even as traitorous excitement spiraled up from her throbbing flesh to infect every part of her being.

“Yea,” he said on a dark sigh. “For I must know the taste of you.” His lips claimed hers with sweet pressure, moving back and forth, suckling until her mouth relaxed and parted. Then the invasion of his tongue, stroking and twining round hers, causing dizzying sensations to course through her body. Easily he held her with one arm banded across her back, while his other hand continued to knead her ass, finger probing between her cheeks. Pressing lightly at the puckered entry.

CyRistra made a sound of dismay; discomfort piercing the sweet haze his kiss shrouded her in, and his hand moved lower into the wet cleft of her ###. This time the sound she made seemed dragged up from a place hollowed deep inside her chest. A thick, long finger entered her slowly, she felt the ridge of each knuckle as it slid into her untried body. Then a burning sensation started and she began to struggle anew.

Her captor raised his head, releasing her lips but not her person. His extravagant lashes only partly shielding her from the flames that lived within his gaze. He was breathing heavy, his chest pushed against hers with his every inhale. He moved his finger experimentally once more, and CyRista whimpered at the pain pierced pleasure.

“Please,” she begged, not sure if she was asking him to stop…or to continue.

“Ye are maiden still,” he said fiercely, his pale hungry gaze burning into her with possession, filling her with fear...and with longing. When he spoke next, it caused her heart to twist with some unknown emotion.

“Ye are mine.”