The Warlord's Concubine (12 page)

It was a solemn occasion she realized; a Chieftain of one of the
northern tribes of Ka’reem was swearing himself to the
God-King.

“Arise,” came his command in that husky, masculine
voice. “You are welcomed into the ranks, and I promise there
shall be more glory to come.” The chieftain, a massive man in
his own right though not so tall as her lord and lover, backed away
and said not a word more, looking too fearful to dare such a thing.

As that little display ended the warlord turned and saw her there
watching.

“Your Greatness,” her head tilted downwards as she
strode towards him. “The princess has been scheming.” She
paused, licking over her lips. She was once more in her casual garb,
the slutty little outfit showing off her advanced pregnancy, and
there was no shame in her motions at all. She was proud to give him a
child, and to show off how her body contorted because of him.

Hearing the tidings of her news he placed his hand on her shoulder
and guided her away from the open spot. Taking her off to the side in
one of the nooks along the palace walls he bent his head and spoke
with her in a private tone. “Tell me everything,” he
commanded

Her voice was so soft as she looked up at her God, “The
Prince will be arriving inside of a week. The Princess has been using
a trinket to speak with him, and he has been communicating with
rebels inside of the city. Something you have done a week ago has
interrupted his communication with them and she wishes for me to
rally them,” she said so quickly. “She has given me a
token to convince them I am on her side, and is unaware of the
numbers the Prince has with him. She is confident it is enough.”

As stoic as ever she could not read the ashen giant, his
beautifully masculine face passive as he pondered her information.
“Describe everything in detail,” he ordered, and after
hearing of the entire encounter in its minutiae he squeezed her
shoulder. “You did well. Very well,” he said approvingly.
“With any luck you’ve bought us enough time to act and
put a stop to this,” he declared. Through his hard look she saw
it there: a faint glimmer of approval and thanks that far eclipsed
anything the princess had ever given her in all her years of service.

He made her at once feel weak and strong, and her mouth parted
just so. “I wasn’t aware the Princess could scheme at
all, so I imagine it has been the Prince telling her what to do. When
we kill him, she will crumble.” She wanted him so badly, then.
It was more than devotion, more than love. It was a hunger that she
had no control over, and her small, private smile was filled with
affection.

That made the dark man smile, and he brought his hand up to her
cheek, cupping it and stroking his thumb across her smooth face as he
stood before her in his usual garb, his bare chest on display. “I
hope you are right. When I return from the campaign to wipe out the
prince’s army, we shall find out,” he said solemnly.

“Do nothing to alert the princess to your true devotions,”
he cautioned. “I ride out in the morning,” he declared to
her, the calculating warlord having already taken time to decide his
actions. “While I’m away I am inducting you into the
order of my concubine-warriors.” He turned abruptly and began
to storm off, leaving her with no choice but to follow.

As he passed the concubines tent he called out to Svella, the
woman looking ready to give birth any day now. “You shall
handle Mirella’s induction into your order. Heed her warnings.”
He cautioned, never ceasing his movement into the palace as the tall
warrior woman looked to Mirella with a stunning lack of surprise.

“Welcome then, sister,” she intoned with a light
respect, her lips forming into an almost amused smile.

Mirella liked the woman and nodded her head, “I hope the
others take this with a similar mood,” she grinned. “This
day is turning out less than I imagined.”

With a laugh Svella, topless and as
shameless in her nudity as Mirella had become, guided her to the
tent. “You shall conquer all, for the spirit of the God-King is
with you,” she declared, leading her in to spread the news to
the others.

Her induction into the warrior-concubines was less ceremonious and
more business than she would’ve expected. The entire palace
complex was in an uproar as everyone rushed about, preparing to
muster out for war.

It wasn’t until the middle of the night that she was taken
back in to see him, and he was still conducting business, pointing
out things to his chieftain-generals on a great hide map. “Be
prepared, for at sunset we ride. This little princeling shall not
catch us unawares in this city. We shall crush him on the fields as
is our way,” he demanded. The sweaty, hairy northerners slammed
their fists to their chests repeatedly and let loose a roar that
echoed throughout the halls before retreating, leaving him to ponder
over the map alone.

It gave her time to study him in private, his cloak hung over his
back in such a way that she could see almost his entire chest. Those
hard muscles so firmly outlined, such a vision of male perfection
that gleamed in the lantern light of the palace.

She loved staring at him. She still often went to the crude statue
when he was busy, her eyes working over the stone and filling in the
gaps where the sculptor had failed. She lusted for him in a way she
never had for anyone before, and found his masculine appeal to be
sweet perfection. She didn’t fear for him, nor doubt for a
second that he would kill the Prince, yet she dreaded being without
him for the length of time it would take.

Mirella knew, however, he would be counting on her, and as her
bare feet moved over the smooth marble floor, she looked confident.
“Your Greatness,” she announced herself.

He wasn’t disturbed by her, though she couldn’t
imagine how he might’ve predicted her approach, as silent as it
was. “Come here,” said that god of a man in his dark
voice. “Tomorrow I ride off into the greatest battle of my
life,” he stated, putting his arm around her. His eyes remained
glued to the hide map. The guesses as to the size of the imperial
army were so wildly different, but even the most conservative put it
at well over what they could potentially field; double at least.

“And soon you will ride home after the greatest victory,”
she promised, her body pressing against his side as her arm wrapped
around his back. She was short compared to him, with beautiful olive
skin and long, glossy black hair, and the pregnancy did little to
interfere with her looks. She was not youthful, but in his presence,
she was vibrant.

His strong hand stroked over her back and side, the coarse feel of
his hard grasp so comforting. It was the touch of someone who knew
hard labour. He was a ruler because he had made it so, not because he
was born into it like the princess.

She caught his gaze then, he looked to her, finally diverting his
attention from the map. “While I am away I am putting my
concubine-warriors in charge of running the city,” he
explained. “They will not ride to war with me, but remain here.
They are the only ones I can trust fully to do this. And you shall
help them. If, as you say, the princess knows of some rebels, then
they shall rise up with or without warning once they know my forces
are out of the city.”

His hand gripped her backside, squeezing her round ass and pushed
her in against his hard body. “You could be integral in helping
them maintain order here.”

“I won’t fail you,” she promised. She was deadly
serious, for there was no way she would allow the city to fall, for
him to ride back victorious only to have to clean up after their
failure. “If there’s anything you need, please, Your
Greatness. I am always at your service.”

His strong, guiding hand brought her to the table. He very
forcibly brought her up onto it to sit upon the edge, squeezing her
full, fleshy thigh as he stared into her gaze. “I will not
sleep this night,” he said to her, “but I need comfort
and satisfaction before I ride out.”

Those dark features of his were stunning in the glowing light of
the lanterns; it almost seemed as if the darkness helped irradiate
his ashen skin. So as he leaned in and tilted his head to kiss her,
she saw such a vision of male beauty, then felt his hungry, needful,
doting lips meet hers, smacking noisily in the large hall.

Her passion was only met by his, and her soft tongue probed his
mouth. Hands wrapped around his shoulders, squeezing his flesh so
tightly as a moan erupted between them. She needed him. Loved him.
Worshiped him.

Tomorrow she’d fight for him, but today, she’d give
him what he needed with such desire that he’d never dare die.

At some point during their night of passion they had moved into
the bedroom again, so she awoke upon his bed in time to hear the
sound of hooves, weapons and armour in the courtyard below. It was
such a clattering cacophony of noise that only an army could’ve
made such a noise to reach that far up.

Mirella was sore and weary still. He had been bestial and
insatiable, taking her the whole night through, doing such things to
her that her mind would buzz with the memories for months more to
come.

Yet still she bounded from the bed—as much as a pregnant,
properly fucked woman could bound—and stared at the scene
below. Her heart raced as she grabbed up her new clothing, moving
through the castle at such a speed.

She emerged onto such a sight. There they were, hundreds of the
mounted northerners—the Ka’reem—filing out on
horseback through the palace gates to the roadway that led through
the mountains. They looked, individually, like such hairy savages,
but as a group in full war gear, they looked fearsome and mighty.

But most significant of all, there he was. Her beloved ruler.

He sat upon the back of a great horse, blacker than he, its coat
glistened in the morning light. Its legs so thick and sturdy, hooves
wide and large, and all about armour was strapped to the beast’s
sides.

Atop it sat the God-King Kulav in full battle regalia. It looked
much like his usual clothes, the high boots and cloak much the same.
But they were armoured now. His chest was garbed in a chain mail vest
that showed but glimpses of his dark flesh beneath. About his
shoulders the plumes of raven’s feathers and on his head a
half-helm that made him look like some terrifying demon-bird from out
of folktales.

He oversaw the orderly procession of the troops, fully absorbed in
the affair as he gave orders to his subordinates.

She watched in such awe, such appreciation for all he’d
done. Knowing his past, how far he’d risen; it was only more
impressive than when she’d first met him, striding into the
room and knocking his own warriors aside.

When finally he began to pull his horse forward to join the
procession he caught sight of her, and she saw the glint of his dark
eyes from beneath his helm. He was terrifying and majestic atop his
warhorse, an inspiration to his warriors and doubtless a horror to
his enemies. And she caught his gaze, held it.

He didn’t wave or call out or in any way draw attention to
it in any matter except to watch her, keep her gaze. That was special
enough, for she was the last he saw before his horse trotted out of
the courtyard and onto the road to war.

She waited for some time and finally it was Svella who came to
greet her. “If only we could ride with him again to war,”
she said with some sadness to her voice.

“We have an important task,” she said, though there
was a lingering sorrow in her tone as well, edged with hard
determination. “We have to keep what is His so that when He
returns, victorious, He may rest.”

The tall northern woman looked to her with an appreciative stare
then nodded. “It is as you say,” she remarked. “Now
come sister. If we are to administer justice then we need our war
raiments too.”

She led Mirella to a special place where the warrior-concubines
kept their supplies. There she found uniforms like the raven-garbed
elite who marched in with the Seer—Kulav’s mother—and
an array of weapons, curved scimitars, shields, daggers, and many
bows.

It didn’t matter than she barely knew how to fight, but for
a few training sessions back in her homeland to the south. She so
rarely thought of them, though, yet as she reached for a scimitar, it
felt right. She spared no time getting dressed and resumed practice
against the air, getting used to the weight and the speed of the
blade.

Svella watched her with some curiosity, “You are not trained
as we are,” she put it delicately. “But I can correct
that in ti—” it was then they were interrupted by one of
the other loyal concubines, her raven helm pulled up as she spoke
breathlessly.

“The Seer!” she cried. “She has fallen into a
trance,” and the look of anxiousness on her face told them both
this was urgent.

Svella put down the weapon she held and took the scimitar from
Mirella. “Come, we must go to her.”

Mirella didn’t even waste time at being offended, instead
following after the woman in her heavier armour, finding it
uncomfortably restrictive after wearing almost nothing for so many
months. She didn’t allow herself to feel dread or panic,
instead forcing calm to the surface.

The chamber that had been taken over for the Seer was formerly a
chapel of worship for the noble family. Now the great chamber was
adorned in the holy symbols and markings of the superstitious
Ka’reem, the markings of the God-King all about: the sign of
the raven.

At the head of the room where once the pulpit stood was now the
great raised bed of Kulav’s mother. The pale white woman
twitched and spasmed, shivering in some unknown misery as she stared
off into the ceiling.

Mirella had found the old woman as frustrating as she was
fascinating, but the crone frightened her. The truth, the knowledge,
and how easily she saw through her was terrifying, even though she
had nothing to hide from the woman. The respect she felt for the
Mother of a God was eternal, and her reverence ran hand in hand with
the jumble of emotions.