The Unwanted Winter - Volume One of the Saga of the Twelves (112 page)

Thunk! Thunk!
Thunk!
, went to sound. Then, “My Lady, the
Mörgum Sterdum, to see you!” came the muted voice from beyond the
portal.

She waited for one of the
lumbering doors to open a creak. “Show him in!” she answered
briskly. She remained sitting, though she smiled inwardly. She was
more than passed the time for a little nasty cuddling upon her bed
with her most trusted advisor, who also served as her current
bedwarmer. It was his incredible regenerative powers that made
their love making so deliciously debased and violent. She vet
tremendous amounts of hurt upon him and still he would strive forth
to meet her lusty exertions. Others, she would’ve been slain long
ago, but not the Mörgum Sterdum. He had always lived to see yet
another decadent session with her and her wonton
womanhood.

He strode briskly through
the doors as they were only partially opened to allow him access to
the private chamber of the Gran Herra. He was all business with the
clipped rigidity of his military upbringing. He was human, or had
been once. That was so long ago. Both the language and the nation
of his birth hadn’t only vanished from the face of the World of
Man, but had faded into legend and myth as well. He was a
good-sized human, seven inches taller than a cable’s length and
half that wide at the shoulder. His waist and hips were as narrow
as they day he turned thirty annums, despite the fact that
milestone had been at least ten thousand years agone. His face was
chiseled and broad ending in a square chin, a deep cleft at its
middle covered by yesterday’s stubble. His lips were wide and thin,
devoid of blood, though his eyes shone with fire, but it was a
flame very different from hers. His was icy, piercing and
strikingly azure, sharing none of the molten ferocity dwelling
within her orbs. His most striking feature, at least to her, was
his hair. It was long and streaked with alternating ribbons of the
brightest blue followed by the deepest obsidian and matched the
color of his irises perfectly.

He wore what he always
wore when he was on duty – a thick over-cloak atop his cape, heavy
boots and a full body compliment of scale armor enameled in swirls
of black and navy making his armor appear like a wild extension of
his hair. It was an illusion sometimes confusing to peer upon, a
tool he often employed in battle. At his waist was his log sword,
strapped to a thick leather combat belt, a typical accessory as
well.

He took only a few steps
into the recesses of the room and stopped, suddenly frozen solid,
his eyes gazing off the left shoulder of the Gran Herra, awaiting
her notice.

Rakel Angantýr, the
Overlord of the Skrímsli, stared at him for a few seconds, taking
in the magnificent sight of him, feeling herself burn with pleasure
in the middle of her gut.
I feel for this
one
, she thought. A swift blink of her
eyes was the only indication she’d thought something so
intimate.
The last time I desired such as
this it nearly killed me…

He remained immovable and
she sighed. “Leave us!” she commanded.

At once, the Were-bears
saluted and began to march from the chamber. She counted to three
to see if the others would take heed, then allowed an annoyed
twinge dance across the left corner of her lips. “I meant
for
all
of you to
leave,” she said evenly. Since none would dare defy her, there was
no need to exhibit anything beyond that.

From various spots about
the room emerged a squad of ghosts, spirits, haunts and
poltergeists - all there for her protection from entities and
weapons of the less corporeal sort. She wasn’t above taking
chances, she had learned
that
lesson long, long ago.

As they faded into the
walls beyond, she stood of a sudden and came around the broad desk
to face Rikhardt Mortenson, which was most likely not the name of
his birth. She mulled the notion, deciding the one he bore now was
better suited more modern times. Even then, his moniker would still
be considered medieval in the World of Man.

And still the Mörgum
Sterdum didn’t move.

“
My Lord of the
Lycanthropes, please be at ease when we are alone,” she murmured,
her lips barely moving.

Rikhardt only moved his
gaze, his eyes on her soulless globes. “Your Highness, I would
never stoop to disrespect and will always follow the strictest of
protocol in all matters regarding you.” His voice was as clipped as
his mannerisms.

She finally allowed a
dribble of emotion to etch her face. “Is that true when you throw
me between my sheets and ravish me again and again, my
Lord?”

Now, it was his turn to
smirk, even if it was only the slightest evidence of expression,
but he stayed silent.

“
Very well,” began Rakel,
“I command you to stop standing there, wasting precious time and
come into my arms so that my hold you. Or, I shall have you flogged
before the court!” Her smile was wicked and sumptuous at the same
time.

Rikhardt lost all vestiges
of convention and rushed across the chamber, his own arms wide as
he came to his liege and hugged her fiercely.

She held him with equal
ferocity, making the thick scales of his armor squeal and creaked
under the pressure.

Then his lips fell onto
her hers. She felt the fire in her belly turn to nova in her loins,
her nipples hardening under the chiffon she wore. She never wore
undergarments, so the effect of her sensitivity there, as it slowly
rubbed against the wispy material, was almost more than she could
handle. She almost lost control. And if it had not been for
Rikhardt, she might very well have indeed.

Her lover kissed her for a
few minutes longer, his own ardor evident between them as she felt
his member grow against her belly, which in itself was impressive
because of the thick leather he wore there. Then, he pulled from
her lips, though he still embraced her.

Hungrily, if not somewhat
angry and petulant, she rubbed her pelvis into him, reaching for
his lips once more.

“
Your Highness, I am
sorry, but… even though I want nothing more than to have you this
very instant -,” he paused as her lips found his temporarily,
before he came away from her once more. “My Lady, I bring news. My
Lady, you must allow me to speak.”

“
I am allowing you to fuck
me, so fuck me!” she demanded, her lust building within her, almost
to the boiling point.

“
Your Highness, please!”
exclaimed the Mörgum Sterdum as he abruptly twisted, catching both
of her wrists in one massive palm and sundered their embrace in one
swift, adept motion.

Rakel was turned slightly
to her right, her footing imbalanced, which gave Rikhardt time to
step away.

“
How dare you!” she
bellowed, her ire rising, her eyes blazing with fire and flame. A
faint quaff of brimstone suddenly permeated the air about both of
them.

“
My Lady, wait!” pleaded
Rikhardt, falling to one knee before her, his head
bowed.

That stopped her at
once.

She stood there, trying to
hover over him, but failed, even though he was kneeling and hunched
before her, the back of his head was still equal to the height of
her shoulder. He was one, big human…

She sighed again, feeling
adolescent at having lost herself with desire. She of all demons
should know better than that! Especially after what had happened to
her the last time, she should know better by now.

She let a full minute
pass, gaining her composure, straightening her hair, and her dress
and cloak.

“
My Lord, what news have
you?” she asked as if nothing had transpired between
them.

The Mörgum Sterdum raised
his head but didn’t stand. His eyes looked grateful. “Gran Herra,”
he began formally, which immediately put Rakel on edge, “it seems
as though the ley-lines, the permanent ways, the telepaths, even
the scrying crystals and stones have either gone silent or have
been somehow severed or cut away from us.”

“
What do you mean? How
many?” she demanded at once, her petite brow furling.

“
My Lady that is what I am
trying to convey to you.”

“
Then do so…”

“
All of them, Your
Highness.”

Rakel stepped forward so
fast Rikhardt didn’t have time to react as she cupped him viciously
under the chin, her small hands digging deep into his flesh. She
felt one portion of his jaw snap under her demon-grip. “What do you
mean, all of them?”

“
We are completely cut off
from the rest of the Six-Fold Empire,” he said awkwardly around her
crushing clasp and his broken jaw.

She let him go and he
lurched forward, his hand coming up to his face, but he regained
his balance before he went headlong onto the carpeted floor. She
crossed her arms beneath her jutting breasts and paced about the
chairs before her desk.

Rikhardt stood, if not a
bit wobbly, yet already she could hear his bones creak and crackle
as his jaw began to heal.

She whirled toward him.
“Have those forces not already encamped about the Dǿd began a
forced march hither at once and summon the Radid, I want everyone
here in less than three days’ time from now!”

“
A forced march will kill
many warriors, m’Lady.”

“
I do not care.” It was
delivered quietly. The threat was as palatable as
thunder.

“
At once, Your Highness,”
replied the Mörgum Sterdum and began walking toward the forty foot
doors he’d come through minutes before. There, he faltered and
gazed back at her with longing she barely noticed out of the corner
of her molten eye. “Shall I return, My Lady.”

She came to stare at him
directly. “No, I think not. You know how much I abhor
refusal.”

“
As you wish, Your
Highness.” Rikhardt clapped the heels of his boots and strode from
her bedchamber, his stiff military bearing returning full
force.

Rakel turned from him, a
malevolent, grin upon her lips.
I will let
him think he is in my disfavor for the remainder of the day… and
then I will find him in deepest of the night… I will exact my
revenge upon every part of his person. I will make him limp for a
week!

It had always been
ill-advised to refute the wishes of Rakel Angantýr. Regardless of
what was done to her, she would always come back. She was the very
essence of revenge. It was a pity the most powerful of the Storm
Lords had forgotten that about her. If they hadn’t, they might’ve
been deterred from their current course of action.

To their detriment, they
had.

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}>>>>>>~~~~~~~~

Richard Heredia was born
in 1969 in the Canal Zone of Panama City, Panama. Having spent the
first year of his life there, he has since moved to Los Angeles,
California where he lives with his wife and children. Wanting to be
a writer at a very young age, he began learning his craft through
avid reading, after his mentor suggested he read as much as
possible in order to learn from the best. Since that summer day in
1984, he has never stopped.

After a long hiatus, four
years ago, he finally decided to sit down and commit himself to his
lifelong dream of writing novels. He is the author of the first two
volumes of the Saga of the Twelve’s –
The
Unwanted Winter and Winter’s Fury
– and
book one of the Shadow Seed Series –
The
Misbegotten
.

Aside from reading and
writing, he enjoys listening to music, dancing with his babies,
camping, fishing and playing the odd video game with his
son.

Keep an eye out for the
third volume of the Saga of the Twelve’s –
The Shroud of the Lesser -
due out
in Summer 2014.

Richard has slated
Estefan’s Death
, Book
Two of the Shadow Seed Series, for publication sometime in
2015.

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}>>>>>>~~~~~~~~

Hopefully, you been joyed
The Unwanted Winter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please visit
the following link on Amazon and let me know what you think about
the Saga of the Twelves first installation at: