The Warlord's Concubine Read Free

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