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  KINGDOM OF YUTE: TOR’S BETRAYAL

  An Ellora’s Cave Publication, July 2005

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  1056 Home Ave.

  Akron, OH 44310

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0307-1

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  KINGDOM OF YUTE: TOR’S BETRAYAL Copyright © 2005 MADISON HAYES

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Pamela Campbell.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Kingdom of Yute: Tor’s Betrayal has been rated S-ensuous by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  Kingdom of Yute: Tor’s Betrayal

  Madison Hayes

  Dedication

  For wonderful author and best friend, Rhyannon Byrd. Thank you for believing in my muse; this is his story.

  Chapter One

  Spark

  “You talk like an effing nob.”

  My head came up as I held my breath, waiting for the stranger’s reaction to Ayden’s harsh assessment.

  Apparently unperturbed by my cousin’s blunt accusation, the stranger’s hand slid through the straw-colored hair on his forehead, lifting it out of his eyes, and in that instant our eyes connected. The look he gave me was edged with a hard promise of challenge that fell just short of being a threat. “I’m sorry,” the man returned patronizingly, “I didn’t realize you had to be ignorant to join this outfit.”

  I barely choked back my snort of astonishment—no one talked like that to Ayden. No one who wanted to live more than a few additional minutes.

  Ayden glared at the blond seated across the table. “It’s no’ that I’m ignorant, man.” He leaned across the small wooden table, put his face close to the newcomer’s, and switched dialect. “Only, you may understand my reluctance to take into confidence a man who might ultimately prove to be a nobhead spy.”

  The man’s lips hinted at a smile. But whether it was for my cousin’s improved speech, or whether it was a smug precursor to his next words, was not immediately apparent. “Details like the locations of your hangouts?” He then began to reel off the locations of our three most secure hideouts.

  Ayden’s eyes narrowed in threat as he glanced around the crowded tavern. “Tor Fucking Andarta,” he hissed.

  “Which means, if I were a spy, you’d know it by now.”

  It was enough for me. He had my vote. I was convinced. But then I had been convinced when he’d walked into the dark, smoky tavern, crossed the room and pulled out a chair at our table. He was that good-looking. Good-looking in a hard, blond way, with a serious, measuring gaze that gripped your eyes and didn’t let go. His wide mouth and hard lips looked like they wouldn’t know what to do with a sense of humor. But I had to guess that they’d have a fair idea of how to drive a woman to the brink of insanity, and I was ready to experiment with this theory any time he might give me the opportunity.

  He had dropped into the chair, put his elbows on the table and addressed Ayden. “I know who you are,” he’d told Ayden. “I want to join you.”

  We didn’t have much choice, did we? He joined us. I suppose we watched him closely at first. I know the girls did! Sinda was quite mad about him. She watched Tor as closely as she dared, especially at night, when she’d park her bedding right next to his. But while Sinda was ready to stand up for Tor—or lie down for him, for that matter—the guys withheld their endorsement.

  Sometimes, when the weather was pleasant, we slept outdoors. You can imagine how often that happened. Not that pleasant weather is unknown to the Yute peninsula, only that it’s rare. As Inverham is located on the southern part of the peninsula, just north of Skythia, the weather is not quite as glowering as is found in the north or on the islands located just off the coast.

  Sometimes we would split up for the night, but most often we stuck together for the sake of communication. Like I said, we had several hideouts. In a city as large, and discontent, as Inverham, we’d enlisted more than a few sponsors who supported our cause, despite the risk involved in being associated with our sort—rebel streetslag.

  The nobhead rule had grown increasingly oppressive in our lifetime and more than a few of us chafed under its weight. Although we had what was called a “parliament”, membership in that governing body was limited to those of noble birth and the rules handed down from above seemed solely dedicated to ensuring the nobheads remained in power and remained wealthy. Their large army of nobguards zealously ensured that their edicts were carried out. Small bands of dissenters were rooted out and imprisoned to await execution, as required by nobhead law.

  Not that everyone was put to death, mind you. It was a well-known fact that a prisoner might very well escape if enough money was paid into the right hands. The guard viewed each captive as a potential source of income and when the gold could be raised it was rare that a prisoner couldn’t be bought out.

  They made an exception in our case, however.

  Ayden had killed two nobguards in a tavern fight. One of them was somebody’s brother. The nobguard had it in for us—with a vengeance.

  One of our early hideaways was a tiny stone hut in a merchant’s rear garden. It was a chore to get us all crowded in. We filled the small building though there were only about a dozen of us back then. A dozen rebels to stand against all the power and wealth of the nobheads. A dozen rebels reckless enough to contest an oppressive rule enforced by an overwhelming army of nobguards. A dozen rebels with enough restless energy to believe they could change the world.

  I’ve heard the fabulous city of Tharran is all honey and gold, where temples and homes alike are fashioned out of huge blocks of sandstone. But the cities of the Yute Peninsula are built out of dark, impenetrable basalt. The little hut was like that, small and close, put together with black stone and, for the most part, cold.

  * * * * *

  I ducked in through the narrow door and pushed it shut behind me. Once inside the close little room, I found myself sucking for a breath. “Mithra, Sinda. You have it hot enough in here?”

  Jerra giggled as she poked at a raging fire. “Apparently not! Tor is still wearing his jerkin.”

  Sinda’s eyes were lit with merry fire as her gaze drifted across the room to Tor. I glanced over in Tor’s direction. The room was stifling. In an act of self-preservation, he’d rucked his sleeves up over his elbows. The veins on his forearms w
rapped around his muscles to make a very appealing package. I rolled my eyes. “You’re going about it all wrong.”

  Sinda lifted an eyebrow in my direction, inviting me to do better.

  Crossing the room, I positioned myself behind the tall blond. “Mithra, Tor,” I said casually. “What’s that all over your back? Blood?”

  As the jerkin came over Tor’s head, the two girls squealed in delight.

  The golden light of fire cast him as a god among men. His straight hair was blunt cut, sweeping just above shoulders as broad and hard as metal. Like liquid gold, the fire’s light poured onto his chest to enhance every curved muscle stacked and chinked on the front of his body. A glint of light drew my eye to the talisman hanging from his neck on a short chain. Shaped like a short, twisting whirlpool, the stubby bit of precious metal was a tribute to the old Northern Gods of War and Passion.

  It took him a moment to realize he’d been had. He glowered at Sinda and Jerra before he threw his gaze at me. A very reluctant, very miserly smile edged the corner of his mouth at the same time that his eyes flicked a warning at me.

  I don’t know what it was about Tor Harnesson, but he hit my resonant frequency every time he glanced my way. Everything inside me, everything about me, started humming and whirring in merging synchronization. I don’t think my body was sure what it was asking for, but I think it wanted to merge with Tor Harnesson—frequently. Unfortunately for me, at least from my point of view, those glances didn’t frequent me frequently enough.

  He’d been with us several months by then. Aloof and distant.

  The guys—Ayden, Thane and Jet—didn’t trust him. I put it down to the male ego thing. They were like dogs, snarling at each other, maneuvering to establish the order within the pack. Before Tor joined our ranks, it had always been Ayden, Thane and Jet, in that order. After he became one of us, it changed.

  Ayden was my mother’s cousin’s son—a tall stretch of taut impatience with a fire of spiky red hair on his head. With a sharp wit and a lash for a tongue, he could cut a man to pieces with a few words. With a few more words, he’d have you crying with laughter. You never knew what to expect from Ayden. He was like a fire on the hearth, which might warm—but could just as easily burn.

  Thane was just taller than Ayden, long and lean, not so violent nor so passionate as his best friend was apt to be, although he could be just as funny once Ayden and Jet got him going. But, for the most part, he was more serious than the other two and sometimes lost patience with his friends.

  Finally, there was Jet. With black hair and eyes, Jet might have been the cleverest of the three, although he’d never admit it. But he was always the quickest wit, the first with the twisted joke, and for that reason he was seldom taken seriously.

  Although life was desperate at times and we lived it on the run, it never lacked for laughter when in the company of those three. Indeed, there were times when I had to bite my tongue—while hiding—to hold my laughter lest I give us all away as the nobguard tramped within scant feet of us, looking for us. And all the while, Ayden would egg me on, encouraging me to laugh, willing and daring enough to take on any fight that might ensue.

  But Ayden was wild.

  There was a restless fire in Ayden, the sort of fire that couldn’t be put out. The kind of fire that’s always looking for a fight, and finds it, and fights it, but is still restless long after the fight is finished and won.

  Tor was older than the rest of us, stronger, tougher, probably smarter, and—except for Thane—taller. Oh! And better-looking too, though, before he joined us, I’d always had a thing for Thane. With dark hair and blue eyes, Thane was handsome enough, in a lanky, boyish way—but Tor! Tor Harnesson! He was named for the Rhyssian god of thunder, pronounced Thor in the north, but generally Tor on the Yute Peninsula.

  Mithra and Ishtar Together at Once!

  Not that it would do me any good. He rarely cast so much as a glance in my direction. I was certain of that, since I had watched him both openly and surreptitiously.

  Nope. Nothing.

  Envying Sinda her plump curves, I put it down to my girlish figure. Although I was small and hadn’t much in the way of breasts or hips, there was no mistaking me for a girl. My face is narrow and heart-shaped, with large eyes, and my lips are small but full. My nose is long. Not large, but long—and it was probably this feature that made me appear older than my actual age.

  More than once, I ground my teeth when one of the other girls made a play for Tor, but he treated them all with cool indifference. Eventually, I decided he was one for men and ignored him, or at least pretended to.

  Until the incident at the wall, I don’t believe Tor had ever said a word to me. Although, there was that time in the cellars…

  There was an innkeeper who supported our cause. Couldn’t afford to support us financially, but his cellar was one of our several secret hangouts. We moved about constantly to evade the nobguards, never staying two nights in one place. I could tell you the name of the inn and you’d smile. The place has become a bit of a landmark in the last ten years.

  Anyhow, though we had little in the way of extra clothing, we had some bedding, and this was stashed above the innkeeper’s ale barrels, bundled together in a large bale wound with rope. The ceiling was low in the cellar, and only a tiny offering of light sifted down through the slatted wood floor overhead to illuminate the tamped dirt floor. As the rope trailed on the ground I tripped on it, pulling the great mass of bedding down on my head. Or almost down. I stood supporting it with my outstretched arms as it teetered at the barrel edge, helpless to push it back up and unable to let it down without succumbing beneath its weight.

  So I stood there like an idiot, crying for help, certain Thane or Jet would come to my aid eventually, after they’d had their laugh at my expense. Oh, they came to my aid all right. Leaving his game of ivories and sauntering across the cellar at an unhurried pace, Jet nicked his steel under the shoulders of my sleeveless jerkin, sliced upward and my jerkin dropped to my waist in folds.

  The cheering and whatnot that ensued!

  You’d think I was Ishtar herself. And I am not, nor ever will be. Believe me, there has never been much to cheer about on the front of my chest. There is about as much topography on my chest as that of lichen on a flat rock.

  Choking on my own laughter, I was about to crumple beneath the weight of the bedding when I felt a warm chest against my back, and an arm went up beside mine to take the weight bearing down on me. At the same time, a hand slid up from my waist, raising my jerkin to cover my chest—where the hand then lingered, the large palm almost swallowing one of my inconsequential breasts.

  Due to this familiarity, I assumed my champion must be Thane, and turned around to grin up at him. And instead looked up into the face of Tor Harnesson.

  I’m sure I quit breathing. And I know for a fact my body went into shock—a shock that jolted through me in a heady rush starting at the nipple under his broad hand, hitting me in the small of the back where my buttocks were warmed by his thighs, and slamming to a stop in the pit of my belly. Immediately, my nipples pinched into hard little kisses as my heart threatened to explode right out of my chest.

  And I’ll swear he knew it. I felt his fingers stiffen the slightest bit and his rough palm shifted to cup and graze my breast.

  More than a little stunned, I stared up at him.

  But Tor wasn’t looking at me. Instead, his gaze cut across the room to stab at Jet with a look of protracted violence.

  Later that evening there was a scuffle at the back of the cellar. Thane stood between Tor and Jet while Jet flung insults at the hardy blond. In the next instant, Thane was pinned against the cold stone wall, Tor’s big hand around his throat.

  When I asked Thane about it later, he glowered at me. “He’s a prick,” he articulated.

  And Jet backed him up. “He’s a fucking violent prick.”

  More male dominance stuff, I surmised.

  Violent, aye, though h
e never carried steel as did the rest of us. The guys rode him about it at first, but not for long. “If I need to kill a man,” he told them, one day, “I’ll take his steel and kill him.” His voice was hard and cold and quiet, like steel rasping out-of-sheath. And though his voice was low, I don’t think he ever said anything that everyone didn’t hear…and believe.

  He wore thick elk-hide gloves that flared out over his wrists and, above the gloves he wrapped his forearms in linen, several layers thick. The guys caught on soon enough that the linen was for protection and they sneered at him, pointing out—braggingly—that they wore nothing to guard their hands or arms.

  “You will,” was Tor’s cool reply.

  But Ayden wouldn’t leave it alone and he continued to taunt Tor as he watched him tear the linen into strips. “Why do you no’ wrap something valuable, at least? A man can live without an arm. Me, I’d wrap ma dick.”

  “A man can survive without a dick,” Tor told him.

  Ayden laughed. “Aye, a man could live without it, although it might no’ be worth tha living. Nay man! Why do you no’ protect yer chest?”

  “I am protecting my chest,” he grunted cryptically, without further explanation.

  It was months before any of us knew what he meant. Even longer before I heard the story of how he’d used his arms to take the sword blows meant for his body—and then had gone on to kill the men that day in the stable. Although I was there, I don’t remember a thing from that day. I don’t even remember entering the stable or why I’d gone there.

  But, by then, Tor was reaching down to throw a very slim, very short length of linen at Ayden. “Here, wrap something valuable.”

  We all laughed. Even Ayden laughed as he pulled out his cock, tied a neat little bow around the bald head, and tucked it away again.

  I laughed ‘til I cried.