Dragons of Challon ™
Book One
Unease rose in Julian as he felt almost alone in
the
strange fog. A
foreboding? Guillaume
either sensed Julian’s warrior disquiet
or shared it for he stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. Glancing over to check on
Destain where he
sat in the chair, his eyes were drawn past his brother.
Damian stood off to the side, talking with four
strangers. Having
accepted the oath of every villein and
serf of Glen Shane and Kinmarch, Julian knew they were not of his
holding. He blinked
twice for the small group was more
than passing odd. One,
obviously of Norse
descent––judging by the white blonde hair––stood a head taller than any
man
present. He was not
someone you would
ever forget. Clearly
a warrior, he took
up a position of deference and protector behind the three younger,
slighter
men. Dressed too
fine to be anything but
high born, all three were the exact image of the other, same pale red
hair and
narrow faces…triplets. Not
something you
saw often. In
earnest conversation with
his cousin, the middle one offered Damian a horn of drink.
Julian had not partaken of the mead being offered,
for fearing losing his head around Tamlyn.
Mayhap, the herbs the priest tossed upon the fire affected
him similar
to the mind-bending potions oft used in the Holy
Land. Yet,
after he blinked thrice
trying to rid the strange image, the trio remained with their pet giant.
Suddenly, a feral war-scream split the night’s
revelry, jerking Julian’s attention back to the balefire. A man soared over the
flames of the sunken
fire and through the smoke, making it appear as if he materialized from
the
blue fog. Clad in
doeskin breeches,
molded to his body by the lacing of leather thongs up to his mid-thigh,
he wore
nothing else, though upon his head was a half-mask with antlers of a
large
buck.
The man-stag executed several high leaps, kicking
gracefully to fly through the air, then spinning from leap to leap,
until he
came to a stop before Julian. Oddly,
he
stood perfectly still, barely more than an arm’s length away. Vivid lavender eyes glowed
behind the animal
mask, locking with Julian. Then,
with a
magician’s pass, he extended his hand.
Held between his thumb and first finger was a single
fresh-picked
violet. Julian
glanced down at the
purple flower, a shade similar to the eyes of the masked man, unsure of
the
significance. Julian
sensed this was a
test––that he was supposed to take it.
So
he did.
“Your first gift as Lord
of the Glen.” Malcolm
materialized, once again, just behind Julian’s shoulder. “On the first violets of
spring, one may
maketh a wish and it shall come true.
Wish carefully, my lord.
What
will you wish for?”
Julian warily lifted the flower to his nose. There was no scent. The delicacy belied the
endurance of the
plant.
What should he
wish for? Images
of Tamlyn rose in
his mind, of him touching her, her scent, her heat.
He wanted to plant his seed within her body,
for them to create a son. That
need, that
hunger, was crippling.
“Wish, Lord Challon.
It shall be so.” The
stag-man
said with a small half-smile, touched with a hint of wickedness. Then, he spun in a circle
and vaulted away
from Julian.
He continued to leap, capering around the bonfire
with a vertiginous force, the jumps rising higher and higher, almost
gathering
power from the bluish smoke. His
bare
chest glistened with sweat. His
arms
flung open and closed with each revolution; his head snapped about as
he
spotted his turns to keep from getting dizzy.
Julian saw with each rotation, the lavender eyes fixed on
him. Again
and again.
So absorbed by the athletic display, Julian failed
to
notice four men stepping out of the shadows.
Unlike the leaper, they were dressed in the green garb of
hunters.
They began a hypnotic mime of the four hunters
chasing the male stag, pursuing, spinning and leaping through the smoke. The hunters drew closer,
closer, miming
shooting arrows at the man-stag from bows.
Finally, the man-stag was brought down from the invisible
arrows. He
staggered and fell to the ground,
representing death. So
bound by the
performers, the crowd groaned in agonized empathy, as the male-stag
suffered
death-throws. The
four hunters bent
down, each taking a leg or arm, and in solemn respect made a full tour
about
the balefire. The
blue smoke grew
thicker, until it swallowed the hunters and their fallen prey, whilst
the pipes
wailed in a dirge. Then,
a lone skirl of
the bagpipes tore through the hush, as suddenly, a man leaped through
the
flames to the exaltations of the people of the clan.
Malcolm explained, “The stag has been reborn––the young Highlander now be Lord of the Forest.”
Malcolm explained, “The stag has been reborn––the young Highlander now be Lord of the Forest.”
No
longer clothed in the leathern chausses or wearing the animal mask, he
was
dressed in a plaide of black and
green. He carried
an ornate claymore,
the sword nearly as long as the man’s height.
Instead of performing the high leaps and spins, he moved
in fluid
motion, demonstrating the skill of a man and the Highland great-sword
being
one. He slashed the
air and parried with
power, force and control as Julian had never seen, turning the weapon
into an
extension of his body.
Before, Julian had sneered at the Scots’ claymore
as
too long and clumsy. He
now saw the
fluid swings, thrust and parries meant for offense and defense were
anything
but cumbersome. With
a magical skill,
the warrior almost seemed carried by the drums, pipes and flutes. The magnificent sword
seemed a part of the
warrior, his artistry one Julian envied.
Mesmerized, he watched and memorized the sinuous, elegant
movements of
the young, muscular Scotsman, and knew on the morrow he would seek him
out to
learn this mastery.
The volume of the melody slowed and lowered,
stilling
until it was only two pipers playing a low haunting refrain. A whispered hush descended
over the whole
gathering. Everyone
held their
collective breaths while all focus left the braw Highlander, and
shifted to the
opposite side of the hill.
Then, Julian saw what drew them.
In long robes and bearing torches, two men
approached
from the south entrance to the tòrr, solemnly promenading down the long
avenue of trees, in front of a figure covered completely in a net of
spun
gold. Two female
attendants trailed in
her wake––Raven and Rowanne––each holding a corner of the gold netting
train. The
procession had the feel of a mock wedding
march. The veiled
figure came to a stop,
as the robed escorts stepped to the side.
Taking hold of the veil, she drew her arms out
before
her and then raised them skyward.
She
stayed in that position, in supplication, then slowly allowed the net
to slide
back revealing Tamlyn, standing there in the flickering torchlight. She wore a kirtle of gold,
spun from Highland
magic, molding over her curvaceous body, with splits up to both her
thighs. The heavy
golden torque was
about her neck. A
chaplet of apple
blooms crowned her unbound, honey-colored hair, which fell in waves
down to her
hips. Wide gold
cuff surrounded her
wrists, and reflected the torchlight.
The only thing on her bare arms.
A Pictish
Princess conjured from the Scottish mists.
Two tin pipes played a slow, haunting tune as
Tamlyn
rose up on her bare toes. She
swayed,
rocking to the accent of the drum, the heavy, throbbing beat of the bodhrán, providing cadence for the
wanton roll of her hips. When
the music
swelled, the bagpipes joined in. Her
body undulated in a dance so carnal, so profane, that a crippling wave
of lust
seized Julian’s whole being. Flames
of
desire roared through him. The
pain
tripled as Tamlyn began her dance, circling the fire, her lithe. Her sensual movements
gained force, matching
the power of the melody, as she kicked her legs out, spun, arched and
leaped. She flung
the net about,
trailing behind her so it appeared she had wings.
Julian stared.
Awestruck.
Entranced.
The pounding of his heart echoed the bodhrán;
his blood thickening until the
drum set the rhythm of his heart.
She held
him spellbound, breathless. He
was
unable to take his eyes from her as she danced on air, lifted by the
strange
music. A music that
had a life all its
own.
The tall Highlander stepped back into the light,
swinging the claymore again. Tamlyn
spun
around him, and almost in pantomime he followed her, his circle turning
inside
of hers until they finally came face-to-face.
The music lowered as the pair slowly began to move in
unison, the sword
and the net symbolically working as counterpoints in the blatantly
sexual
dance. Tension of
the watchers rose, the
crowd drinking in the wantonness
exuded by the athletic pair. The
very
air was laden, thrummed with the erotic heat conjured by the earthy man
and
woman. The dancing
drew them closer,
Tamlyn’s body arching toward the Highlander, each feeding off the
radiant
sexuality of the other. Voices
here and
there began to hum the music, adding to the potent brew of this magical
spell.
A fine sheen of perspiration coated Tamlyn’s
golden
skin. She glowed
with an inner light.
And the force with which Julian wanted her nearly
drove him to his knees.
Julian’s possessiveness howled.
No man should dare dance in such a manner
with his lady. He
took a step toward
them, but Guillaume grabbed his arm to stay him.
Shaking his head, his brother silently saying,
do not interfere.
Once again, the music lowered, and three other
couples entered the circle of light, their sinuous movements mimicking
Tamlyn
and the Highlander. All
eight pranced
around the fire, swaying, almost touching at times, only to have the
females
twirl away playfully, taunting the males to follow their lead. Three more pairs joined
the mating dance―for
Julian could call it nothing else––provoking the whole crowd to feast
off the
high intensity of sexual emotion created by the enthralling dancers.
They revolved around and around the fire, yet
almost
seemed a part of it. The
whole scene
binding his senses.
Julian could
only see Tamlyn.
The other dancers were vague, faceless figures,
mere
shadows moving about Tamlyn’s golden presence.
He burned for her. Jealousy
ripped through him with talons every time the Highlander accidentally
brushed
his arm against hers. Each
time Tamlyn
looked into the man’s eyes. Julian
would
have marched over, claimed the woman that was his.
Only, Guillaume’s cautioning hold bid him not
to interfere. Emotions
were so violent
within him it nearly saw him nauseous, kept only at bay by the
overpowering
lust, lust so ravenous he never felt the like before.
Each time the pairs circled, three more joined the
swaying and spinning, until they numbered three circles of thirteen
couples. They wove,
first the men around
the women, then the females circling the males.
Teasing. Luring.
And it was slowly killing Julian.
The music rose, driving the dancers onward. Then, it would fall again
and slow as the
couples drew closer together.
Rage and
lust surged through him to the point of
blindness. He flung Guillaume’s hand
away and stalked into the circle of blue light.
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#ScottishRomance #MedievalRomance #HistoricalRomance
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