Lord of Ashes

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It was dark and quiet inside the hide-covered shelter, almost peaceful. Nothing moved but a single piece of animal skin come loose in the night, letting the dawn light flit into the tent as it flapped gently in the breeze.

Endellion took a deep breath, smelling the salt tang of moist flesh and stale sex. Surrounding her on a pile of furs were half a dozen Khurtic warriors, every one of them deep in slumber, every one of them worn out from their long night. She smiled at the memory. They had tried so very hard to keep up but she was Elharim, and not even a half-dozen had come close to satisfying her appetite.

The one lying next to her — she didn’t know his name, had no use for any of their names — bore the mark of her nails on his back, raw and livid on his pale flesh. He was a pretty one, his skin smooth for a Khurta, his face unmarred by war and violence. That was unusual for one of his kind. It had taken her some time to find such boys, the Khurtas were a notoriously ugly race, but after much searching she had managed to take her pick of their youngest and strongest. None had refused her. None had dared.

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