Claw and Crown Bundle

  Claw and Crown

  &

  Claw and Crown

  2

  A Gay Viking Fantasy Shifter Romance Series

  Richard Lunch

  Copyright

  Richard Lunch

  2016 and 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, fiction or non-fiction, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters in this work are written to be eighteen years or older, unless otherwise stated.

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  Still Thirsty: Gay Water Sports Erotica Mega Bundle

  About Lovesmith Press

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  Richard Lunch –Historical Gay Erotica, Gay Ménage Erotica with Water Sports… and more!

  Table of Contents

  Claw and Crown

  Claw and Crown 2

  About Richard Lunch

  More by Richard Lunch

  Claw and Crown

  Book 1

  ~ Claw ~

  Chapter 1

  Varghoss

  Claws slashed through curtains. The tapestries of my room ripped asunder. Cold wind rushed through the room, through my body. I stood naked in his room and was swept out by moonbeams that glowed so bright they hurt his eyes. The waves of the sea took me. I washed back and forth in their cold embrace. I swam forward and was blanketed in dark gray fur. I clawed his way up through the fur, gasping for air, and saw a wolf. He stood on the edge of a cliff above the sea. Smoke rose from the ground around him.

  Then there was no wolf. There was a sword, and then a man holding it. He was handsome, and tall. He breathed heavily, and stood naked. I stared. His eyes glowed gold as the Harvest Moon. His chest was covered in strange markings of wolves and bears and men. They danced across his skin. The man stepped toward me.

  “Scraaaaaaawwww!” One of the castle’s hunting falcons sailed past my window.

  I blinked away sleep. I sat up. My fingers sunk into fur. Of course I thought I was swimming in it. I pushed the furs and blankets away and ran my hands along my chest, letting my fingers trace over the muscles that strained beneath my skin.

  I heaved in a great breath. My cock throbbed between my legs. The man from my dream swam into my head. Heat rushed through my body. I reached down my naked body, and wrapped my fingers around my aching manhood.

  “Ah!” I let out a soft sound and turned my head into the pillow.

  I stroked down and bit my lip. I imagined it was his hand on me, his hand stroking me. I saw the man, the face from my dream, hard and handsome. Tension pooled in my testicles. I bucked my hips up, groaning. My shaft pulsed with heat.

  “Oh gods!” I fucked my hand, thrusting into it wildly.

  I shot my seed into the air. It landed on my chest in a warm sticky mess. My body shivered and convulsed with pleasure.

  I dashed the sweat from my brow and stared out my window, my seed cooling on my chest. And I’ll only have a man in my dreams.

  I sighed and got up. I rolled my neck and shoulders, stretching out the muscles. With a cloth and a washbasin of cold water, I cleaned my body, face, and teeth. I looked in a mirror of polished copper and pulled at my face. My eyes, though the blue was still bright, were plagued with the signs of poor sleep. The visions returned nightly, the same dream, the same man. The pleasurable parts of the dream were not much compared to the terrors. I was always glad to see the light of day, but I wondered how long I could go on like this. My chest felt hollow, full of longing for something that was not even in my reach. My flesh cried out for the caresses of another, of another man, and no man, not any man here, at least, would ever be the one to give me those caresses.

  I pulled on my leggings, tunic and furs, and clasped a long fur cloak over my shoulders. The fire had gone out in the night, and autumn’s chill had seeped in through the stone. With gloves and boots, and no royal adornment, I left my quarters to meet my stepfather.

  In the damp castle halls, no one bothered to get out of the way for me. I nodded to guards with shields and to old, scarred warriors, and to a giggling pair of maidens, golden circlets around their foreheads, locks of hair hanging long. One of the young women smiled. I returned it but longed to tell her that her attentions were wasted. It mattered not. If she had any sense, her ambitions were focused elsewhere than on the man who people mocked behind his back.

  “Oy, don’t be compromising the honor of those maidens, eh?” Kilfa’s voice echoed down the hall. He strode up to me with that hateful swagger and wrapped his arm around my shoulders.

  He squeezed, “but then, they’re as safe with you as a cut man, eh?”

  “Off with you,” I grimaced.

  “I don’t hear a denial from ye.”

  “How would the end of my sword work for a denial?”

  “Killing me changes nothing about you,” he shrugged.

  Kilfa continued to jab me in the ribs until I broke away with a rough shrug. I turned on my heel and continued the way I was headed. My soles clacked on the stone.

  The smell of a fire that had been burning for hours wafted in from the war room, as it was called, although more decisions about growing grain were made within its walls than about battle. Things had been quiet for years. I entered to curt nods from the table of bearded men. I sat and a woman served me a clay cup of warm milk. The steam curled up aroun
d my nostrils. I settled into my usual routine; staying quiet and letting the morning meet roll on without my contribution.

  I looked only at my stepfather, Fundinn, the King, and tried to get him to make eye contact. He never would. Even from under bushy eyebrows that shadowed his lids, I could see that his eyes moved to meet those of every man but me. I noted that the lines in his face ran deeper every day. I watched gray hair sprout on his head. Yet, he never made an effort to speak to the man who was next in line for the crown.

  “Who will go on patrol?” The king asked.

  “I will. I’ll leave now,” I said and stood, draining my milk and leaving the cup on the table.

  “Least you’ll do something useful,” said the King.

  “Yes, your majesty.”

  “Leave me.”

  I grabbed an apple out of a bowl on the table, and existed with hardly a murmur from the other men. It was dangerous to show me any respect, let alone pay attention to me in front of my stepfather. To favor the prince, was to experience a drop in rank so fast it would make a man’s ears pop.

  I was glad to leave the morning meet. On my own, things tended to be different.

  I walked out to the yard. It was directly inside the eastern wall. Sunlight dried the dew that coated the brown grass and dirt. Racks of practice shields and swords with dulled edges lined the stone walls. Smoke filled the air in that way that was crisp and clean smelling in the autumn, when the earth cooled and no longer smelled of summer’s fruit and summer’s rot.

  “Who will patrol?” I called out to the men practicing.

  “I,” called, Finli, a gruff man with red hair that wound out from his head in viny tendrils.

  “Might as well,” said Skaroi, a man with a scar running along his jaw.

  “Oy’ll go,” said a young man, who was towheaded. I had only met him a few times. He must have just become old enough to join the guard. He tossed his practice sword to a yard boy.

  They washed their faces and pulled on their armor. Stable boys brought their horses. Setnar, my gelding, walked toward me with eagerness on his features.

  I’d like to think it was my good nature that inspired such loyalty, but no, it was the apple I’d brought along. Setnar brushed his mouth on my shoulder. I patted Setnar’s roan head, admiring the black and white mix of fur, and handed the apple up to him. He ate it out of my hand, and I turned it so he could get every last part before tossing the core. Other men let their horses eat the cores, but horses never seemed to me the type of animal to eat an apple core. They weren’t pigs.

  “Ready?” I whispered to Setnar. He flicked his ears in response.

  I swung into the saddle. The reins felt familiar. If I rode any more, I suspected they would be grooved with my handprints.

  “Let’s go!”

  The rumble of three sets of hooves sounded behind me as we broke at a run out of the gate and into the open world. I took patrol as often as I could. It was the closest I had to escape. I had never been far outside of the farms that rolled outside the villages that spread out around the castle and comprised our kingdom, but at least I was not within those stone walls.

  We rode down the paths between the wheat fields. The grain was golden and heavy with its ripeness. Fields of barley whispered and rippled in the wind like the sea. Outside of the castle grounds, the guards were friendlier to me, and the villagers cared little for the day-to-day favor of the king so long as they had enough, and taxes were not roughly extorted.

  “Oy yer highness. The beer’ll be fine this, year. Will ye be stopping by?” called old Vlegnar.

  I pulled the horse to a walk. He was harvesting barley from his field. The man made only beer, and rumor had it, used all his barley for it. He had reportedly once told a woman he was buying bread from, after she had asked him why he did not make his own barley bread, But I’m no good with bread. It doesn’t like me. I tried to make bread once and it almost turned into beer. It was alive and yeasty. It near crawled away and started its own farm!

  I smiled at the thought.

  “Vlegnar, we’ll stop on our return, then?”

  “Aye, yer highness. Sample the brew. I’ve got two kinds just came to finish.”

  “You are a treasure greater than gold,” I told him.

  He grinned his big, half-toothed smile.

  I kicked the horse back into a run.

  “That’s why I never refuse a patrol with ye,” called Finli, his red hair tumbling behind him, “Never get beer from peasants with Kilfa.”

  “They know he has no appreciation for their craft.”

  “I’ve got appreciation aplenty in my stomach,” Finli laughed.

  We passed the brush that marked the end of the wheat fields. Out here, between field and forest, were cottages dotted along the landscape. Hunters, hedge witches, and other fringe dwellers lived here, and it was here we began our patrol.

  Split to cover the area, we watched the edge of the woods for anything suspicious. Bandits, raiders, or even bears could threaten the villagers. In exchange for their servitude, they expected protection from those who occupied the castle, and we gave it. The town guard kept watch, doing their best to prevent crimes large and small, and I and my warriors, or my stepfather’s warriors, rode out, battle ready, in shifts each day, to watch for threats. The whole of the kingdom could be rode in a day, and it gave the villagers comfort to see us go by. They would wave, and offer some of their meals if they had it. Yet, no threats, beyond the odd pack of wolves, had ever materialized in all my years of patrol.

  Why my stepfather was so vigilant remained a mystery to me.

  A wolf howled. It carried with eerie clarity over the treetops. A murder of crows burst from the trees and danced up to the sun. I hadn’t noticed before, but purple clouds were beginning to seep over the horizon like dye into cloth.

  “To me!” I called.

  “A wolf’s scared the prince, eh?” chided the yellow-haired man.

  I shot him a look of disapproval. He dropped his smile.

  “What is your name?”

  “Taf,” his face grayed a little.

  “Taf, try to remember that wolves eat livestock at, and at best, that is all. At worst, they eat children. My concern should not be mistaken for cowardice.”

  Another howl peeled up to darkening sky.

  “How far away did that sound?”

  “Hard to tell, your highness. Two times the castle’s yard away?”

  “That’s not far for wolves.”

  “No, your highness, but we only heard one.”

  “Best we go. Make noise. If we can drive them away before they sense there’s easy pickings to be had, it’d be best.”

  “Aye,” they said in unison.

  “Spread out. We head into the woods. Stay within calling distance. A bitten horse is a terrible thing.”

  “Aye, your highness,” said Finli. He snapped his reins, “Rah!”

  He took off into the woods. His horse nimbly leapt over roots and vines. Skaroi and Taf went to our left, shouting into the trees. I led Setnar in with more caution. All memory of the sun peering through clouds disappeared among the dark leaves. I shivered as the shadow cooled my skin. Creatures rattled the around in what little low growth there was. The trees were so tall and old; they had choked out anything that dared try to make its home on the ground long ago. Another howl rang out from within the wood.

  “Like what ghosts would sing,” said Finli. He had circled back to my right.

  “Aye. But not so harmless as ghosts,” I said.

  “Ghosts aren’t harmless, highness.”

  Another howl sounded, long and low. We moved closer to the sound. A branch snapped. The howl cut off. The wolves sensed us.

  “Oy!” I drew my sword and ran forward shouting, “Out you!”

  Finli followed, making howling noises of his own and shaking any branches he rode by. A flash of brown fur flew in front of us and disappeared into a thicket.

  “Finli,” I said, but he
had the horn to his lips.

  The call carried. Within seconds, the other men answered with horn calls of their own. They would be here any moment. I plunged ahead after the wolf. I saw it. It ran, a beautiful and large animal, its coat of brown and gray shimmered with vitality.

  I followed to try and drive the animal back. There was a howl farther along. The rest of them must be deeper in.

  Mistletoe wound around the trees and in between them, webbing them together. I ducked beneath, and firmed my grip on my sword. We pushed through a thicket and broke out at a gallop.

  “Yah!” I yanked back on Setnar’s reigns. He kicked up dust as he skidded to a halt.

  Standing in a circle was a group of men, foreigners by the look of them. They wore the fur cape pinned over their right shoulder that we did, but the rest of their clothes were not the woven wool we wore but furs, some roughly sewn together like they were only just ripped from the animals. I counted thirteen men in all, and it was clear, somehow, who the leader was. I squared my shoulders and challenged him.

  “What’re you doing in His Majesty King Fundinn’s forest? Trespassing is forbidden.”

  “Impossible to trespass on what’s yours,” said the man fore and center.

  I glared down at him. He was a hard-muscled savage. His beard was braided and decorated with gold beads. His arms and neck were tattooed with blue and green images of gods and animals in what seemed an intricate story, one I was unfamiliar with. His eyes were a brilliant gold, and his features, though rough, held my gaze. My stomach dropped. I looked at his lips, his eyes, his nose. They were the same.