The Barbarian Book 3

ZIN

“Abba!” she screamed. But he couldn’t hear her. She’d never seen her father look like that, his face all twisted up into an ugly mask, roaring like a monster as he slashed and chopped at the enemy.

Blood sprayed, flicked in his face, and spattered his chest. She’d never truly noticed how big he was until then. He towered over the enemy.

His next opponent, a man dressed in gleaming metal, struck with his sword.

Her father raised his own sword, and Zin recognized it as the battered old one he’d kept from his time raiding the Paleskins, the only metal in their entire clan.

The Quarthi always fought and hunted with bone.

It was older than she was, and it was no match, rusted and bent. His opponent’s strike snapped it clean in half. It didn’t faze her father.

Dropping his now useless blade, he lifted his opponent off his feet like he weighed nothing and threw him to the ground.

He raised his boot with a savage growl, about to smash in his face, when a figure reared up behind him.

“Abba!” Zin screamed again. And this time he heard. Their eyes locked. His eyes widened as he realized.

He turned—too late. The sword struck fast and deep, so deep it tore straight through his abdomen and into his back.

Time seemed to stop. She went numb. Her ears rang with the thud of her heartbeat. Then the sword withdrew. Blood spurted. Her father coughed, hands filling with red as he clutched himself.

“No!”

His killer looked up. He was dressed in metal too. He even wore a metal casing on his head. It bore the sculpture of an eagle, its wings outspread across his brow, and beneath were two blue, glittering eyes.

Zin turned to run, only to freeze in her tracks. The forest was gone. In its place was an open swath of broken stumps and ditches. The sky was brown with dust. Then she saw the bodies.

So many of them. Her people and Paleskins alike. Men, women, and children. It was almost as though the whole world was dying. The crows were already feasting.

Zin opened her eyes, heart hammering, sweat trickling between her breasts. Slowly, she sat up. It was still dark, the sun far from rising yet. After checking that her family was fast asleep, she stood.

Quietly, she pulled on her boots, then picked up her belt of knives and her waterskin. After strapping them on, she slung on her quiver, then picked up her bow and spear.

For a moment, she stared into the darkness of the trees ahead. Was she really going to do this? Her heart beat harder. She looked down at her sleeping family.

Grit had Quip crushed to his chest.

Quess’s arms were tight around their mother’s neck, her face buried between her breasts.

Xala was alone now, her arm stretched out over a body that was no longer there, her dark hair draped over her face.

Zin’s throat constricted. Forget all the petty fights and annoyances.

Forget the fact that she still had to share a bed with a sister who liked to kick in her sleep and another who took up too much space.

That she had to live with a brother she was expected to help change and feed, and who woke her up at night, and a second who liked to argue and thought he knew everything.

None of it mattered anymore.

Tears swelled in her eyes, but she pushed them away.

She was a warrior, and warriors didn’t cry.

Swift and silent, she raced after her father.

***

Zin didn’t know what to expect when she caught up with the rest of the warriors—chaos, devastation, failure... What she didn’t expect was a silence so deep her ears rang. It was still too.

The wind didn’t rustle through the branches. No animals crunched through the leaf litter or made their mating calls. A cricket chirped, but it was alone.

It was as though the forest itself were taking a deep breath.

Waiting.

Zin had traveled throughout the night as quickly as possible, only stopping once to fill her waterskin. She wasn’t tired. As a hunter, she was used to long, difficult journeys.

But her mind had been torn, plagued by the thought she might not get to the battle in time and with fears for her mother.

Zin tugged at her braid as she glanced into the canopy. It would be daylight shortly. Soon, her mother would wake to find her daughter gone.

The moon glinted through the trees. The shadows were long. She tried her best to stay undetected, but she felt eyes following her.

It didn’t concern her too much. She doubted anyone but her father would care.

If he discovered her, he might try and drag her back to the clan, though even that was doubtful now. It was too late. The tension was so thick it filled her lungs like a fog and gripped at her throat.

There was an uncomfortable prickling up her spine.

The Paleskins were near, and she’d best be ready.

She craned her head to look up at one of the taller trees.

Swift and silent, she climbed, the branches hardly rustling as she achieved the heights. She wasn’t the only one with the same idea. Several other figures sat high in the branches of the surrounding trees.

The moonlight glinted on their hair and shoulders. Some stood, others sat, but all were turned to the scene ahead.

It was disappointing. Zin squinted, but she was too far from the edge of the forest to see anything much, their enemy little more than a shadow in the distance. She glanced at the neighboring warriors.

Most were resting. A good idea.

Zin sat, clutching her bow in her lap, trying her best not to think about the mess she’d left behind.

GRINDA

Xala noticed Zin’s absence first, and the moment she screamed for Grinda, Grinda knew.

She stared at her eldest daughter’s empty spot.

Xala didn’t have the sense to be fearful, pacing around, kicking at the earth as she pouted. “I want to go too! I don’t want to be stuck here! It isn’t fair.”

Quess was crying. Grit was silent and pale. Quip was still asleep, thankfully, but wouldn’t be for long if Xala continued with her attitude.

Others in the camp gave her sympathetic looks as they packed up their things, preparing for another long day.

She continued to stare at Zin’s empty spot, at the long brown hair glinting in the sunlight and the rumples in her bedding. Grinda could see she’d been tossing and turning.

She had slept there, her daughter. Only hours before. Comfortable. Safe. Dreaming.

Her beautiful daughter.

And now she was gone. First Mock, now Zin. Almost a third of their family.

Xala kept complaining. “Amma, are you listening to me? I want to go too!”

Finally, Grinda had had enough. She snapped her head up. Her daughter stepped back, but Grinda snatched at her chin before she had a chance to escape.

Her daughter might have towered over her, but she was still a child, and Grinda was still her mother.

“Now, you listen to me,” Grinda hissed. “I don’t care what you feel or what you think. You’re going to stay, and you’re going to do as I say.

“And if you fight with me or try anything foolish, I’ll tie you up and drag you behind the rest of us like a dog. Understood?”

Eyes so wide they seemed to swallow up her face, Xala nodded.

Grinda released her. Xala rubbed at her chin, looking at her feet as she struggled against her tears.

Grinda felt a surge of guilt. Xala was only young—and scared. Everything was changing. Nothing would be the same. Their future was uncertain. And now two of those they loved were gone.

“I’m sorry,” Grinda said.

A tear trickled down Xala’s cheek. “I’m frightened.”

Grinda pulled her into a fierce hug. “I know, biala.” She squeezed her tight. “I know. But I need you, now more than ever. You need to be strong for your brothers and sister. And for me.”

She kissed her cheek. “All right?”

Xala wiped at her face. Grinda did the same.

By the time they were packed and ready to go, the sun had barely risen. Quip was happy in his sling. Quess and Grit were up ahead with Xala.

Her older daughter had taken Grinda’s words to heart and was keeping them close, both their hands gripped tightly in hers.

Just as she was about to leave, Grinda looked over her shoulder toward where she knew Mock and Zin were.

“Find each other. Protect each other. Then come back to me.” Her voice broke. “In two whole pieces, if you could.”

MOCK

Surprise. As always, it was their greatest ally. But even surprise had its limits against a force as formidable as the Paleskins.

The Quarthi might have had the shadows and the trees, but their enemy had armor and power and sheer numbers.

Many would die today.

Mock’s brothers and sisters were spread thin, most in the heights, some on the ground, depending on whether their strength was the bow or the spear.

The sun had begun to rise, and the Paleskins were on the move, though the majority of their force still waited well beyond the tree line, like a shadow on the horizon.

But waiting for what?

The first sound of battle was the whiz of arrows. Cries, shouts, and screams followed. Horses whinnied. Branches snapped. Men shouted.

Mock gripped his spear tightly.

ZIN

Zin unleashed arrow after arrow, but her targets were hard to hit, moving quickly, flashing between trees on their big horses and in their shining metal or hard leather.

That metal! How she hated it. For every successful hit, several more misses dented harmlessly on them. It wasn’t fair. They were cheating. Cowards! They weren’t warriors at all.

It seemed only moments later that she let fly the last of her arrows. Her heart thudded in her throat. Her blood thrummed through her veins. Her stomach twisted into a sickly knot.

She stood frozen on her perch, at a loss.

She watched as the last of others in the trees made his way down. He vanished, and now she was the only one left. She wiped away the sweat trickling down her neck.

Men were screaming. Never in her life had she heard a man scream like that.

Grabbing the handle of her slashing blade, she slowed her breathing. Only cowards hid in the trees.

Her heart was beating in her ears as she descended into the chaos below. Her hands were so slippery with sweat she almost fell several times. It was embarrassing.

Strong and brave. Strong and brave. Strong and brave.

I am my father’s daughter.

She made her final jump, hit the ground hard, tumbled, then scrambled to her feet. She turned at a thunderous noise—a horse, a Paleskin.

In her mind she’d always thought them small and weak, much like her mother, but they were nothing of the sort. He looked as big as a mountain, and his metal clothes seemed to catch fire in the sun.

A burning mountain.

What chance did she have?

He swung his sword hard and fast. His horse screamed and rolled its eyes.

No time. Duck, dive, roll. She grunted as one of the horse’s hooves slammed into her hip. Fire burned up her side and into her head before exploding behind her left eye.

Half blind, she slashed out with her blade. The horse screamed and collapsed onto its haunches, throwing its rider as blood pissed out of its ankle.

Zin didn’t hesitate.

Her legs seemed to move of their own accord. The bone of her blade glinted in the sun. The Paleskin’s eyes widened. A roar she’d never thought herself capable of clawed up her throat.

Her first slash clanged off the metal at his breast, but her second found its target.

Along with her third, fourth, and sixth.

She spared only a moment to assess what she’d done. There was blood. Lots of blood. On her breasts, down her arms, spreading darkly across the ground.

A strange roaring filled her ears, muffling the noises around her to a distant buzz. Oddly enough, she felt numb. Empty. Except for the thrum of her blood in her veins and the pounding of her heart.

She didn’t even feel pain.

The knot in her stomach loosened.

She could do this.

She lifted her head at a scream. One of her sisters was in trouble.

Not for long.

MOCK

Croki cut swaths through the charging Paleskins. There was more blood in the sky than air.

But Mock was better. Big he might have been, but Croki had nothing on Mock’s skill. While Croki was like a thundering giant, Mock was like the wind.

And he couldn’t deny he’d missed it—the thrill of the fight, the feel of his muscles moving smoothly beneath his skin.

He might have been getting old: gray in his beard, his instincts a little blunt. But he still had plenty of fire yet.

Slash. Chop. Smash. Teeth broke beneath his elbow. He couldn’t help but be reminded of his raiding days. Duck. Leap. Swipe. Blood sprayed as a white belly opened.

Mock licked his lips at the taste of iron. Power flowed down his chest, through his limbs, and into his balls until he throbbed and burned.

Oh, but it felt good.

But that didn’t change the fact that they were losing, that they’d always been meant to lose, despite Kob’s encouraging words.

Clan Leader Kob—a decent man, a great leader, a beloved father. One of the first to die.

All those children he had left behind.

Quip. Xala. Quess. Grit. Zin… Grinda. All their faces and loving arms.

His senses slipped. He unbalanced. The blade slid from his grasp. His opponent charged. Mock fumbled with his sword.

ZIN

Zin’s arms shook; her legs trembled. Sweat coursed down her back, beneath her arms, and between her breasts. When she spun, it flicked like rain from the ends of her hair.

She hardly knew where she was or what she was doing. A Paleskin grin. Shining steel. Step back. Stumble. Twist. Slash.

She’d abandoned her bow long ago, and now she was down to only the spear at her back and two blades, the last one still embedded deep in the neck of one of the enemy.

She was losing. They were all losing. How she’d managed to survive so far was a miracle.

Every time she lifted her left arm, it felt like she was lifting a tree branch.

The wound in her shoulder was deep, and blood gushed like a waterfall every time she moved. Her whole left side was drenched with it.

Her right leg kept bowing beneath her from an old kick to her kneecap. Pain everywhere. Blood everywhere.

Her mouth was so dry she couldn’t swallow, and it made her heart thud so hard it felt as though it was about to explode from her chest.

Her kinta stuck to her thighs. Her braid was undone, and sweaty strands stuck to her face. She panted and gasped, sucking at the air, but it did nothing to quench the fire in her chest.

A Paleskin charged. She leapt over a body.

There were so many dead, so many of her own people. It didn’t make sense. The Quarthi were the Mother’s children. She was supposed to protect them.

A sword came down, and Zin ducked. She felt a sting as the blade whispered against the back of her neck. She turned with a scream, whipping out her boar blade as she did.

Satisfaction burned through her chest as his cheek opened up. Her enemy staggered, clutching at himself, and Zin leapt on his back, stabbing and chopping until he fell to the ground, screaming.

Then she was running again, as much as she could run on her injured leg. There were Quarthi up ahead. Alive. One of them had a sword.

The air caught in her throat. “Abba!” She tried to scream, only to cough and splutter.

It almost seemed to happen in slow motion. The two men met with a clang of their swords that punched through the deafening clamor of the surrounding battle.

The Paleskin seemed bigger than in her dream. Angrier. In my dream. And then she realized—she’d seen this all before.

Her father was angrier still, furious, feral, all hair and muscle and gritted teeth.

And for a brief moment, Zin could see what the Paleskin must have seen and wondered how he possessed the courage to face him.

The Paleskin sword smashed through her father’s. Her father discarded his broken blade and punched down so hard on his opponent’s arm that he dropped his sword.

The Paleskin didn’t seem so big anymore, almost small, as her father threw him to the ground. Her father’s face twisted into an ugly snarl as he raised his boot with a roar.

“Abba!” she screamed.

This time he heard her. His eyes widened. He turned, hair flaring around him in a shower of sweat and blood—too late.

But Zin’s spear was already soaring through the air. Desperate. Powerful. Her arm wrenched. She felt something in her shoulder tear.

It went high, but it did the job, slamming into the second Paleskin’s head, knocking him off his feet and sending the eagle-carved encasing flying through the air.

Zin collapsed to her knees with a gasp. Someone shouted her name, but it seemed oceans away. Her ears rang. She spat out a mouthful of blood. She couldn’t move, both her arms useless, her knee worse.

She stared at the ground, pink drool hanging from her lips. Then suddenly, she was in the air. Big, slippery hands gripped her waist with unbelievable strength.

She caught the flash of a familiar beard and a pair of dark eyes that filled her heart with warmth. Not such a monster now but sweet and kind and loving.

She’d never really told him, had never really known until then, how much she loved him.

The canopy arced, and soon she was staring at the ground again, draped over her father’s shoulder, watching as his boots churned through mud, horse shit, and blood.

She would tell him now.

“Abba…” was all she managed, her tongue thick and useless in her mouth.

“I’ve got you, Zin.”

MOCK

“I’ve got you.”

Mock didn’t have time to wonder what she was doing there, only to get her away. Something hard swelled in his throat. His chest tightened, making the air wheeze in his lungs.

The look of her covered in blood and kneeling over like that, as though she’d been about to gasp her last breath—it would haunt his nightmares forever.

She was just a girl.

His little girl.

Fuck the battle. Fuck whether they won or lost. The only thing that mattered was Zin. She hung over him, lifeless. And he’d never felt such fear. Not even during his darkest days in the cells of Fairmont.

But he couldn’t check on her now. All he could do was run.

The Paleskins were everywhere. He heard Croki roar, screaming from somewhere to his left, another shout, a shrill neigh from a startled horse.

He jumped over bodies, dodged and ducked, lashing out defensively with his blade as he did.

But he wasn’t quick enough. This was war, and nobody cared about his desperation. A Paleskin to his left! He turned, but his enemy slammed into him before he could defend himself.

Mock struck the ground, his head smashing into something hard. Stars exploded behind his eyes.

Zin.

His nose filled with the stink of blood.

Then all he knew was blackness.

ZIN

The world seemed to ripple, filled with fuzzy light and shadows and ringing with muffled voices. There was movement around her, figures, sometimes dark, sometimes shining. What were they doing?

Zin blinked. Where was she? It was daylight, so why was she lying on the ground? She looked up. The trees looked different. Everything looked different.

She tried to turn her head to ask Xala what was happening, only to stop with a hiss. She closed her eyes. Pain. So much pain.

It exploded in her neck, shoulders, and ribs, then down through her arms and into her knees before whipping through the rest of her body until the tears gushed from her eyes.

She would’ve screamed if her throat hadn’t been so dry; instead, she coughed and retched, which unleashed another wave of agony.

She opened her eyes at a shout. The word was strange. It wasn’t Quarthi. It was English. She knew it! But it was so hard to remember anything.

But why was he speaking English? A figure hovered over her. And slowly, the light and shadow coalesced. She sucked in a breath.

A Paleskin—short, sweaty hair, a filthy metal plate hugging a broad chest. There was a streak of blood down the side of his face. Beardless but with thick stubble. Two glittering blue eyes.

She knew those eyes.

It all came back in a rush—leaving the campsite, the battle, her collapse. Abba! Her eyes rolled as she tried to look for her father. It was too painful to turn her head.

Where he’d gone, she could only guess. She could only hope he was alive and someplace better than she was.

Hot white fire burst along her shoulder as she reached for her belt of knives. There was only one blade left—her bird blade. Used for skinning small animals, small and razor sharp. It was perfect.

They wouldn’t take her alive. The Paleskin shouted in alarm, but the blade was already at her throat.

A swift slash, a sharp pain, followed by a haze of red.

The Paleskin knocked the blade out of her grip, but it was too late. He pressed down hard on her neck to stanch the bleeding, his eyes wide, almost fearful. He shouted something again, but it was muffled.

Abba, Amma, Xala…

She tried to remember them—their faces, their love.

Grit, Quess…

She spat out a mouthful of blood.

Quip…

Xala, Abba…

The Paleskin pressed down harder until she gurgled.

Quess…

Amma, Abba…

Darkness stretched over her eyes.

Quip, Grit, Quess…

Forgive me.