The Barbarian

Even for a Paleskin, she smelled nice. Closing his eyes, Mock kissed her neck, just like he used to with Danna. Oh, Danna.

How she had loved it. How she used to giggle and squirm in his arms.

Kissing her again, he breathed in the scent of her hair. If he thought hard enough, he could almost imagine it was her.

The Paleskin wasn’t that much younger than Danna had been before she died. She was smaller, though, and more delicate, as Paleskins generally were.

He flicked his tongue at her earlobe. She tasted the same, that salty sweetness.

He tightened his hold around her. His cock stirred—but not enough. It was enough just to hold her and pretend, at least for tonight.

He smoothed his hand down her soft neck, then along her shoulders. His mouth twisted. He had never understood the Paleskins’ obsession with clothing.

Quarthi women only wore tops when it was cold. They were proud of their womanhood, as they should be. They didn’t know shame. And I bet her back is as smooth as an oiled pelt.

Aching to know, he tugged at her sleeves. With a gasp, she tried to push them back up, but he thrust her hands away. Riiiiip! and the tunic slipped down, proving how right he was.

Moaning, he kissed the back of her neck, then followed the bones of her spine, kissing each one in turn until he reached the top of her rounded backside.

Her skirts were pulled low, and the very top of her crack peeked up at him. Heat pooled in his balls.

Oh, how he loved women, how he missed them, the shape of them, the feel of them, the sound of them.

~Real women. Not the kind he took for fun, but the kind he could love and protect and adore, who could love and adore him back.

Tears pricked his eyes. “Danna.”

It had been too long.

The point of her hip begged for his lips, and he obliged. He sucked and gnawed until she cried out. Looking up at her, he smiled.

Danna smiled back, dark eyes gleaming, long dark hair trailing between soft brown nipples. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He clenched his jaw. “Why did you have to leave?”

She just shook her head and laughed. She was just how he remembered her, happy and glowing.

She’d been pregnant then, only a small bump, but it had been no less his child, no less his world. He smoothed his hand over it and landed a kiss on her belly button before feeling below her skirt.

He moaned at the softness of her hair, at the warm wetness of her opening. He pressed his face into her breasts and gave them each a gentle, sucking kiss, just how she liked it.

“Don’t leave me again.”

She smiled that beautiful smile. “I never did.”

He lay against her with a sigh.

***

Grinda didn’t know what to do. She jerked at a sudden snore. He was lying on top of her, his face buried in her breasts, hand in her skirts.

Now and then, he murmured something. She could feel wetness on her skin as he drooled. Should she stay still and wait? Should she push him away?

He snorted, coughed, then reached up to grab onto her breast.

Trying to keep her breaths shallow and quiet, she waited. Another snore, then his breathing fell into a regular, deep rhythm. She could feel his heart beating against her, slow and strong.

Her right nipple hardened at the feel of his hot breath. Biting her lip, she very gently held his head as she eased out from beneath him.

His hand slid away from her breast. His other hand pulled out from her skirts. So far, so good. Then she was out! Carefully, she lowered his head to the ground. She stared at him in disbelief.

She was free.

She wasted a moment trying to pull up her tunic. He’d torn it almost clean in half. Giving up, she stood. She had no idea where she was and no idea where to go, but anywhere was better than here.

Her father and older brothers had explored the woods several times over the years during hunting trips whenever Lord Rickard had allowed it.

She’d never been inside herself, but she knew it was expansive and dangerous. “A place you can easily get lost in without the right guide,” Father had told them all.

She could well believe it. But it was the only hope she had.

Taking another look at the sleeping barbarian, she paused.

The hilt of one of his blades stuck out of its sheath at his left hip. Suddenly recalling the dagger he’d threatened her with, she glanced around.

There! Its blade glinted sharply in the moonlight. Circling the barbarian, she picked it up.

It was surprisingly heavy and long. For a fleeting moment, it made her feel powerful. She stared at the blood along the blade, then looked at the barbarian. Should she? Could she?

Licking her lips, she took a step toward him, then paused, rocking on her heels. A chop to the back of the neck, swift and silent—that was all it would take.

Revenge for Father, for her brothers, and for Father Joel, all in one fell move. She would be right to do it. It was what he deserved.

The anger was there, the fury. She could feel it simmering deep in her guts, but when she reached for it, all she felt was a biting coldness.

She was no killer.

She lowered the dagger.

Taking a step back, she turned and fled into the trees.

***

Mock rolled over with a moan, something hard digging into his sternum. He blinked blearily at the treetops, his eyelids sticking together. It was still dark. Rubbing at his chest, he looked over.

It was a rock. He flung it away with a growl. Good sleep was hard to come by.

He sat up with a start, then staggered to his feet, looking around. She was nowhere to be seen. The little bitch. Bracing himself against a tree, he spat and wiped his mouth.

He patted at his belt, checking his weapons. His dagger was missing. He swept around looking for it, but it was gone. A small smile tugged at his lips.

She was more resourceful than he gave her credit for. He liked that in a woman.

Yawning, he rubbed at his face. He couldn’t hear his brothers anymore, no doubt comatose with fucking and drink. As he should have been. He shook his head.

He was still dizzy but sober enough, sober enough to track down the little bitch before she did something stupid or fell into someone else’s hands.

He spat again and clucked his tongue at the sour taste of old ale. How he hated slippery seconds.

***

Grinda crashed through the forest so loudly it was a wonder the whole of Toth didn’t hear. Every crack of a branch, every crunch of ground litter, was like an explosion in her ears.

No matter how hard she tried, she seemed to step on, trip over, and bash through every godforsaken noise-making treachery in sight. It was hard, teary and shaken and weary as she was.

The trees all seemed to blur together into a tapestry of shadows and gloom, making no sense. Why did it have to be so dark? Why did everything have to work against her?

Clutching the dagger in one hand, she grabbed at a stitch in her side with the other. Every breath was like a knife plunging in her guts.

She finally came to a stop. She hadn’t run nearly far enough, but it had been too long since she’d eaten or drunk.

Her hands were shaking, her knees trembling, and the need for rest made her stumble and lurch.

Gulping at the air, she braced herself against a tree, head between her elbows. After a few minutes, she strove on, this time at a staggering walk that didn’t last long.

Just as dawn filtered through the leaves, she tripped and crashed to the ground. She spent a moment gazing up at the treetops, the air wheezing in her lungs.

Then, with a grunt, she rolled over, heaved herself to her knees, and crawled her way through the ground litter.

The smell of dirt and rot filled her nostrils. The ground was cool and wet. Leaves stuck to her arms and clung to her skirts. She paused. There!

She shoved her way through the bushes. They scratched and stung, but she hardly felt it. Behind them was a small, smooth depression hidden beneath a rotting log. A perfect place to hide.

It was a squeeze, but she managed to slither into it and huddle in a ball. Her eyelids were already growing heavy.

She yawned, coughed, and tightened her hold around her knees, the dagger still clutched tightly in her fist.

***

Mock almost laughed. For such a small person, she’d caused a lot of damage. The poor forest was trashed. It was like tracking a drunken boar. Hardly a challenge.

The woods were bright with morning by the time he discovered her. She’d found a well-concealed hiding place. Pity about the beaten trail leading directly to it.

He’d been a hunter all his life before he’d been enslaved, and his instincts hadn’t dulled. Not that he needed them with someone so hopeless.

He crouched for a closer look. She was all scratched up, skirts torn, yellow hair matted and knotted. A nasty gash dripped along her left forearm.

His dagger was lying beside her in the dirt, glinting with fresh blood. By the look of it, she’d accidentally slashed herself, probably while she was running.

He should wake her and drag her out by the hair, kicking and screaming. It was all that the Paleskin deserved, her and her kind. They had no right to life.

They’d lost that right when they’d invaded his land and murdered his people.

Unsheathing the blade at his hip, he slashed at the bushes. The girl jerked awake, her blue eyes widening as she screamed and scrambled away deeper into her hole. He swiped at her and missed.

“Leave me alone!”

She dove for the dagger on the ground. Rearing up, she slashed out. He felt a sting. Skin peeled apart. Red flashed down his wrist. It was a sharp blade. Mock always made sure of it.

He reached again, slamming his fist down upon her wrist. She cried out, her fingers opened, and the dagger slipped from her grasp.

Grabbing the back of her head, he hauled her out through the bushes. Sticks snapped; more cuts opened up on her white skin. He threw her to the ground.

She was crying now, her tears bright on her cheeks in the dappled dawn light. She fumbled at her ripped tunic as she tried to cover her breasts, but not before he glimpsed her pink nipples.

It was the only thing he liked about the Paleskins—those pink nipples. At least on the women. They were ridiculous on the men.

He opened and clenched his fist, imagining their softness pressed up against his palms. His balls throbbed. He was sobering up, and he could feel his lust for her like a warm sweep through his body.

His kinta tightened around his thighs as his cock pushed against it. The Paleskin saw, staring at his bulge in terror. She seemed to fear it even more than the dagger.

He should take her now while he was running hot and show her what it was like to fuck a real man.

She kicked out at him with a scream as he took a lurching step toward her. He stopped, gripping his dagger so tightly his arm ached, but did nothing.

With a roar, he slashed at the air, then flung the dagger into the bushes. Useless! Weak! Bristling, he circled her.

He glimpsed that bright-blue gaze of hers before she quickly bowed her head and hid behind her hair. If he couldn’t fuck her, then he should kill her.

Again, he opened and clenched his fists, this time with the thought of burying them deep into her pretty little face. And yet he continued to circle, powerless and uncertain.

Nobody had ever had this kind of control over him. He always did what he wanted, no regrets or hesitation, and she merely a woman and a Paleskin to boot!

“What’s your name?” The words tumbled from his lips, as though someone else had spoken them. She stayed quiet, head bowed. “Answer me!”

Her head jerked, but she didn’t look up, answering in a small voice, “Grinda.”

“Grinda.” He smoothed his tongue over his teeth. Paleskin names always felt sticky in his mouth. Wrong. He spat. “You’re coming with me.”

She didn’t move.

“Did you hear me?”

She cringed. Seizing her under the arm, Mock hauled her to her feet with a snarl. She was so small, barely reaching his shoulders.

Danna had been much taller, tall enough he could look her in the eye. Pathetic. Half a woman. Why he should feel anything more than disgust was beyond him. He shoved her ahead. “Move!”

The walk was cruel, and it made him glad he was able to take some pleasure out of her suffering. She wept and staggered, and every time she slowed, he gave her a hard shove.

When she fell, he hauled her roughly to her feet. She soon learned how to keep her balance. It made him despise her—how weak she was.

She knew nothing of suffering, not compared with what her people had done to him—and to Danna.

The camp was half asleep, his brothers resting where they’d collapsed or else sleeping amid the trees. Only a few were awake.

Crouching as he roasted a boar’s leg over the fire, Croki looked up at Mock’s approach.

His gaze flicked between him and the girl, at her torn tunic, at the gash on Mock’s arm, at the scratches on his cheek. The corner of his mouth tugged.

Scowling at him, Mock shoved her to the ground. “Cooked yet?”

Croki tore off a strip of flesh and chucked it to him. It was hot and greasy in his hands.

Sitting beside him, Mock gnawed, watching as the girl crept over to another Paleskin who was curled up in a weeping ball. He spat out a hunk of gristle.

He could sense Croki’s interest as he watched them too. Mock bared his teeth at him. “What do you think you’re looking at?”

“Nothin’.”

“Then stop looking at her.”

Croki didn’t respond, chomping into his meat. Mock chewed and spat.

“You all right?” Croki dared after several bites, wiping at his greasy beard.

“Course I’m all right. Stupid question.”

Croki raised his big, broad hands in a pacifying gesture. “Don’t mean nothin’ by it. Just askin’.”

Mock took a breath. He needed to get control of himself. If he couldn’t get along with Croki, he couldn’t get along with any of his brothers.

They’d known each other five years, both enslaved by the Paleskins, brothers in pain. They’d seen each other in chains and had witnessed each other at their weakest.

If it hadn’t been for the big Quarthi’s help, Mock might still have been back at that fuck-awful Paleskin city, beaten, raped, humiliated—dead, if he were lucky.

He would still have been back at that fuck-awful city.

Fairmont. The great city of Fairmont with its pearly white walls and blood-soaked floors. There were more chains than bricks in that filthy arsehole of a place.

Sneering, he licked the grease from his lips. One day, he would go back and rip it apart, brick by pale brick, then set fire to anything that could burn.

But before that, he would gouge out the eyes of every priest he could find. He smiled as he recalled the priest yesterday, remembering how nicely his blade had sunk into his soft, lily-white guts.

He would be a stinking, black carcass now.

Closing his eyes, he sniffed at the air, almost as though he could smell his burned flesh, smell all those yet to die, Father Ben, Father Cleaton, Father Grayson, Bishop Canterton…

He ticked them off in his mind. So many.

One day…