Breaking the Barbarian: Ch. 01

Author's Note: This takes place in the same fantasy setting as my Duchess of Lust series, about ten years after the finale. However, reading that prior series is not a requirement to enjoy this new series. Some places, events, and characters from that first series are referenced, but this new series is designed to be read as a standalone.

For those who have not read the 'Duchess of Lust' series, it is an erotic political/war drama, set in a fairly standard fantasy setting akin to the Holy Roman Empire and Scandinavia of the medieval era. Although it is in a fantasy setting, the supernatural/fantastical elements are minimal for this particular series.

As an additional note for readers of my Duchess of Lust series: I have done a bit of a retcon, deciding to give a formal name to the northern barbarian lands. In the original series I just referred to it as 'the north' or 'the northlands.' To give it a bit more flavor, I've decided to call that region 'Kovgaard.' So any references to 'Kovgaard' within this new series will refer to the 'northlands' that were mentioned in the original series.

**

The iron prow of my longship crashed into the hull of my brother's vessel. Wood creaked and shattered. Bloodthirsty howls rose from the warriors aboard both ships. Screams drowned out the distant booms of thunder.

"Hoskuld!" I bellowed, shield and axe in hand. "Meet your doom with honor, dog!"

Shield and axe in hand, I leapt over the railing, my boots landing upon the rain-soaked deck of the enemy longship. Steel gleamed on all sides. Howling warriors closed in, their shields adorned with paintings of clan sigils and sacred runes.

My warriors flowed across to join me, as inexorable as the surging waves around us.

Once more I roared out my brother's accursed name. My axe splintered shields and limbs, batting aside spear-thrusts and desperate sword-swings.

A dagger skimmed across my ring-mail. I snarled out my brother's name, ducking back before the dagger could claim my flesh. My savage counter-swing tore open the dagger-wielder's throat.

Bodies and severed limbs flopped upon the deck around me. Wounded and dying warriors tumbled over the railing, embraced by the hunger of the sea. A wave crashed into the conjoined longships. A snarling foe tumbled into me; I grabbed him by the wrist, slashed open the back of his thigh, and sent him spinning over the side and into the churning depths.

"Anvarr!" a voice cried from behind me.

I spun, barely avoiding a spear-thrust that would have claimed my life had it not been for Orgumir's warning. After chopping the spearman across the chest and sending him sprawling, I gave the wiry old Orgumir a grateful nod.

A semblance of order settled upon the bloody deck. My followers assembled into a loose shield-wall, while Hoskuld's men staggered into a similar formation to face us. Corpses ruled the space between our battered, bloodied warbands.

"You missed me that much, brother?" a voice called, barely audible over the thunder and the roars of the sea.

The enemies' painted shields dipped lower, giving me a glimpse of the man I'd been hunting for weeks.

Hoskuld was tall and broad-shouldered, his beard and wild blonde hair streaked with blood and seawater. Hate and hunger gleamed in his bright green eyes. Our resemblance was so uncanny that even our mother had occasionally mistaken us for one another.

She would have made no such mistakes now, however. The half-healed, jagged scar along my cheek ensured that no soul would ever confuse me for my twin again. I'd earned that wound as a result of his treachery: it would serve as an eternal reminder of my brother's greed and foul ambition.

"No more of your men need to die," I snarled, rolling my shoulders and thumping my axe against my shield. "We can settle this. A trial of iron and blood. You can at least die with glory as a true man of Kovgaard. Your death can restore some honor to the clan as well."

Another wave sloshed over the side of the longships. Thunder boomed.

"Do you hear that, Anvarr?" Hoskuld said, pointing his bloody sword skyward. "Our gods growl in hunger. They gnash their teeth, eager to feast upon your soul. I think they have waited long enough for such a meal."

"Enough chatter," Orgumir growled, taking a step forward, interlocking his shield with mine. "You know he wouldn't fight you honorably anyway."

"Aye," I snarled. "But honor demands that-"

Lightning flashed like a spear from the heavens, striking the mast. Splinters rained down in the midst of Hoskuld's shield-wall.

A good omen from the gods. In gratitude for their favor, I'd send them my brother's soul.

I took a step forward. A great wave crashed into the side of the longships, forcing me back against Orgumir. Water splashed over our feet. Both shield-walls collapsed. Screams entwined with the roaring thunder.

Undaunted by the wrath of the sea, I regained my footing and charged. Hoskuld leapt over one of his men who'd lost his footing.

A moment before we met, another wave crashed into the ships. The hull creaked, then splintered. The mast shattered, tumbling down into the midst of both reeling warbands. Pain roared as my flailing brother's blade bit into my forearm.

I managed one wild swing of my axe, missing his throat by mere inches.

The deck gave way beneath me. The sea rose, the icy waters wrapping around my waist and dragging me into its hungry depths.

**

Water spewed from my lungs. The warmth of sunlight danced across my aching body. Desperate lurches of my arms brought me further up the beach. A thin trail of blood followed me across the sand.

Panting, I flopped onto my back and stared up at the sky.

Not a cloud in sight.

The storm had vanished within minutes of us all plunging into the sea.

Had the slaughter sated the thirst of the deep gods and thus spared us a greater storm? Had the gods' hunger claimed Hoskuld as well?

I hoped not. My steel longed to taste his flesh.

As I took in deep and frantic breaths, I caught the stench of smoke on the wind. Frowning and growling, I rose to my feet and glanced around.

I stood upon a beach of gray sand. Moss and weeds clung to massive, jagged boulders. Corpses and debris drifted in along with the waves. Around me stretched rolling, rocky hills and sheer cliffs of dark blue stone.

At the top of a nearby hill I could make out a few structures: all blackened, burned, and smoldering.

"By the fangs of the gods," I cursed. "Where am I?"

My hunt for Hoskuld had taken us far from our homeland in Kovgaard. Our longships had sliced south across the great sea, occasionally skirting the well-defended coasts of the northern imperial duchies. Had I washed ashore in imperial territory?

If so, I was in need of a weapon. Though the duchies and Kovgaard had been at peace since King Ulrik's failed invasion, tensions still lingered and northlanders were not always welcome in the south.

Staggering, I wandered along the beach and searched among the corpses. Almost all of them had lost their weapons upon plunging into the depths. One of them clutched a broken spear, while a second man still had a hatchet strapped to his waist.

I turned him over and flinched with recognition. The dead man was Amundar, a cousin of mine who had joined me on my blood-quest.

"You fought well, cousin," I said, patting his rune-tattooed cheek. "I will honor your memory with your steel and ensure that your soul is carried to your ancestors."

After tearing the hatchet from his belt, I murmured a prayer before collecting a few more supplies from the dead. In time I could return to put the dead to rest, after I had found other survivors and ensured a measure of safety for myself.

Grief would have to wait.

A trumpet sounded from the burned hamlet. Figures scurried amidst the skeletal ruins.

Four men trotted down the hill. All were armed with spears and axes, wearing chainmail and long green cloaks. Ash and soot stained their uniforms and half-helms. Upon their tabards was a sigil I hadn't seen before: a lion fighting a two-headed serpent.

Judging by their weapons and armor, these men were clearly southerners. I had landed in an imperial duchy or perhaps upon one of the island kingdoms scattered across the Talon Sea.

They stopped in their tracks, eyes wide.

More figures emerged from the burned huts. A dozen ashen men and women, eyes wet with tears. None were armored; all were dressed in simple, humble clothing that marked them as fishers or farmers. Among them were a few children who whimpered and cowered behind the adults.

"Who are you?" one of the soldiers shouted, jabbing in my direction with his spear.

"I am Anvarr, son of Eyvald and Valgerrd. I mean you no harm."

I gave another quick glance at the sobbing villagers. What had they done to deserve such cruelty at the hands of those soldiers?

"Bloody hells," another soldier hissed. "A fucking northman. Just what we need."

"Only one," said a portly bearded soldier, though he regarded me as warily as the others.

"Where am I?" I asked.

"You're on our island, savage," said a soldier as he and his comrades closed in "We ask the questions."

Once more my gaze flitted up to the onlooking villagers. As the wind picked up, something moved under the rafters of a burned barn; two burned, blackened bodies swayed in the wind.

My rage at Hoskuld had shifted to simmering embers after washing up on the beach. That fire now roared to life at the side of those swaying bodies. Despite the pain in my arm from the wound I'd suffered, my hand coiled tightly around the hatchet.

"I apologize," I said through clenched teeth. "I misspoke earlier."

"Oh? When?"

"When I told you that I meant you no harm."

Their eyes widened. I sprung forward, hatchet swinging. It caught a spearman beneath the chin before he had time to react. As he gurgled and fell, I snatched up his spear before it could hit the ground. A quick bob to the side spared me from a spear-thrust, and I plunged my own stolen spear into a second soldier's throat.

As he let out a bloody moan, I lunged forward and tore my hatchet free from my first victim's body, before ducking beneath an axe-swing. A wild chop of my hatchet tore into the man's boot.

I screamed as a spear plunged into me from behind, just above my hip. The spearman snarled and twisted the weapon, sending it deeper. I flung myself to the side. The spear snapped; I grabbed the broken haft and swept the man's legs out from under him.

He toppled with a grunt, letting out a string of curses. The curses ended as I tore a dagger from his belt and plunged it through the visor of his helm. After a grunt and a twitch, he went still.

The last soldier closed in on me, limping from the wound I'd delivered to his foot.

"Fucking savages," he spat.

He raised his axe.

Blood burst from his neck and lips as a pitchfork took him from behind, skewering him in the back of his throat.

An ash-covered villager lowered the pitchfork, his eyes wide and bloodshot.

Growling through the pain, I struggled to my feet. Agony flared within my back and I staggered back down to the ground. The impact sent the spear-tip deeper into my back. My scream echoed across the beach.

"Go!" the man shouted up at the other villagers. "To the convent. This man needs a healer!"

The villager tore off the cloak of a dead soldier and turned me back over before using the cloak to staunch the bleeding.

"You'll be all right," he murmured. "The nuns will know what to do."

"Where?" I sputtered, my vision darkening.

The man mumbled something. The fire of agony was so great that all I heard was a faint whisper. The blood pounded in my ears. The strength fled my shaking limbs.

Darkness swirled but did not consume me.

No.

This would not be my end. I could not face my ancestors without confirming Hoskuld's death. I would struggle on, gasping and snarling, until I knew that my wretched brother was dead.

Firm hands grasped my arms, guiding me into a cart that I hadn't even notice arrive. Someone mumbled and I growled back.

"Hoskuld," I hissed, my senses and wits fleeing my mind. "Where?"

"Hush," someone said.

How long had passed since the storm? How long had I bled out upon that beach? Pain and delirium stripped away all sense of time and place.

The cart rocked beneath me. A horse huffed. A dark figure loomed over me, blocking the harsh glare of the sun.

Shadows embraced their face, hiding their eyes from view. No, not shadows. A veil of dark silk.

"It's all right," she cooed, a soft hand brushing against my cheek.

The softness of the voice and that touch soothed the ache in my back.

"Drink," she murmured, bringing a vial of blue liquid to my parched lips.

My shaking hand fumbled against the vial, too weak to take hold. The veiled woman gently pushed my hand away and tilted the vial, dumping the ice-cold contents down my throat.

Wintery waves spread through my body, engulfing the fiery pain. I sighed and shivered.

"Extract of snow-lotus root," the veiled woman said. "It will soothe the pain and help your body fight off the infection. Now I can tend to the wound."

Gentle hands turned me onto my side. Strange, probing pressure assailed my back but the potion kept the agony at bay.

"Hoskuld," I muttered. "Where is he?"

The soft hand patted my cheek.

I leaned my head over my shoulder, catching sight of the bloody spear-tip that had been removed. Wrapped against the wound was a thick green bandage.

Gods, I had barely felt a thing. How had she extracted it and bound the wound without causing me further pain or harm?

My shocked eyes looked over my savior. She wore long, flowing dark blue robes with a bronze circlet around her head. Dangling from that circlet was a veil of dark silk that shrouded her face from view. The gleam of the sun gave me just a hint of what the veil covered: a soft, pale face and deep brown eyes. She wore her dark red hair in a short bob. Etched into the fabric of her robe were beautiful silvery depictions of flowers, roots, and vines.

"Who..." I said, my eyes fluttering.

"Save your strength. You shall need it to endure the Mother Superior's questions. A northlander arriving on our shores is cause for great alarm; she will require answers."

Darkness flitted at the edges of my sight but I refused to slip off into unconsciousness. The cart rolled along a rocky path, winding through moss-covered hills. I was too dazed to assess my surroundings or how many people were with me, nor could I guess as to how long it had been since we'd left the beach.

As the cart rolled on, the young woman sang a soft, gentle and soothing song about a river filled with flowers. The gentle lyrics did as much to soothe my pain as that potion; the lilting melody even caused my head to sway and I nearly drifted off.

"Hoskuld," I said for perhaps the hundredth time that day.

"It's all right. Once the Mother Superior has her answers and you are rested, you can go back and try to find your friends." She murmured something under her breath and pressed her hand to my chest. "I am sorry for those you have lost, it must be-"

"He was no friend," I snarled, the pain flaring along with my rage.

Guided by that fury, my hand lashed out, gripping hold of her wrist and yanking her hand from my chest. Her eyes widened beneath the veil and she let out a squeak, her arm trembling beneath my grasp.

Regret replaced my anger. Wincing, I released her and mumbled an apology.

The veiled woman shirked back to the other side of the cart, watching me with wide, wary eyes as the cart slowed to a halt.

Before us loomed an imposing iron gate and a low stone wall. Vines stretched across the length and breadth of the wall, blooming with bright blue flowers.

On one side of the gate was a life-like statue of a kneeling woman wearing a veil just like the healer's. The statue's hands were clasped together as if in supplication. Around the statue's neck was a vine, keeping her bound like a prisoner.

Opposite the kneeling statue was a statue of a veiled woman with similar curves, though she stood stall and proud like a conqueror. In her stone hands was a whip and a bundle of vines.

The gates opened, revealing rows of gardens. Veiled women tended to herbs and vegetables. As the cart rolled past, a few nuns glanced in my direction. The veils prevented me from seeing if their reactions were of fear, curiosity, or a mixture of both.

The cart halted in front of a large domed structure, the outer walls of which were adorned with more vines. Stained glass windows depicting the kneeling woman adorned the left side of the structure, while the windows on the right displayed that triumphant, whip-wielding nun.

The man who had guided the cart dismounted to help me out. As I leaned heavily upon him, we shuffled over to the doors leading to the central sanctuary.

The doors opened to reveal a cavernous hallway. Blue candles flickered from the walls, casting unearthly light across wooden carvings and paintings of the same women displayed in the statues. Other paintings displayed herbs, flowers, and mushrooms.

"What is this place?" I murmured.

The man steadying me said not a word. Other veiled women materialized out of the shadows, forming a silent escort around us.

Our journey ended at a wooden doorway which opened into a large room. Stained glass windows cast a kaleidoscopic array of light upon the floor. Within the room was a large but simple bed, a bookshelf filled with leatherbound tomes, and several pots by the window which bloomed with bright red flowers.

Without a word, the nameless man helped me to the bed before he and the nuns vanished out into the hall. Iron scraped against iron as they locked the door from the other side.

I ran my hands over the bedding. It had been weeks since I'd slept in anything but a cot or a hammock. The fine fabric certainly outclassed the rough furs I was used to sleeping on back home.

If these strange nuns intended to kill me, at least I'd have one last night of comfort.

Rising from the bed, I limped across the room to inspect the rows of books. They were all written in an unfamiliar script. Even though Kovgaard and the Empire spoke distinct but similar dialects, the southerners' written language was nothing at all like the runic writing of my homeland.

Regardless, such texts could shed light on who these women were, so I flipped open the first book. Within were detailed drawings of flowers and herbs, some of which I recognized from my northern homeland.

Bored and unenlightened, I moved onto the next text, which contained intricate sketches of the human body, showing the details of bones and muscles. No doubt it was a healer's text of some kind.

The convent was thus home to nuns with skill in healing and herblore. That didn't explain the women depicted in the statues and artwork, however.

My eyes widened as I moved on to the next book. The first page displayed a curvaceous, naked woman with a leash around her neck and a veil over her face. Long lines of script filled the next page, followed by another image of a naked woman, standing triumphant with a whip in hand.

Further drawings showed images of detailed knots and bindings.

What madness had these nuns embraced?

Though I was tantalized by the prospect of further drawings of nude women, I slipped the book back into place to inspect my surroundings. There were heavy iron bars against the stained-glass window, preventing any escape. I tested the door: it didn't budge.

Frowning, I wandered through the room and cocked my head as the sunlight gleamed against something embedded in the ceiling. Standing upon the bed for a closer look, I saw two sets of manacles dangling from the stone.

Three soft knocks rapped upon the door.