Breaking the Barbarian Ch. 05

"And now for another important part," she said, looking to the bruises and red marks covering my chest.

She withdrew a vial from her satchel and straddled my hips, then dripped a soothingly-cool substance onto my abused skin. Tender fingers rubbed the liquid against the abrasions and wounds she'd inflicted, causing my eyes to flutter.

"Cruelty and kindness," I murmured. "A central tenet of your faith."

"Indeed. You've learned much during your time with us."

I murmured appreciatively as she worked the liquid into the firm muscles of my chest. The lingering pain from her rough treatment faded, and I shivered as she placed a soft kiss above my collarbone.

Her fingers brushed over a small scar on my forearm, which I'd suffered during the ambush of Grozdan's army. The curious touch shifted over to each of the other wounds I'd endured during my time on Etmorra.

"So many scars suffered over such a small span of time," Isidora murmured, her gray eyes shifting up to meet my gaze again. "You should not suffer any further for the sake of this land."

She closed her eyes.

"I release you from your oath, Anvarr. We have more than enough forces to keep Grozdan pinned within Saerkell, and we're already sending out messengers to recruit deserters and servants familiar with the fortress. Before long we'll know all about its weaknesses. There is thus no need for you to earn further scars for this land."

I said nothing for a time. According to the customs of Kovgaard, Isidora had the full right to revoke an oath she'd asked of me. Just as King Ulrik could have released me from my oath to hunt down Hoskuld, so too could Isidora unchain me from my vow to kill Grozdan.

"Then I shall swear a new one," I said firmly. "To the people of Etmorra. Not to you."

"Anvarr..." she said, her voice trembling. "As you said to me weeks ago: this is not your home and this is not your war. You have already done enough."

"Grozdan's war against his own people resulted in the death of Hoskuld. He denied me my vengeance...and denied my brother an honorable death," I said, my hands balling into fists. "Every breath he draws is a stain upon my honor."

"Your strength is as heartening as it is infuriating," she said with a long sigh.

I wrapped my hand around hers.

"So do you release me from my oath, then?" I asked, my voice low and reverent.

A single tear gleamed in her gaze but she blinked it away.

"No."

Isidora smiled and kissed my forehead.

"I quite like having a man like you bound to me."

"And I quite like being bound to you as well," I said with a soft smile. "It's almost enough to make me wish that the siege drags on and on, prolonging my servitude."

We both shared a soft laugh.

"The fulfillment of your oath need not be a farewell, Anvarr. With all of the damage Grozdan has done, Etmorra will need new alliances. New trading partners. You could serve as a link between Etmorra and Kovgaard."

"Returning here to conduct trade negotiations would make for a damned fine excuse to have you chain me up again," I said with a warm smile.

My heart fluttered at the thought of returning to Etmorra again and again, serving as a toy for Isidora and her Sisterhood.

Such dreams were far-off, however. As long as Grozdan lived, debauched hopes for the future could not cloud my focus and judgment.

Perhaps sensing the shift in my mood, Isidora leaned down and kissed me on the cheek.

Offering no further words of encouragement, she allowed her body to do so instead, and nuzzled up against my shoulder.

**

Miriam and I sat at the edge of a cliff overlooking the verdant valley at the heart of Etmorra. A waterfall churned nearby, feeding a river that ran towards the center of the valley, flowing into a large lake covered with colorful birds. A vast bog clung to the edges of the lake, which in turn gave way to a thick, teeming forest.

On the far side of the forested valley, nestled atop another cliff, was the fortress of Saerkell.

In all of my travels across Kovgaard and Etmorra, I'd never seen such an imposing structure. Its ruined grandeur brought to mind the half-rotted corpse of a great beast. Several of its towers and walls had crumbled, casting debris down onto the valley floor below. Yet despite the erosion and damage, large sections still stood tall. Towers of dark stone jutted upwards like blades. Massive, sprawling stone walls ringed those great towers, and smaller fortifications protected those great walls as well.

Any direct assault would have had to overcome at least three separate layers of defenses, assuming that they could even make it through the maze of rubble and debris. It seemed that the neglect and erosion had in fact made the fortressmore impregnable. Properly-maintained defenses would have at least been easier to navigate.

The banners of Duke Grozdan fluttered from the great towers. Some displayed the lion dueling the two-headed serpent, while others showed Grozdan's personal sigil: a golden chain entwined around a black spear.

Through Miriam's spyglass I made out flickers of movement upon the innermost walls. From what we'd heard from prisoners and deserters, Grozdan only had a hundred men still loyal to him. Most were retainers and knights from his homeland, which made them less likely to break, surrender, or desert. Loyal, hardened soldiers like that would inflict grievous casualties upon any attacking force.

Making such an assault even more daunting were the catapults mounted upon the walls. There were ten in all, each capable of killing dozens of men with a single volley. The massed ranks of an assaulting force would be like wheat before a scythe if they made a frontal attack.

"Fangs of the gods," I cursed. "What about the northern side?"

"Just as bad. The defenses there are in the best condition and there's a massive moat, dozens of feet deep. Archers and catapults will have a clear line of sight to any force that tries to cross."

Miriam sighed.

"That wretched place could fit a dozen of the largest keeps in Kovgaard," I grumbled.

I cursed again and swept the spyglass over the cracked, imposing walls.

"Hoskuld and I did manage to take a keep built upon a similar cliff once. Nowhere near the size of this damned place, though."

"How did you succeed?"

"The gods favored us by sending a great blizzard that prevented the enemy archers from seeing us. Hoskuld and I led a warband to a smaller section of the wall and waited out the storm. We nearly froze to death, but managed to get up the wall when the blizzard retreated."

"We're six months from winter, so I fear a blizzard won't help us anytime soon," Miriam said with a snort.

I glared at the ruined fortress for over a minute, as if somehow my ire would reveal more vulnerabilities. The local huntsman Ivor wandered up to join us and sat down on the cliff's edge, lighting his pipe and gazing out over the valley.

"Any bright ideas on how to get into that wretched fortress?" I asked.

"Follow the ghosts," Ivor murmured, taking a long puff on his pipe.

Miriam and I shared a dubious glance.

"The ghosts?" Miriam repeated.

"Aye. Surely you've heard the stories."

I nodded, recalling how the nuns had told me that Saerkell had been cursed due to Etmorra's past rulers breaking the oaths of a truce.

"When I was a lad, my father and I would come here to hunt boar. The nasty bastards loved grazing and foraging down on the valley floor," he said, gesturing with his pipe. "My father always made sure we were never anywhere near the castle's side of the valley by the time dusk rolled in."

Ivor leaned forward, gesturing once more with his pipe.

"See that little waterfall there?" he asked, indicating a thin stream of water running down the cliff on the far side of the valley. "It would glow at dusk. And if you saw that glow, it was time to get out of there. My father said he saw shadowy figures coming and going. Figures that wore the ancient armor and masks of the old shamans of Etmorra. Ghosts from the fortress, he said."

While I had seen many strange things in my life, not once had I ever witnessed a wraith or a ghost.

"Except they weren't ghosts," Ivor said, his weathered face splitting into a grin. "They were bored young nobles from Saerkell, who would dress up in antique armor and come down to spook the locals. I don't know how they made the waterfall glow, but I suspect it was some sort of alchemical concoction. Hasn't happened in years, as far as I know, and I don't know if any of those pranksters still live."

"But it means there must be passages from the waterfall up into the bowels of the fortress," I said, my eyes gleaming.

"Aye. It was probably built as an escape route, long ago. The tunnels may have collapsed or shifted, but I daresay it's a more promising tactic than a frontal assault."

"And since Grozdan and most of his men aren't even from Etmorra, there's a chance he may not know about the tunnels or those old pranks," Miriam said, her grin matching mine. "So that just may be our way in."

"The ghosts still might be real, though," Ivor said. "So we may have to contend with more than just Grozdan's knights."

I cared not if ghosts, demons, or even gods stood in between me and my oath.

Grozdan would die, no matter how many otherworldly specters I had to cut my way through.

**

I sat around a crackling bonfire with Miriam and my warriors, relaying to them what Ivor had told us and of a possible way into the fortress.

"You are surely not that foolish, Anvarr," said Sorunna, the firelight dancing across her scarred, tattooed face. "Yes, Grozdan must die, but to risk the wrath of spirits?"

"Did you not listen?" Orgumir said with a snort. "There are no spirits. Just bored nobles who used to play silly games to spook the peasants."

"The locals do in fact think there is a curse," I said. "But we must risk it. We can find no other way into the keep that does not involve a frontal assault or a prolonged siege."

"Do you believe the locals?" another warrior asked.

I shrugged.

"The tales of ghosts could just be that: tales. Distortions of bloody past events that took on a life of their own. And yet I cannot discount them completely, given the dark history of the place and how many of our own legends involve such curses."

"We must protect ourselves, then," said Sorunna. "We must invoke the blessings of the gods."

The other Kovgaardians murmured in agreement.

"And what would that entail?" Miriam asked, cocking her head.

"To ward the soul against the dead would require a sacrifice," Sorunna said. "Sometimes a condemned prisoner. Or an animal can be killed as part of a sacred hunt. Blessed blood must flow, and then be collected, and used to mark the warriors with warding runes. Unfortunately we do not have a witch or a shaman who knows the full rites."

"But we can make do," Orgumir said. "If sprinkling a bit of blood upon ourselves is what Sorunna needs to get over her fears, then-"

The burly shield-maiden gave the older warrior a firm kick to the shin, drawing forth a laugh from the other Kovgaardians.

"I do not think Rikard or Isidora would approve of killing a prisoner in such a fashion," Miriam said, frowning. "You said 'blessed blood.' Would mine work?"

My eyes widened.

"Surely you cannot be seriously suggesting yourself as a sacrifice."

"Of course not," she said with a laugh. "But if you need blessed blood, would the blood of a Sister of the Blessed Chain not qualify? I could donate enough to satisfy your ritual."

"That could work," Sorunna said. "Blood gifted from one's lover is quite potent."

Miriam and I both laughed.

"Let's get it done, then," Miriam said with a bright smile. "Though after this I'll have to endure a few Rites of Torment as punishment for the blasphemy of taking part in another religion's rituals."

I gave her a hungry grin, hoping I'd be able to bear witness to such an act of atonement.

Sorunna gave Miriam a list of herbs and mushrooms necessary for the rite, and the nun vanished into the thick forest. As she foraged, we prepared the sacred fire, arraying a circle of stones around the flames. Next came a few animal bones left over from our feast, each one placed in a precise position to best amplify the sacred power of the ritual.

"Hoskuld's blood would have been the most potent for this particular ceremony," Sorunna said.

I bit back a snarl at the mention of my dead brother and focused my attention on the arrangement of the stones.

"Anvarr is his twin," another warrior pointed out. "Hoskuld's blood is his own. A sacred thing, in the eyes of the gods."

Miriam returned, bearing a bowl filled with the materials Sorunna had requested. To my surprise, Isidora and Catriona walked behind her, each carrying a bowl of their own.

"The more blessed blood, the better, I think," Miriam said. "And since I'll be going with you into the fortress, I can't risk draining too much of my own blood, anyway."

The nuns stepped back, watching in silence with wide, enraptured eyes as Sorunna put the finishing touches on the ritual circle. Yellow flowers were interspersed between the stones, with the mushrooms ground up into a paste and tossed onto the fire.

"And now we wait," I said, staring into the roaring flames, which had shifted to a light blue color after the addition of the mushrooms.

"For what?" Catriona asked, her voice trembling.

"For a sign from the gods. We have lit this beacon to call to them. And if they show us a glimpse of their favor, we will know it is safe to proceed," Sorunna said, kneeling in front of the flames.

The minutes dragged on. The moon blazed down from above, casting an ethereal glow over our little forest camp.

Out beyond the trees and across the valley, Saerkell and Grozdan awaited us.

I closed my eyes, breathed in deep the sacred smoke, and cleared my mind of all thoughts save for my vow.

Though I had never seen Grozdan in the flesh, my mind nonetheless conjured images of his battered, broken body. I pictured Etmorra free from his cruelty and greed. I pictured the Sisterhood: free, safe, prosperous.

A wolf howled in the distance.

I opened my eyes to see grins upon the faces of my fellow warriors.

"The gods favor our ritual," Sorunna said. "It is time."

As she handed me a bowl, I drew a knife from my belt. After making a shallow slice to the back of my hand, I dripped the blood into the bowl.

Miriam drew her own knife and handed her spare blades to the other nuns. They crowded around me, blades in hand. With their eyes upon the holy fire, each of the nuns added their own droplets of blood to the bowl.

"Gods of blood and iron," I intoned. "Smile upon this offering. Grant us your strength so we may face the horrors of the night."

The Kovgaardians also voiced the grim prayer. To my surprise, Isidora and the other nuns repeated it along with them. Were it not for the sanctity of the ritual, I might have made a joke about them blaspheming against Saint Morwenna by uttering such words.

Once the blood had been collected, Sorunna dropped in a fistful of crushed-up mushrooms. Her fingers churned the mixture into a dark red paste.

One by one, each of us took the bowl, collected the blood-red paste upon our fingers, and then drew a simple, sacred warding rune upon our forearms.

With our flesh warded, we all knelt by the fire, using the heat to dry the sacred paint.

"There is another rite," Isidora said softly. "A gift of protection that I would like to impart upon Anvarr."

Her veiled gaze flitted over the other warriors.

"Privately."

Whistles and laughs rose from the other Kovgaardians. They clapped me on the back, offering jeers and encouragement before vanishing into the forest.

Smiling, Isidora moved to stand before me, flanked by Miriam and Catriona. Firelight flicked over their faces as they removed their veils.

"I pray this latest Rite of Torment is not too arduous," I said with a crooked grin. "For I still have a castle to take tonight."

"This is not a Rite of Torment," Isidora said with a shake of her head. "Though the Rites you have endured thus far have prepared you for this one."

"I haven't undergone all of them, though."

"No. But you have proved your worth to Saint Morwenna and the Sisterhood through all that you have done for the island."

Catriona smiled and raised a small wooden box. Murmuring a prayer, Miriam reached out and brushed her fingers over it.

"I told you the story of how Saint Morwenna claimed and tamed the inquisitors who tried to torture her," Miriam said. "When those men submitted to her and the divine power within her, she affixed them with sacred collars."

Catriona flipped the box open, revealing a beautiful leather collar embroidered with the holy symbols of their order. It was of a similar make to the one Miriam had used to leash me during our tryst with Catriona. To my surprise, a few Kovgaardian runes for strength and honor had also been added to the leather.

"We made this for you after you raided the port and brought back those supplies," Catriona murmured. "And we have waited until the time was right. This is a different one from the one we bound you with earlier...this one has been blessed by all of us. Crafted with sacred care and imbued with the holy words from both of our cultures."

I reached out, brushing my fingers reverently over the sacred collar. Warmth flickered across my neck.

"You need not accept, of course," Isidora said. "To wear such a thing might arouse scorn or curiosity that you'd rather avoid. And I do not know if donning it would dishonor you before your gods."

"It would not," I said, my fingers tracing over those runes. "Because this masterpiece also honors them."

As I started to lift the collar from the box, Isidora gave me a playful glare and a little swat on my wrist.

"You are getting ahead of yourself, Anvarr. There are still steps to be taken before you can accept this."

After a quick nod to the other nuns, they darted forward. Together they gripped my hands, pulling them behind my back. Though I was certain I had the strength to break free from their grasp, I merely squirmed and grinned, reveling in the sanctity of surrender.

The Mother Superior brushed her fingers over the painted rune upon my arm.

"You have honored and warded yourself in the northern fashion, Anvarr. Now we shall protect you with Saint Morwenna's power."

Her fingers traced over my lips and she muttered that familiar prayer.

"Saint Morwenna, Queen of Surrender and Queen of Conquest. I beseech thee for your aid and guidance. Grant me the power to break and the strength to tame."

The other two nuns murmured it right along with her.

As soon as the last word left Isidora's lips, she sank to her knees before me. I groaned aloud at the sight. Other men might have interpreted that as an act of submission, but Isidora held the true power over me despite being on her knees. Even if she had been bound and helpless, I knew the Mother Superior would have wielded full control over my body and soul. Such was the strength of her will and the fire of my own need to surrender.

Both Catriona and Miriam leaned in, their hungry lips seeking my neck. Tantalizing sparks rippled up and down my spine as they nuzzled and licked. Their attention set my body ablaze as Isidora's deft fingers undid my belt. By the time she'd worked my trousers down my firm thighs, my cock was already half-hard.

A gentle little lick to the tip hardened me the rest of the way. My groan rippled through the night, but was drowned out by the crackling of the sacred fire nearby.

As the Mother Superior drew the tip of my cock into her warm mouth, Catriona used her free hand to reach down and take hold of the base of my shaft. With slow strokes, she matched the rhythm of Isidora's gentle suckles.