The Duchess of Lust Ch. 03

"Only hints. Just told her it was a possibility."

"A possibility, yes," Rathgar said. He looked her up and down; it was the gaze of a man assessing her worth in battle, not judging her as a lover. Neryth flashed him a cheeky grin and turned around, as if giving him a show.

He rolled his eyes.

"Such holy challenges are difficult," the chief said.

"If it wasn't difficult, it wouldn't be a challenge, then, eh?" she shot back. "Isn't that the whole bloody point? I can handle it. I've slain sorcerers, great knights, trolls, giants, and even the undead. I can handle one of your scruffy warriors."

Of course, most of those victories had been via underhanded ambushes and nasty tricks, rather than conventional duels.

"Not one," Rathgar said grimly. "Two. Two of my fiercest warriors will face you in a battle, within the sight of the holy flames. All you must do is survive for one hundred of my heartbeats. If you live, you may be considered worthy. Die, and you fail the test of our gods."

"So I just have to run around in a circle, avoiding two big barbarians for a minute or so?" she asked, her tone disbelieving. She had no doubt her lithe form could easily avoid the bigger brutes for that long. "Seems too easy."

"It must still be a worthy offering. It is not enough just to survive. You must demonstrate to our gods that you are cunning, strong and worthy."

"So I have to put on a good show."

"Not a show," Rathgar said, bristling a little. "There must be no deception, no performance, no acting. A genuine fight for survival, for a hundred of my heartbeats."

"And how quickly, exactly, does your heart beat?"

She supposed the pace of his heart would quicken during the fight...gods, why couldn't they just use a damned hourglass?

"I shall keep count, captain. So. Do you agree?"

"So if I am worthy, you'll abandon Garnoc and side with Duke Lucan?" she asked.

"We shall extend to Garnoc the same offer," Rathgar said. "And offer him a chance to stand before the flames, to prove himself as a warrior before the gods. Or he can send a champion in his place, as Lucan has done."

"That will give the game away," Neryth said. "If you make such an offer, he'll know you're likely to turn."

"Honor demands it."

She sighed.

"Fine."

"Are you sure?" Ketrik asked. "This is a great ordeal-"

"I've undertaken lots of great ordeals for my duke. What's one more?" She nodded curtly at the two barbarians. "I will face the challenge of your gods."

"Very well. Ketrik, prepare the ritual. I shall select my champions."

The chieftain looked out into the camp.

"Brothers!" his voice roared so loud it was nearly deafening. "Come! This outsider has offered her steel and her blade as a gift to our gods! I shall choose two among you to test your skill and honor!"

Cheers rose from the camp, along with some laughs of derision. It was clear that many didn't think it would be a worthy offering. But Neryth was used to being underestimated, and was grateful for it. People didn't expect someone like her to nasty and brutish, and many a foe had underestimated her due to her sex or size, and had paid for it with their lives.

Rathgar marched away, leaving the captain and the shaman alone. Without a word, Ketrik reached again into his pack, snatching up herbs and little vials of dust.

The barbarians loudly began to make bets and guess as to her strengths and weaknesses. Most seemed to doubt she'd survive, but a handful seemed to think she might be wily enough to live. None seemed to think she'd be worthy of the gods' favor.

And that just made her even more eager to prove them wrong.

"Ketrik," she said to the shaman, who was busy laying out several herbs and flowers before the flame. "Is it considered improper for me to place a bet on myself?"

He blinked with surprise.

"I...I don't know. No one's ever asked. I suppose it doesn't matter, since the customs don't specifically prohibit it."

She turned her grin on the barbarians.

"A hundred gold pieces that I win the gods' favor!"

"I'll take that bet," said a burly redheaded barbarian, with a tattoo of a stag's antlers on his neck.

"So in a few minutes, I'll be blessed by the gods and I'll be bloody rich."

The warriors laughed. Such jokes, of course, were calculated. They'd make her challengers underestimate her even further, and they'd see her as a jester, rather than a proper threat.

And that was just the way she viewed war and death: far better to face the darkness with a grin than with a scowl.

The warriors parted so Rathgar and two other warriors could pass. One was tall, nearly a foot and a half taller than Neryth, and a cloak of blue fur adorned his massive shoulders. In his hands was a thick club, studded with iron spikes and animal teeth. He was young, barely out of his teens, and with a thick head of blonde braids and a beard that was likewise braided and adorned with beads and bits of bone.

His companion was a few inches shorter, but just as burly, and bore a massive greatsword, etched with runes and notches from countless battles. He was a bit older, perhaps in his twenties, and his face and scalp were clean-shaven. Like Rathgar, he had no tattoos of any sort, but his chin was marred by a thin burn scar.

They were fierce, nasty, and bigger than most men Neryth had ever faced in combat.

"Don't suppose it's too late to retract that bet?" she asked, forcing her voice to emit more nervousness and dread than she actually felt.

The crowd roared with laughter, and the bald warrior grinned, confidence appearing in his dark eyes.

Good.

Ketrik rose and used his sword to draw a circle in the dirt, shoving some of the other warriors away to create the space for the challenge. Neryth watched, examining the fighting space, noting every bump, stone and depression in the ground: each one could prove an advantage.

Once the circle was drawn, Ketrik headed back for the flames, and tossed some herbs and flowers into the fire. The flames immediately grew in size and brightness, the fire darting up at least a dozen feet in the air. The flames twisted and shifted, turning a bright blue. Some of the warriors offered prayers to their hungry gods, while others cheered and roared for the challenge to begin.

Ketrik stepped out of the circle to stand at his cousin's side.

Neryth slowly drew her sword: a curved saber that she'd looted from the very first man she'd killed. The blue light gleamed off the fine, unblemished steel and the silver-etched hilt.

"A beautiful weapon," the bald warrior rasped. "A worthy trophy to take from your corpse."

She grinned back at him, eyeing his greatsword.

"As for your weapon, I might just toss it in the trash," she quipped. "Not a worthy prize in the slightest."

His eyes narrowed, and a few of the savages jeered or laughed at that insult. His thick hands reached back, drawing his sword, while his bearded companion spun his club about. The feet of both men dug into the dirt, tensing with anticipation.

"What are your names?" she asked. "You know mine, it's only fair for me to know yours, too."

Both men frowned and eyed her quizzically. That had been precisely the point: a seemingly random question before the fight could puzzle them, put them off their guard.

"Ekwulf," the bald one growled. "Ekwulf of the White Tree."

"Torvath of the Dancing Crow," the other one said, his voice cold and calm.

Neryth had a feeling that Torvath would be the harder one to deal with: thus far he hadn't risen to any of her teasing. No doubt he'd be far more calm and collected-and thus more dangerous-during the duel.

Their eyes did not leave her, even as Rathgar's voice drowned out the shouts and prayers.

"Begin!"

Torvath moved first, edging forward cautiously, his club raised to deflect any potential blows. Ekwulf stood his ground, brandishing that massive sword.

"A shame we met as foes, woman," Ekwulf said with a feral grin. "I would have preferred to have you as a prize, instead of an opponent. Gods, the things I could do to you..."

Many of the onlooking warriors laughed, and some even shouted out assurances of their own lust and prowess.

Ekwulf was playing his own game, trying to rile her up, but it wouldn't work.

"Aye, a shame," she chirped, her eyes still scanning between her opponents. She nodded briefly at Torvath. "I think I'd prefer him, too. Would be quite fun to yank on those fancy braids during a wild fuck. You, on the other hand, have nothing for me to grab onto, with that ugly bald head of yours."

Other warriors roared with amusement, and even Torvath cracked a slight grin. Ekwulf's eyes narrowed, but he did not charge, though she saw his legs tremble with and tension. She knew that he ached to lunge, and all she needed to do was find a way to spring him into a reckless charge and throw him off balance.

"What do you say, Torvath?" she continued, but kept her eyes on Ekwulf. "After I cut Ekwulf's throat and win this fight, maybe you and I can celebrate with a nice long fuck."

The bearded warrior let out a soft, raspy chuckle, but Ekwulf stood his ground.

"Better yet," Neryth continued, twirling her sword a little, the tip slicing through the air. "Maybe I'll let Ekwulf live...just beat him bloody, force him to watch while you-"

Ekwulf snarled and finally took the bait. He lunged forward...straight towards one of the little bumps in the ground that she'd noticed. His boot clipped the little mound of dirt: not enough to make him trip or stumble, but it was enough to force his leg to compensate, to adjust a tiny bit.

And a tiny bit was all Neryth needed. She dove in, ducking low beneath the swing of that blade. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Torvath lunging for her, and knew she wouldn't have time for a proper finishing stroke. So instead, she slammed her knee into Ekwulf's shin as she passed, then spun to the left and brought up her saber in time to deflect Torvath's swing.

The club thumped against her sword, leaving her hand ringing. Ekwulf cursed and tripped, sprawling into the dirt. Torvath nimbly hopped over his fallen friend instead of smashing into him, and Neryth scampered away, moving around towards the other side of the fire.

"Clever little bitch," Ekwulf grumbled, spitting dirt from his mouth as he rose. "I'll give her that."

"Aye," Torvath nodded, staring at her through the flames. "Big weapons won't be of much use. She's too quick and wily. Like a fox or a panther."

Both men suddenly dropped their bigger weapons, and drew smaller knives made of bone and stone from their belts.

Her eyes widened. Neryth had been counting on using their bigger weapons against them, of using her smaller size and speed to her advantage. But that advantage would be nearly negated if they had any skill with those smaller, faster blades.

"How much time?" she called out to Rathgar, still staring at her foes.

The chieftain remained silent and impassive, his arms crossed over his chest as he glared at the dueling ground.

Remembering that the gods needed a worthy and memorable fight in order for her to succeed, Neryth got back to work. She circled around the flames, standing a few feet away from it. The warmth and blue light bathed her skin.

Ekwulf circled around the fire, clearly trying to get around to her flank, while Torvath rushed at from the front, two bone-knives held in those thick, scarred hands.

If she stood her ground against Torvath, Ekwulf would likely tear her back open with those knives. But fleeing away from the flames could leave her flanks vulnerable to Torvath, and no doubt the barbarian gods would frown on another retreat.

So instead she kicked at the flames, her boot colliding with a burning branch. It spun through the air, sailing towards Torvath. His eyes widened with alarm and his charge faltered, losing his momentum and lowering his guard. The branch smashed into his knees, and his leggings caught fire and sparks danced up towards his face.

Neryth seized the moment and charged, and since he was half-blinded by the sparks, there was little he could do to stop her. Even as she moved, her mind churned with possibilities. If she killed him outright, it would make the challenge easier for her...but it would also remove a skilled warrior from Rathgar's ranks. And Lucan and Sarya would need every good soldier possible if they were to save Fellhaven.

So instead of going for a thrust to the throat or the heart, she dipped her sword low so it ripped into his thigh. Torvath howled and dropped one of his knives to clutch at the wound. Now off-balance thanks to the injury, he was easy prey for her next strike.

She slammed the hilt of her sword into his face, sending him pitching to the ground. Neryth darted away at the sight of a blur of movement in the corner of her eye.

A snarling Ekwulf charged through the smoke that drifted off of Torvath's burning clothing. He ducked down, like a wolf about to pounce. Neryth bobbed as if she was going to run away, and he sprung forward, heading towards where she'd feinted.

Instead, she held her ground and swung with all her might towards his flank. Ekwulf cursed and turned, one knife rising to slow the blow. Her swing continued, shoving his knife aside and just barely skimming into his lower torso before he spun away.

"Better than I thought," he laughed, turning to face her once again.

She flicked her gaze over to Torvath: the warrior had somehow managed to snuff out the flames, and he rose to his feet to collect his knives. Blood leaked from the wounded leg, but as long as a healer saw to him in time, he'd live.

But she cursed nonetheless, for she'd hoped he'd be out of the fight for longer. They weren't likely to fall for any more of her tricks. The rest of the fight, she feared, would just be a nasty brawl, where her wiles would count for little.

Rather than give them a chance to collect themselves to mount a coordinated attack, Neryth let out a howl and charged. She thrust low with her sword, going for Ekwulf's legs. As expected, he parried the blow with a knife, and his second knife darted in, going for her chest. She released one hand from her sword and chopped her fist upwards, slamming into his wrist and sending the second knife spinning through the air.

Torvath's panting gave his advance away. She stomped at Ekwulf's boot to buy her some time to get away, but she was too slow.

The bearded barbarian threw his knife. It hissed through the air and punched into her shoulder. The blade cracked against the chainmail, but the sharp tip managed to pierce through, digging into her flesh.

She barely had time to register the pain before Torvath was upon her. His remaining knife swung with stunning precision, each blow striking with the force of a bear and the grace of a cat. Time and time again that knife came within inches of her throat, and it skimmed over her chainmail, tearing at the links. Another blow sliced along her jaw, tearing open the skin and adding to her collection of scars and old wounds.

It took all of her strength to stay on her feet, and she was sure that Ekwulf was about to rush back in.

"Well," she panted. "Seems I'm fucked."

Though the statement was true, it also gave her a fleeting advantage, for Ekwulf let out a bark of a laugh. Since her gaze had been focused on Torvath, she couldn't risk looking away to see where the other warrior was, but that laugh had given away his position.

She kicked back in his direction, her boot colliding with his knee. He grunted and stepped to the side, and searing pain exploded on the back of her neck as his knife slashed into her skin before pulling away.

As she cried out, Torvath lunged again, and the pain from her latest wound made her slow to parry. That time the knife struck for her midsection, where some of the links of her mail had fallen away beneath his earlier blows. The knife punched through a weakened section of the chain. She growled with pain as Torvath roared with triumph, and the blade caught on one of her ribs and snapped.

Pain blossomed throughout her body as blood leaked out over his hand. She dimly realized that it could have been a killing blow: had he dug the knife deeper, it could have sank into her lungs.

Her free hand reached out, grasping one of his long braids. She tugged fiercely, yanking his head to the side as he yelped with pain. Her head slammed forward and her forehead smashed into his nose. Blood fountained down over both their faces and she shoved against him, and his weakened, wounded leg gave out. He collapsed to the ground and Neryth rolled away, as adrenaline warred with her agony.

She twirled to face Ekwulf as he charged, his knife going low. Neryth chopped down with her sword: an undisciplined and wild blow. The fine steel blade slashed into the back of Ekwulf's hand, slicing deep. The bald warrior howled, dropped the knife, and Neryth kneed him in the groin. He sprawled backwards, falling next to Torvath.

Panting, she fell to her knees beside the wounded savages, barely able to keep her sword in her grasp.

She heard Torvath rise and looked over her shoulder. Despite his wounds, he staggered over towards his club and picked it up. He looked back to her and managed a weak smile.

"You have fought well," he said.

The captain also managed a weak grin, and shoved her sword against the dirt to help force herself back up to her feet.

If she was going to die in this foolish challenge, she was going to do so on her feet.

Ekwulf groaned and started to rise, and she kicked at the side of his head with what little strength she had left. He growled and struck back, his fist smashing into her boot and sending her falling to the ground.

"So much for dying on my feet," she grumbled, spitting up a bit of dust and blood.

Ekwulf rose and collected his sword, and the two men closed in.

Her fingers clasped around her hilt, and she snarled with defiance. Her pained body ached in protest as she rose again, slashing wildly. The sword clanged off Ekwulf's blade, and she ducked beneath the first swing of Torvath's club.

"Enough!" Rathgar's voice boomed. "A hundred heartbeats have passed!"

Neryth let out a disbelieving laugh, then promptly collapsed. Ketrik rushed forward, digging into his pack for herbs and bandages.

"Sit down," he snapped at her opponents. "Both of you. Need to tend to your wounds."

Ekwulf grumbled but complied, and Torvath nodded down at Neryth as he sank to his knees.

"Damned good fight, captain," he growled.

"Fucking hell," she said, wincing as Ketrik smeared some sort of paste to the wound on the back of her neck. "But aye, it was a good one. I've had better, though." She slowly grinned as the paste sent cool, soothing sensations through her body. "And where's my fucking gold?" she called out to the man she'd placed the bet with.

Laughs rippled through the crowd, and money changed hands. The redheaded barbarian stepped forward and dropped a coinpurse at her feet, then nodded with approval.

"A fine fight indeed, captain. I'm glad I was not chosen...doubt I would have survived."

She chuckled weakly, and Ketrik moved to see to the wound to her ribs. The shaman frowned for a bit as he smeared the paste over it, then applied the bandage. He raised an eyebrow at Torvath.

"This wound could have been worse," the shaman said.

"Aye," Torvath said with a sheepish grin. "But she had a chance to kill me after she kicked that burning branch my way. So I returned the favor."

"So you weren't fighting to win?" Ekwulf barked. "No wonder we fucking lost!"

"You weren't fighting to win, you were fighting to honor the gods," Ketrik said.

Rathgar knelt and snatched up Neryth's sword. She glared but was too weak to fight or protest, or to ask what he was doing.