Blackest Spells

by Phipps, C. T.

  “You little shit, don’t you dare get cocky. Understood?”

  Biting back tears that were in equal parts shame and anger, Drangar only managed a nod. It was confirmation that he was still just the runt.

  “I didn’t hear you, Librarian!”

  “I’m not a Librarian,” Drangar pushed back at the man through clenched teeth. His mind raged at the hypocrisy and double standards. He was their equal, now, dammit! A part of the company, a mercenary!

  “You’re in my company,” Tughal seethed—and when he seethed, spittle drooled down from the left corner of his mouth, like a ravenous dog. “I lead. What I say is law, and when I call you Librarian, you will answer to it and you will like it, understood?”

  Drangar’s eyes were level with Tughal. “Aye,” he mumbled.

  “I did not hear you, runt.” His cold stare bore into his newest mercenary.

  “Tuaghal,” Finnen said. “Give’im a break, already. He’s trying to fit in.”

  If Drangar were to guess, she was in her twenties, closer to his age than theirs. Maybe that’s why she spoke on his behalf. Maybe it was because he had taken her place as the runt of this mangy litter.

  “He can read, girl, that’s why we took him with us in the first place,” Sitric scoffed from behind. “Read the bloody sign, boy.”

  Sitric, like his brethren, was a seasoned fighter. He’d seen his shares of blood and death—women and ale—and had an eye for strategy in warfare. Most of all, Drangar knew that Sitric could always be counted upon to tell it like it was. And so he did…

  So that was it? They’d only taken him along because of his letters? Compared to them, he was a Librarian, true, but he was no priest of Traghnalach. No, Lesganagh, the god of Sun and War, was his patron. Drangar gritted his teeth.

  “Do what he wants,” Finnen whispered, leaning into him.

  He turned his head to her and blinked away the tempered tears. Her smile was enough to appease the bruising of his heart against its cage.

  “No weapons allowed,” he spoke the lettered words to her, but loud enough for them to hear. “Leave them in the stable.—That’s what it says.”

  “Anything else?” Tuaghal asked. “I can count, boy.”

  Suppressing a sigh, Drangar turned to the despised sign and read the second part. “Any who disobey will deal with the Knights of Kalduuhn.”

  The mercenaries turned to each other for discourse.

  “What’s a knight of Kalduuhn?” Tadc asked.

  “Never heard of them,” Una said. But Drangar had…

  “They’re the keepers of the law here,” Drangar said, regretting it immediately. They’re not going to stop calling you ‘Librarian’ if you keep talking like one, he thought.

  “Librarian indeed,” Tuaghal said with a grin. “You heard the rules, let’s get the horses stabled and find someone to take care of our weapons.”

  This someone was, of course, Drangar. He had barely brushed down his aging gelding when Tuaghal dragged him to the front of the stables. “You’ll watch the gear until the local idiot locks them away, understood?” An order.—Spoken by a man who was used to giving orders.

  “Yes, Sir,” Drangar said, holding out both hands to receive the leader’s sword belt and dagger.

  “Good boy,” Tuaghal said, patting his head.

  Drangar resisted the temptation to toss the gear into the muck. Instead, he placed it on the table near the stable’s entrance. Some of the others, Sitric first and foremost, did not put their weapons in his hands. They dropped them into the muck at his feet, demanding he bow down to retrieve them.

  “Don’t fuck with the help,” Tadc growled, kicking one of the offenders in the ass. Drangar couldn’t suppress the playful smile that curved his lips when the swift kick sent her sprawling. “Here you go, runt,” the tall mercenary said, putting his sword and mace onto the table himself. “Don’t let them treat you like shit.”

  Soon he was alone, guarding a table stacked with all kinds of weapons. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. He was a mercenary just like them. He’d stood his ground in the shield wall, he’d bled alongside them, he’d received his share just like them. Was it his fault he was better with the blade? Was their animosity towards him born from envy? He did his part, was a comrade like Kerral had taught him to be. In the wall everyone is your sibling, you can’t survive the wall without siblings. Since joining Mireynh’s Marauders he’d done everything that was asked of him. Mucking stables, feeding and brushing horses, polishing armor, sharpening blades—everything—all the tasks freshlings were supposed to do, and he had done all without complaint.

  Drangar drew his long knife and squinted along its blade in the flickering torchlight. Next, he fumbled for his whetstone and set about uncovering the knife’s edge again. Up and down the stone went, along the nicked steel. The motion quelled his anger and drove it to the back of his mind.

  “Hey.” A voice, Finnen’s voice, disrupted his reverie.

  Drangar blinked, looked at the knife and stone in his hands and then at the older woman. She carried a covered plate in one hand and a mug in the other hand. Putting weapon and stone away, he returned the greeting—a word for a word. “Hey.”

  He wanted to say more, but the words only reached his throat before he swallowed them back. He’d never understood why he couldn’t just talk to her.

  “Brought you this.” She handed him plate and mug, pulling off the cover as he took them from her. “Stew and ale. The bread’s terrible, so I spared you that,” she said. It was her smile that eclipsed his hunger.

  “Thanks,” Drangar said, putting the mug on the table and digging in.

  “I’m sorry,” Finnen said, sitting down across from him.

  “For?” he asked, chewing.

  She paused for a moment, and then met his eyes. “They treated me the same way, you know.”

  “Oh,” he acknowledged the intent of her words. “Well, them being cunts isn’t your fault, don’t apologize for shit you’re not responsible for.”

  “Still,” even if she had no part in it, she was still sorry—for him. “They’re being real shitty assholes, even by their standards,” she said.

  “All right?” He took a pull of ale, not knowing what she was still doing there with him.

  “I got the proprietor to send one of his staff out as soon as possible.” There it was.

  The spoonful of stew in his mouth was forgotten as Drangar pondered the implication. Tuaghal hadn’t kept word. Some leader, he wanted to say. Instead, stew dribbled down his chin.

  Finnen snorted.

  He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grinning like a fool. Then he remembered. “The gelding can’t keep up with the pace. What shall I do?”

  “Tell Tadc,” Finnen answered. “He sort of likes you, better he tells Tuaghal than you.”

  “All right,” he said, “I’ll do that. So, what are they doing up there?”

  “What does anyone do when they’re gearing up for battle?” she smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  Drangar shifted his eyes to the corner of room, looked back at her and shrugged.

  “They’re eating,” she said, “and drinking and fucking. Bloody Una and Tennal practically put on a show in the tavern hall.”

  Drangar looked down at his plate to contemplate her answer. “Seems more apt to prepare yourself, mentally.”

  Finnen face fell serious. “This is preparing them mentally.”

  His brows pulled together trying to make sense of her words.

  She smiled. “Drangar, when have you ever known a warrior to speak of roses and rainbows?” she started. “Our lives are a gamble every time we take the field. It doesn’t matter how prepared we are or how strong or how many. Someone always falls. So, who’s it gonna be this time?

  “We, marauders, we harden within months among our bretheren. In years, we’re practically shelled in steel. Can you dent steel with your hands, Drangar?” Her eyes were cold, and yet the warm coal of
emotion burned in the depth of her orbs.

  Still, she had more to say, “On the eve of battle a thousand careless thoughts flood through a warrior’s mind. And they’re not about armor or swords or their numbers or positions or such… You think Una will be thinking of Tennal when she takes the field a few days from now? No. And do you know how I know? Because I’ve seen the way they look at each other, and there is no love there—not even a little—but there is need. A thousand images and voices from the past take over your mind on the eve of battle and you ask yourself Have I lived? Am I ready to die?

  “So, in these coming days, we live—fiercely—it is our way. We eat, we fight, we laugh and we fuck—hard. We live for the day, Drangar, for our last may be near.”

  He nodded. He understood. “There’s one thing I don’t understand, though,” he said. “Why the Scales are you down here with me instead of up there—living.”

  She shrugged and looked away from him. “I bought you food and ale because you’re one of us—a warrior, a brethren—and while we’ve eaten, I know you hadn’t.”

  He had no idea what he was doing or why he was doing it; but Drangar caught her arm when she stood up and reached for the plate of food he’d cannibalized.

  “Please stay.” He stared up at her. Immediately, her eyes shot to his as he chucked the plate to the floor beside him and gently pulled her closer.

  Finnen was right. Drangar was alone in this world, outside of the Marauders. And if he was going to meet his death within days, he didn’t want to spend this time alone and he sure as fuck didn’t want to die a virgin.

  It was strange. Never having slept with a woman hadn’t bothered him before. His mind was always pressed with other things and this was something that could wait. Maybe when he fell in love, maybe she’d be his wife.

  But one chat with Finnen had brought a new perspective to his dismissive attitude towards this particular aspect of life. What had started with a tender kiss deepened into something more desperate—something that gasped for its next breath—Finnen’s words had made it so.

  That’s why she’d said fucking not making love. This was not a slow process of mutual discovery or spiritual enjoyment, they weren’t thinking of pleasuring each other. This was not a gentle act of desire. It was the rough and fierce will to feel alive.

  At the same time, Drangar wasn’t about to lie to himself. He did feel something for Finnen. Maybe he wasn’t entirely in love, but given time, thought he could be. The point was… he cared. Which was why this was hard for him. While something buried within him urged Drangar to take her—fuck her—something else held him back. Finnen deserved better treatment. Hers was the kind of beauty that shone from within and draped over from without. Though a warrior, herself, she possessed the rare charm that made men want to write poetry or die protecting it. At least, that’s what Drangar saw when he looked at her. She wore warrior marks, well.

  It was all he could do not to come in his pants when she’d shed her clothes. She’d shed them fast, as though they were on fire and reached for his. She was practically begging him to fuck her.

  Still, he tried to be gentle, to take things slow, but she had him under her and was clearly calling the shots. Desire raced through him and it set his blood on fire. Drangar felt a need to dent the steel shell, to shatter the bloody thing, to feel alive at his very core.

  A strong naked woman sat over him, straddling him. He groaned when he felt himself slide into her. It didn’t take long before he was too far gone, and so was she.

  “Pace yourself,” her breaths were labored and driven, “make this last a long while.”

  Drangar stared at her with wide eyes, taking in the bounce of her breasts, the curve of her waist. He pulled and kneaded her hips and ass, eliciting deeper moans and wilder thrusts. He was learning the language of the Finnen form.

  “More,” she breathed loudly, “and don’t you dare come now.”

  It was less a threat and more a desperate plea—to be ravished beyond her ability to reason. She just needed to feel.

  Drangar was about to break; he was losing his mind. Either he got her off him or this was about to end, now. His hands were on her hips, holding her in place, willing her to be still.

  “Why?” she asked, breathing heavily. “Please,” she said, “I need…”

  “I know what you need,” his level words brought her back to his eyes, “and you’ll have it, Finnen.” It was a promise that elicited a wanting gasp from the depth of her core.

  Drangar switched their position quite suddenly, pinning her to the ground. “Feel me.”

  He turned her over and pulled her up onto her hands and knees in front of him. She arched her back against him, her naked ass rubbing him as he covered her body with his own.

  Drangar traced her scars with his eyes but all he saw was her beautiful, strong body, and all he felt was her soft skin against his own. He could smell her heat—it filled his head with madness and wouldn’t let him go.

  Grabbing her hips, he pushed her knees apart and she moaned as he slid into her. It was too much. Her groaning, and moaning, her body slamming against his, grinding. He’d wanted—he’d tried to be gentle with her but instinct took over and he lost control. Along with it, he lost any tenderness or gentleness he’d wished to have with her.

  Whatever confused feelings he’d had, they were all buried under an avalanche of lust. He gripped her hips and rammed into her hard and fast, she met his motion, pumping her body against his. No! He needed to control this, she had had her way, now he would have his! He held her down and fucked her hard—shoving himself deep into her again and again. Her moans were gaining in time and sound until the lusting cries piqued as he spilled himself into her.

  “Scales!” As he continued to gush his seed. They collapsed on top of each other, spent and out of breath.

  “Alive?” he asked.

  She tried to smile as she stuttered, “Every inch of me is alive.”

  Finnen rolled onto her side to face him and they both erupted into laughter. In Drangar’s life, a life that he had always viewed as one moment of misery followed by the next, this evening with Finnen was a drop of nectar.

  A young woman entered and regarded them. Their clothes were scuffed and rumpled, and Drangar was sure his tunic was inside out, but he didn’t care. They huddled by the fire and shared stories. To Drangar she said, “Your belt, put it with the others.” She inspected the armory on the table. “Guess some of the bastards don’t like you very much, eh?—I take care of this, get out—the two of you.”

  Tuaghal didn’t care about the gelding, and late the next afternoon, the company paid the price for that neglect. A goodly ten miles from the next village—well within Chulaghanish territory—the gelding staggered, stumbled, and Drangar barely managed to jump off the saddle before the poor beast collapsed. One final, shuddering breath, a twitch of the legs, and the horse lay still.

  “Fuck,” Drangar swore.

  Sitric growled, “Stupid runt,” and rode past him.

  “Ah Scales,” said Tadc, halting beside him. “The lass told Tuaghal about it, but our esteemed leader said searching for a horse would slow us down.”

  “Shit,” Finnen swore, holding behind them.

  “Tuaghal!” Tadc shouted; the leader turned to look.

  Eying the gelding, the bastard rode back, glaring. “Waiting for a resurrection, Librarian? Get your shit off the corpse. You can have the ass. Ditch what doesn’t fit.”

  Tadc handed over the reins of the donkey, grimacing. The beast didn’t look much better than the gelding. The older mercenary must have seen Drangar’s doubt. “The little critter’s been with us a year now, always looked so mangy.”

  Drangar bobbed his head in acknowledgement and began to remove several of the bags lining the ass’s back. No sooner had he started, than he heard the loud critical remonstrance that made the hair on his forearms stand straight.

  “Not our provisions, you dumb fuck, your stuff!” Tuaghal yelle
d, causing Drangar to stand at attention. Some of the others sniggered.

  Was Tuaghal serious? Everything Drangar ever owned was stuffed into those few sacks. He had no home; he had no homeland. This was it, right here; this was all he had. Did Tughal really intend for him to throw away his only possessions?

  “This is all I own,” he protested. “We can always buy more food.”

  Drangar could see the line of spittle starting to drool down the left corner of his mouth. Here it comes. “This is my company, you pisswit!” Tuaghal spat, “my rules.”

  Now all but Finnen and Tadc laughed, applauding Tuaghal. Shitty assholes! The lot of them.

  “Pisswit, that’s a new one.

  Priceless.

  One that’ll stay with him forever.

  Love it.”

  Drangar balled his hands into fists; his nostrils flared; his brow clenched. The deep scowl on his lips were testimony to how well he shared their humor. He wanted to lash out; he wanted to bite Tuaghal’s head off and feed it to the line of mercenaries always ready to lick his asshole.

  Instead, tears of rage threatened to flood the rims of his eyes. Drangar could only do what he always did; he swallowed his anger at the unfairness of it all. His body dropped violently to his knees to rifle through his belongings. He would not open himself to more ridicule by swearing or cursing this injustice.

  “Runt, put some of the foodstuffs on my horse,” Tadc said.

  “The food stays where it is!” Tuaghal snapped.

  “Fuck you,” Tadc retorted. “You picked up this job, but you aren’t my master. You’ve been treating the runt like shit for months now. The food was paid for with all our money, so I will take my share and have my horse carry it.”

  Tuaghal’s jaw tightened. Drangar eyed a thickening vein in his temple, and for a moment he feared the mercenary would attack Tadc—then him. Steel often repaid humiliation. To his surprise, though, it was Una who reined her horse back to take a pair of sacks off the donkey as well.

  Finnen and the others followed, until only one sack was left dangling from the frame straddling the donkey’s back. Reluctance was plain on Tuaghal’s face, reluctance and shame? Still, the older mercenary guided his horse forward. He took the remaining sack, but reined the horse with such aggressive force when he turned about, causing the heavy satchel to slam into Drangar.