Thrall
Page 1
Table of Contents
Synopsis
What Reviewers Say About Barbara Ann Wright
By the Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Epilogue
About the Author
Books Available from Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
Like heroes from an ancient tale, Aesa and Maeve plan to raid foreign shores, claiming gold and glory for their homeland. Young and in love, neither considers what will happen if one is chosen to be a warrior and the other is left behind.
On a mist-shrouded island, Aesa meets Ell, a woman enslaved by an insidious curse. Maeve walks the path of dark magic and finds Laret, a woman well acquainted with pain. Together, they must break the magic surrounding Ell, an act that will force them to choose between their dreams, their homes, and the women they love.
What Reviewers Say About Barbara Ann Wright
“…a healthy dose of a very creative, yet believable, world into which the reader will step to find enjoyment and heart-thumping action. It’s a fiendishly delightful tale.”—Lambda Literary
“Barbara Ann Wright is a master when it comes to crafting a solid and entertaining fantasy novel. …The world of lesbian literature has a small handful of high-quality fantasy authors, and Barbara Ann Wright is well on her way to joining the likes of Jane Fletcher, Cate Culpepper, and Andi Marquette. …Lovers of the fantasy and futuristic genre will likely adore this novel, and adventurous romance fans should find plenty to sink their teeth into.”—The Rainbow Reader
“The Pyramid Waltz has had me smiling for three days. …I also haven’t actually read…a world that is entirely unfazed by homosexuality or female power before. I think I love it. I’m just delighted this book exists. …If you enjoyed The Pyramid Waltz, For Want of a Fiend is the perfect next step…you’d be embarking on a joyous, funny, sweet and madcap ride around very dark things lovingly told, with characters who will stay with you for months after.”—The Lesbrary
“This book will keep you turning the page to find out the answers. …Fans of the fantasy genre will really enjoy this installment of the story. We can’t wait for the next book.”—Curve Magazine
Thrall
Beyond Gold and Glory
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Thrall: Beyond Gold and Glory
© 2015 By Barbara Ann Wright. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-454-4
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: September 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Sheri (graphicartist20202@hotmail.com)
By the Author
The Pyramid Waltz
For Want of a Fiend
A Kingdom Lost
The Fiend Queen
Thrall: Beyond Gold and Glory
Acknowledgments
Ross and Mom, all books are because of you. Thanks to Writer’s Ink for always buying my books. Matt Borgard, Natsu Carmony, Angela Dockrey, Deb de Freitas, and Erin Kennemer, thanks for making sure I don’t embarrass myself too much. Pattie Lawler, I’m so glad we’re friends.
Thank you, Bold Strokes Books and all the wonderful people who work there.
No thank you for the pets this time. They’re trying to interrupt me as I write this.
Dedication
Dear readers, thank you.
Chapter One
Aesa lingered by the tall pines, resting her head against the rough bark. In the clearing ahead, Maeve sang to the children, catching them in an old tale as they sat amongst the ferns dotting the forest floor.
“We are born thralls,” Maeve sang, “and we die thralls.”
“But in between, we can be anything,” the children answered.
Aesa whispered along with them. She couldn’t remember when she’d first heard those words, but she could recite them in her sleep. “Never forget your roots,” her mother had told her, “but strive ever forward.” There was always someone better to be, like a hero from story and song.
Aesa’s eyes drifted shut as she listened to the tale. In her mind, she became Hrengrif the mighty warrior, knee-deep in icy salt water, the bodies of her foes turning the surf into pink froth. Enemies charged her from the beach, score upon score, like a black river running into the ocean.
“Hrengrif knew it would be his end, but he smiled,” Maeve sang, “for over the hill, his brother sacked the unprotected town, and our people won the day. Hrengrif laughed as he slaughtered his foes, laughed as one arrow pierced his mail, laughed at another and another.”
Aesa pictured herself falling into the sea, watching the descent of the winged spirits who would bear her and her fellow warriors to the hall of the honored dead. A beautiful spirit held her close, red lips curving in an inviting smile.
Aesa’s eyes jerked open. She stepped out from behind the tree and cleared her throat.
Maeve fell out of her song and blinked as if shaken from a dream. “That’s enough for today,” she said to the children. “Your parents will have chores for you.” When they groaned, she shooed them away. “Even in the middle of a Thraindahl, there is work to be done. Go!”
“Where were you going with that tale?” Aesa asked as she moved closer.
“I got a little lost in my story. What of it?” Maeve gathered her loose dark hair at her nape, all but the two witch’s braids that started at her temples and dangled behind her ears. Her arms slipped around Aesa’s waist, and she inched forward until their noses almost touched. Her dark blue gaze filled the world. “I noticed your flush, Aesa Fharsun. Did you get lost in my story, too?”
Aesa fought the heat in her cheeks, but it wouldn’t be banished, both because of the tale and how their bodies pressed together. Maeve’s heat radiated through her long wool tunic and loose breeches. Aesa cupped her face, trailing one thumb over the scattering of freckles on her cheeks. “I wish I could stay, but I need all my stamina for the games.”
Maeve pulled away so deftly, Aesa wondered why she’d trained to become a witch rather than a warrior. “Then why come to hear me?”
“If I could
not be in your arms, I could at least be close to you.”
“Ah, sweet. If you were anyone else, I would call you a charmer.”
“I can be charming.”
Maeve leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Of course. Why do you think I chose you for my bondmate?”
“I remember asking you, not the other way around.”
Maeve only chuckled as she took Aesa’s arm, and they started toward the proving fields, winding among the trees and tents of all those who’d gathered to see the Thraindahl. Three days had passed in the great games, days of wrestling and running, fighting and lifting. Aesa had thought the tree lift would put her out, dead last as she was, but she’d stayed because of her scores in the races, and this day, with the first challenge revolving around each competitor’s chosen weapon, she would shine.
A trickle of people became a crowd, hiking through the trees, the breeze seeming to push them along. The proving field opened up before them, an area of shorn grass that stretched two bowshots until the trees had dominion again.
The jarl hadn’t yet taken his wooden throne at the edge of the field. Only his consort stood nearby, a nervous looking young man, his skin the light brown of some southern country. Aesa could never remember all their names.
Dain sidled up beside them. “It’s a disgrace.”
“Kinsman, nice to see you, too,” Aesa said.
Maeve swatted her arm. “What’s a disgrace, Dain?”
“As soon as Wilea gave the jarl a child, he threw her over for some southerner.”
“You can’t stand in the path of love,” Maeve said. “The gods tried it and look what happened to them.”
“Is love what lives in one’s breeches?” Dain asked. He scratched the dark stubble on his chin. “I didn’t know that.”
Aesa smirked. “From what I hear, no one knows what lives in your breeches.”
Maeve stepped between them. “Did you compete yet, Dain?”
He scowled at Aesa but said, “No one has. Only a few of the thrains are here.”
Aesa looked to where he pointed, craning her neck, searching for Gilka.
“You know she only shows up at the last moment,” Maeve said.
Aesa nodded, but she had to look. The thrains stood in a group beside the jarl’s throne, large men and women, all with a commanding presence, an easy grace. None of them wore their mail today, just sleeveless shirts tucked into leather breeches, rings glinting on their bare arms. Eight had gathered, awaiting just one. The jarl shuffled through the crowd, draped his long cloak over his throne, and took his place next to his nervous consort.
“Recruits to the center!” the master of games called.
“Good luck,” Dain said as they both started forward.
She barely heard him, barely heard the master of games as he outlined the rules of their next competition. She knew that each of them would get a chance to demonstrate their skills with whichever weapon they chose. Aesa clutched her bow. She wasn’t nervous, she told herself. Shooting never made her nervous. It was in her blood, traced down from Yvette the True, or so her mother had said.
The wind shifted, and Aesa heard Gilka’s voice. She’d sneaked in while no one was looking. Aesa couldn’t help trying to sidle and turn, giving all respect to the master of games while snatching a quick glance.
Gilka stood head and shoulders above the other thrains, probably above the dead gods themselves, and the strength in her body seemed to extend beyond her, like a shimmer in the air. Aesa had heard that Gilka could crack a foot-thick spar with her thighs alone. Honor rings covered her arms from wrist to shoulder. Those straining around her biceps were huge, nearly as big as ship rings, of which she also had dozens, an even higher honor. She wore her blond thrain’s braid hanging down her back to honor the competitors, and she had her smirking eye trained on Aesa.
Aesa felt a void behind her and turned. The other competitors were leaving the field. Only one remained, a fellow archer, and he glared at her. “Are you trying to challenge me?” he asked. “Leave the field until it’s your turn.”
She shrugged and sauntered away, feeling his glare follow her.
Dain sputtered a laugh as she joined the others. “Are you in love?”
“Shut up.”
“I’ve never been so smitten that I’ve lost all track of myself.”
“I said shut up.”
“Guess we know what lives in your breeches.”
She put a hand on her belt knife. He lifted his palms, shaking his head and smiling but surrendering nonetheless.
The other archers shot well, hitting their targets close enough and often enough that Aesa felt a sting growing in her belly as the morning seemed to crawl by. What if she wasn’t good enough? What if the wind picked up right before her shot, and she forever stained her name in front of Gilka? She pictured herself leaving her family farm, not with joyous wishes for battles well fought, but in disgrace, to seek out a place where no one knew her in the hope that another thrain would take her, doomed to always know that her life could have been better. And if no thrain would accept her? She shook the thought away. She’d die first.
The master of games nudged her shoulder, her turn at last. She glanced at the targets on her way into the field and wished that her mother or either of her fathers were standing beside her, but two of them couldn’t afford to make the journey, and her arbiter father had too many duties to attend just one child.
Aesa tightened her belt, making sure her tunic was tucked in securely so it wouldn’t spoil her shot. She lifted her bow, forcing herself to calm. The pull of the string was familiar, right? And what were targets to a leaping hart, a bounding hare, or a squirrel dashing up a tree? Aesa noted the wind’s direction, felt its power by the way it lifted her loose, thrall’s hair. Maeve had tied a leather strap around Aesa’s temples, keeping any strands away from her face. If she missed, she couldn’t blame it on her hair or clothing or anything besides herself.
Enough, she told herself. This was a day like any other.
Aesa nocked an arrow and let fly before more dark thoughts could overtake her. She moved to the next target without waiting and so down the line, shooting with eyes half-lidded. When the master of games threw leather pigeons into the air, she took them all with the same easy rhythm.
The cheering crowd made her breathe deeply again, and she came back to herself. Her targets sported arrows dead in the center. The leather pigeons had been slaughtered the same way. Her mother had said that her aim could be called god-given if the gods weren’t already dead. Her thrall father used to say she was a god in training.
Aesa forced herself not to grin and shame the other competitors. She pointed her feet toward Maeve and kept her chin turned the same way, the better to keep from peeking at the thrains. If Gilka hadn’t seen what she’d done, Aesa might be tempted to slit her wrists. Better to just quit the field.
Maeve’s grin shamed no one. “I knew you could do it. Aesa, we’re so close.”
Aesa ducked her head and smiled into her chest. She had a sudden vision of herself and Maeve rowing together on Gilka’s personal ship, bound for neighboring lands and the glory that waited there, witch and warrior fighting side by side.
They just needed Maeve to blossom into her full power first. “Do you feel any differently?”
Maeve’s smile faltered. “Nothing yet. I will, though. Just as soon as Gilka chooses you.”
“Not so loud.” Aesa held up two fingers in front of her chest to ward off any evil spirits that might be listening, but Maeve knocked her hand down.
“You’re too old to believe in evil spirits. Come on. Swords are next, and we have to cheer for Dain.”
The day continued to ooze past, and Aesa’s neck began to ache from the strain of not staring at Gilka. At least the archers had gotten to compete first, so she didn’t have to spend all day in nervous anticipation. She didn’t know how Dain could stand the wait, short as it was for him. She only paid half an eye to the other contests, eve
n those who fought with axes, her favorite after the bow.
Any number of times, Maeve’s arm crept across Aesa’s shoulders, rubbing her back, her arms. Aesa told her not to waste her talents. She wouldn’t be soothed, but Maeve kept insisting, muttering, “It will be all right. You did well!”
Well enough? By the time the sun had dipped almost to the horizon, Aesa was nearly jumping in place, ready for the games to be done, but there was one more that evening, one more way for the recruits to prove themselves.
The thrains lined up across the field, flexing muscles or cracking knuckles or just looking menacing. Gilka said something to the man next to her, and he sputtered a laugh before putting on a more terrifying visage. He glared as if warning her not to make him laugh in front of the recruits.
Aesa tried not to frown. She knew this was a joke for them, but it was a painful ritual for everyone else. Maeve squeezed her arm. “Good luck.”
The master of games sounded a horn, and each hopeful recruit lined up before the thrain he or she wanted to be chosen by, most with set mouths, thin attempts at bravery. Up and down the line there were a few sets of shuffling feet and some very pale faces. Aesa fought the urge to clench her fists as she settled toward the back of Gilka’s line.
“Issue challenge!” the master called.
The competitors shouted, “I challenge you to single combat!”
Single slaughter, more like. One by one, each challenger would face his or her thrain for a barehanded fight. One by one, they would each be thrashed, to what degree only the thrain could decide, but there was no sense in wounding a warrior they hoped to claim.
Gilka grinned and gestured the first recruit forward. With a yelp like a wounded animal, he lashed out at her. She feinted with her right fist, struck with her left, and while he reeled from the blow, she hooked a foot under his ankle and tripped him.