Barbarian Slave
Page 20
Time slowed.
She saw the man lunge, and knew there was no way she could move out of the way in time.
Tarl. She would never see him again. This was her first battle, and her final one.
Those were her last thoughts, before a body flew in between them. A tall muscular woman with dark braids: Alpia.
Horror welled within Lucrezia when she realized what the woman was doing.
“Alpia—no!”
It was too late to stop her, too late to halt the pike. It slammed against Alpia’s shield, knocking it to one side—and drove into her belly.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The Reaper Comes
“not so cocky now, are we?”
Wurgest swung his axe once more, and Tarl felt it whistle past his ear. The Boar was right—he was no longer goading his opponent, or toying with him. Their fight had deteriorated into a grim battle for survival.
For the first time it occurred to Tarl that Ruith might be right. He risked dying here in the middle of this desolate valley. He sliced his sword under Wurgest’s guard, and the tip of his blade scored a crimson line across the warrior’s thigh. The sight brought him grim satisfaction: if he was to fall here he would bring this bastard down with him.
Wurgest was limping from the three wounds he had sustained to his left leg, but Tarl was also bleeding. Wurgest had caught him across the shoulder and bicep on his left side. He could feel warm blood running down his arm, and his left hand was starting to go numb, but he paid it no mind.
Survival. That was all that mattered. He had to get back to Lucrezia. He had made her a promise—he could not let her down.
Sweat was pouring off him now, although he could see that Wurgest was also tiring. His face was bright red, his bare torso gleaming. However, his eyes remained murderous, almost black now in their intensity. Since he had lost an axe, he fought two-handed with the remaining one, chopping and swinging it at Tarl in a frenzy. The Boar moved so fast that the blade was a blur.
Tarl twisted, feinted, and attacked—taking his chance to cut under Wurgest’s guard the instant he finished each lunge. With one sharp thrust, Tarl cut into Wurgest’s forearm, slicing through the leather bracer he wore.
Wurgest grunted and let go of the axe, stumbling back. The blade had gone deep, cutting through tendons. Not wasting his chance, Tarl cast aside his sword, drew his fighting knife, and lunged at the bigger man. He was good with a sword, although not quite the equal of Galan and Donnel. However, with a knife Tarl was lethal.
Wurgest reeled back, snarled a curse and reached for his own knife. As the warrior fought with both hands, he did not favor one as most would. He drew his fighting blade swiftly. Tarl felt its sting as the tip scored across his chest.
Roaring a curse of his own, he grabbed hold of Wurgest’s wrist with his free hand and drove his knife up under The Boar’s ribs. Wurgest gasped and fell backward, bringing Tarl with him.
Their faces were just inches apart, and although Tarl had just sunk a blade into his opponent’s ribs, Wurgest still fought him. Wurgest’s knife inched closer to Tarl’s neck. A moment more and the tip of that wickedly sharp blade would kiss his throat.
Tarl gritted his teeth, yanked his own blade free from Wurgest’s ribs—and slammed it home into the base of the warrior’s throat.
Wurgest’s dark-blue eyes went wide, his teeth bared in a rictus of madness and hate, and then Tarl felt the life leave him, draining away like a receding tide.
Wurgest’s body went limp, and the blade lowered.
Gasping for breath, his heart thundering like a galloping pony, Tarl yanked off his helmet and tossed it aside. Then he rolled off Wurgest and onto the hard valley floor. He was so exhausted he felt sick; Wurgest had come close to overcoming him. For an instant there, he had seen his life flash before his eyes.
“Tarl!”
He propped himself up on his elbows to see a woman running toward him. She was small, her hair braided down her back. Dressed in leather and plaid, and splattered head to foot in blood, she raced across the stony ground.
Alarm jolted Tarl upright.
Lucrezia … what is she doing here? Why is she covered in blood?
Behind her he saw other figures approach, Galan and Donnel among them. Wurgest had been right—they had followed him south. As Lucrezia drew closer, her feet flying, Tarl saw that tears streaked down her grimy blood-splattered face.
She reached Tarl, gasping, and fell to her knees before him. “You’re hurt.”
Tarl shrugged it off, instead reaching out and grabbing hold of her hands. “Nothing that Eithni can’t heal. But you … what happened?”
Lucrezia glanced down at herself, her face twisting. “It’s not my blood.” She gasped out the words, her brown eyes glittering. “It belongs to the warriors who attacked us … and to Alpia. She’s badly wounded.”
Tarl stared at her a moment, before rage surged through him. He glanced across at where Wurgest lay, staring sightlessly up at the heavens.
Treacherous, scheming dog.
Tarl was aware then that the others had reached them, forming a protective circle around him and Lucrezia. Covered in blood but unharmed, Galan’s gaze was hard as he glanced around, watching out for signs of another ambush. Next to him fury twisted Donnel’s face. He had sustained a deep cut across his bare chest, but he hardly seemed to notice it.
Donnel spat on Wurgest’s corpse. “Someone will pay for this,” he growled.
Galan did not respond. Instead his attention returned to Tarl. “Can you stand?”
Tarl nodded, and with Galan and Lutrin’s help, he staggered to his feet. His brother’s penetrating gaze narrowed as it settled upon Tarl’s left shoulder and arm. “We need to get you back to Dun Ringill.” His expression softened then, his eyes gleaming. “You did well … few men could fight Wurgest mac Wrad and win.”
“He was a hard bastard to kill,” Tarl replied with a grimace. His gaze shifted to Lucrezia. She had also climbed to her feet, and was looking so shaken that he reached out and pulled her gently into his embrace. She was trembling. “It’s difficult to best a man who fights dirtier than you.”
Donnel barked out a laugh. He was still standing over Wurgest, glaring down at The Boar. “I hope you made him suffer.”
Tarl shook his head. “Not nearly enough.”
“Come.” Galan stepped back, his gaze sweeping the desolate vale once more. “We’ve left Alpia with the others north of here.”
They reached Dun Ringill just as the last of the daylight drained from the sky. It had been a slow and difficult journey home, for they dragged Alpia on a litter and did not want to risk causing her more pain than she was already in.
Lucrezia walked alongside the litter, constantly stealing glances at her friend. Alpia was stoic, but one look at her ashen face and the deep grooves either side of her mouth, and Lucrezia knew she was suffering.
They had bandaged up her stomach wound as best as possible, but even Lucrezia understood that such an injury was usually fatal.
They entered the fort through the outer gate. Folk ran out to meet the bloodied and weary band, while someone ran to fetch Eithni. A few of the warriors had sustained minor injuries, but it was Alpia who needed seeing to first.
Tarl rode next to them, his face drawn with pain and exhaustion. The blood on his arm and shoulder had congealed, although Lucrezia could see that the two gashes he had sustained there would need tending to and stitching. They had barely spoken on the way home. Likewise the other warriors had not conversed amongst themselves. She had never seen Galan look so grim, and Donnel seethed throughout the journey.
The Battle Eagle wanted blood—that was clear.
Lucrezia only wanted to return home, to try and forget the horror of battle. After that warrior had thrust a pike into Alpia’s belly, the rest of the skirmish had become a blur. She barely remembered rushing at him, screaming, or slicing his chest open with her blade.
“Lucrezia.” Alpia’s weak
voice drew her out of her brooding. She glanced down to see the warrior watching her. They were traveling up the path to the fort, where the gateway yawned before them.
“Not long now,” Lucrezia murmured. “We’re almost home.”
“You fought well today,” Alpia rasped, a smile upon her taut features. “You did me proud.”
Grief blossomed in Lucrezia’s chest. Her vision swam. “Not well enough,” she replied, choking out the words, “or you wouldn’t have had to save me.”
Alpia’s strong face twisted as a spasm of pain caught her. “You’d have done the same for me,” she croaked finally.
Tears trickled down Lucrezia’s face. “I shouldn’t have been there. If I had stayed behind—”
“The Reaper comes for us when he wants,” Alpia cut in, her voice surprisingly strong. “Nothing you or I say or do can change that. I regret nothing, and neither should you.”
The men carried Alpia into the fort, to her small alcove. Eithni was there waiting with her basket of herbs, remedies, and bandages. Lucrezia took her place behind the healer, ready to assist. However, when Eithni unwrapped the bandage from Alpia’s stomach, her heart-shaped face paled.
She glanced up at where Galan, Donnel, and Tarl stood, her expression stricken. “It’s fatal … there’s nothing I can do but keep her comfortable, and give her something for the pain.”
“I know that,” Alpia spoke up, her voice weak now. “And I also know there is no herb or potion you can give me that will stop the agony of this wound. I will die screaming.”
Lucrezia went cold. She glanced over at Eithni. “Is she right?”
Eithni’s lips compressed before she eventually nodded.
A few moments passed before Galan spoke. “What do you wish, Alpia?”
The warrior and the chieftain’s gazes met and held for a heartbeat. Then she answered in one word. “Mercy.”
Lucrezia inhaled sharply. She knew what Alpia was asking. It was a terrible thing, and yet she understood why.
A nerve flickered in Galan’s jaw, but his gaze remained steady. “Then I will give it to you.”
Alpia’s drawn face creased into a smile. “You are a man of valor, Galan. I have been honored to follow you … but I wish for another to grant me mercy, if I may?”
Galan’s eyes widened, but he nodded. “Aye—if that is what you wish.”
Alpia’s attention shifted to his younger brother. “Tarl, will you do this for me?”
Lucrezia watched Tarl’s face, saw grief shadow his eyes. His throat bobbed before he answered, his voice catching. “I will.”
Alone in the alcove, Tarl sat down at Alpia’s side and took her hand. She was looking up at him, her blue eyes hollowed and glassy with pain.
“Are you sure about this?” he murmured.
She nodded. “The pain is almost unbearable now,” she gasped. “I don’t think I can suffer it much longer. Grant me this, Tarl … please.”
He squeezed her hand, steeling himself for what was to come. He had fought many battles, and yet even his fight with Wurgest had been easier to face than this. He had grown up with Alpia. She had once been his lover, and had always been his friend. They had fought at the wall together, traveled together. She had sacrificed her own life to save Lucrezia’s.
“You are a brave woman,” he whispered, struggling with a grief that made it hard to draw breath. “You’ve the heart of an ox.”
“Lucrezia is also brave,” she replied, the words coming out in pants now. “You should have seen her today. You’ve chosen well—make sure you treat her right.”
Tarl’s vision blurred. He swallowed before nodding. He did not trust himself to speak.
Alpia’s face contorted then, her long body going taut against him. She was on the edge of the abyss. He could delay no longer.
“How do you wish me to end it?” he asked.
Her gaze met his, steady, resolute. “A knife across the throat,” she whispered. “Do it quick.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Spoiling for a Fight
lucrezia found tarl standing upon the western edge of the inner wall, looking out across the loch.
She approached him slowly, hesitant to intrude upon his solitude. It was getting late—the moon was already high in the sky—but Lucrezia did not want to return to the hut she shared with Eithni. Nor did she want to remain in the feasting hall. The mood in the fort tonight was somber. She had waited with the others, while Tarl was alone with Alpia.
No one had spoken when he finally emerged, his face like hewn stone, and crossed the floor. No one had tried to intercept him. Galan and Donnel had watched him closely though, their gazes worried. Likewise Tea, who had been seated next to Lucrezia near the fire pit, had looked troubled.
“It was a brave, noble thing to do,” Tea had murmured once Tarl had gone. “Only it will cost him.”
Lucrezia had watched Tarl leave, her gaze lingering on the doorway for a long time after he disappeared. She had waited for as long as she could bear it, before going outside to find him.
She circled behind Tarl now, and stopped at his left shoulder. The row of torches upon the wall guttered slightly as a breeze whipped in from the loch, their light illuminating his face.
His cheeks were wet, his eyes hollowed. Realizing he was no longer alone, he turned, and managed a tight smile. The expression broke her heart.
“Tarl …” she whispered. “Are you well?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I’ve never taken a friend’s life before. I wish she hadn’t asked it of me.”
Lucrezia’s vision swam. She reached out and took his hand in hers, squeezing gently. “It was the greatest gift you could have given her. You saw how she suffered. It was her choice to end it.”
Tarl inhaled deeply, and Lucrezia could see he was struggling to remain composed. “She was dear to me, and I took her life. It doesn’t feel like a gift.”
Lucrezia wrapped her arms around his torso, careful not to touch the wounds upon his left shoulder and bicep. She felt the tremor in his strong body. She had never seen Tarl like this, so shaken. From the moment she had met him, he had been so sure of himself. Nothing had appeared to bother him. Now she realized that it was the shield he presented to the world; the reality was a warrior who hid a tender heart, and passion that ran deep.
She buried her head in his chest and squeezed him hard. “You are a wonderful man, Tarl mac Muin. And I love you so much it frightens me.”
He drew back from her, crooking a finger under her chin and raising her face so that their gazes met. “You do?”
She stared up at him. “You sound surprised.”
His mouth quirked. “I am … No one has ever said that to me before.” His expression turned serious. “Before meeting you, I didn’t think I deserved to hear it.” He cupped her face with his hands, his eyes glistening in the torchlight. “I was a lucky man the day you appeared in my life, Lucrezia. I shall thank the gods for it, every night before going to sleep.”
She held his gaze. “And I will thank them that you found me that day … or things would have turned out very differently.”
He watched her, his face tender. “Do you know the moment I realized what you mean to me? When I knew I could not bear losing you?”
She cocked her head, intrigued. “No … when?”
“That night you ran away, after we kissed. Until then I hadn’t admitted to myself how I felt. But when I saw the tent empty, and knew you were out there fleeing blind in the darkness, I was filled with terror that I’d lose you.”
She smiled. “Was it such a difficult thing to confess?”
He huffed out a laugh. “You didn’t know me before. I used to brag to my brothers how women were for plowing, not loving. I would tease Donnel about how soft he was on Luana … but I wouldn’t now.” His expression turned sad. “You wouldn’t recognize him now, if you had known him then. He has turned so harsh, so bitter. When Luana died, she took Donnel’s heart with her.”
“Aye … it has made him restless. He spoils for another fight.” Tarl’s mouth twisted. “I understand that well enough. I used to chafe at the confines of my life.”
Lucrezia reached out and placed a hand upon his chest. She could feel the warmth of his body through the leather vest he wore. “And do you still feel that way?”
He shook his head. “These days there’s only one thing I want.” He paused here, lowering his hand and placing it over hers. She could feel the thud of his heart against her palm. “To spend the rest of my days with you. You are my air, my sunlight, my warm south wind. You make me want to grab hold of life and cherish it. I’ve never felt like this before.”
Lucrezia swallowed, blinking back tears. “I’m yours, Tarl.”
He drew her against him and buried his face in her hair. “Thank you for following me out here,” he said, his voice muffled. “I wasn’t in the mood to be left alone for much longer.”
Lucrezia drew back and slipped her hand in his once more. “Come on. Let’s go back inside. You need Eithni to look at those wounds.”
Together they walked down from the wall and entered the fort. Indoors the mood was still melancholy. Galan sat alone at the chieftain’s table, his expression brooding as he nursed a cup of mead. It was late, and it appeared Tea had already retired for the night.
Surprisingly there were still a few folk awake. Eithni and Donnel sat by the fire pit. She was tending to the slash wound across his chest, while he sat there, his lean frame taut, his face sullen. Even from yards away, Lucrezia felt the tension between them. Eithni purposefully avoided looking at Donnel’s face as she dabbed ointment on his chest. Tarl’s brother sat stiffly; he appeared to barely suffer her ministrations.
Now that they were indoors, Lucrezia noted Tarl’s pallor, the hollows under his eyes. Although he had not made a complaint, she knew he would be in pain from his injuries and heartsick after having to end Alpia’s suffering.