Enslaved by a Viking

by Delilah Devlin

  But pushed to the front, between Hakon’s arms, was a much smaller, nearly nude figure that sent his heart racing.

  His gaze locked with Hakon’s, then dropped to the woman, giving him a silent warning. Hakon nodded, but whether he understood she was to remain unharmed, whatever the outcome, he wasn’t sure. It would be best if he won, he surmised.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t have provoked the man wearing the bloodcolored robes.

  Two men, solidly built, wearing slave’s cuffs and pleated leather skirts, gladiators, he guessed, strode toward him, carrying armor and a sword.

  He kept his arms folded over his chest while they stripped away his loin skirt and replaced it with a leather one, lined with metal appliqués.

  “To protect your groin from his snap,” one of them said quietly.

  “His snap?”

  The brawny Helio’s dark eyes locked with his. “You drew the beast for this event. Keep well away from his jaws. The top of his head and back have bony plates which will deflect your sword. However, if you can manage it, his chest is his only weakness. Try to anger him enough he comes at you on two legs.”

  Looking above his head, Eirik gave a subtle nod, although he didn’t truly understand the nature of this beast he would face.

  “You will have only a sword and a dagger to do battle. Run if you must rather than be caught within range of his bite.” The gladiator turned to the other attendant, who handed him the sword. He held out both hands, the blade laying across them.

  Eirik lifted it, and turned, slicing the air with the blade. “It is well-balanced.” He felt the edge.

  “I honed it myself.”

  “My thanks. But why would you help me?”

  The man gave him a grim smile. “If you slay the beast, then none of the fighters here will ever have to face him again.”

  “He can’t be replaced?”

  “Perhaps with another horror, but he’s the only one of his kind. The most disgusting of the ferals. Bred to be savage, but too unmanageable to serve a military purpose. But you’ll see. May Ares watch over you.”

  Eirik strapped the sheath holding the dagger to his right thigh as the two fighters left. The soldiers marched to a door at the side of the arena and filed out as well.

  Eirik closed out the sounds of the pounding of thousands of feet against the stands. Closed his mind to the faces peering at him through the bars. He bent his knees and crouched, his sword raised. His gaze scanned the openings, knowing he wouldn’t hear the beast’s approach above the din. He turned in a slow circle, his body hardening, his heartbeat thudding loudly inside his head.

  Always thus at the beginning of a battle, a stillness settled inside his mind while his body readied itself. The “wakening,” his brother called it. The moment when the gods reached down to touch them. It infused them with their strength.

  Perhaps it was only adrenaline released to sear his blood. And although neither he nor his brother believed in talismans or prayer, they both had felt the touch of the gods before. When battles should have been lost, when hope ebbed, a spike of power, of greatness, slid inside their bodies at their moment of need.

  If ever there was a moment, it was now.

  The crowd’s roar was deafening, but their heads turned as one, alerting him to which opening the beast appeared in.

  More frightening in appearance than any ice dragon from his home world, this ugly, horrid creature moved with little grace. The length of two Vikings stretched head to toe, its long, green-brown, eel-like body wagged left to right, supported by thick, muscular arms and legs, its long, powerful tail whipping side-to-side. Its front paws were shaped like a human’s hands, but with sharp, curved claws that grappled with the dirt, flinging it behind it as it approached.

  Most frightening was the head of the beast. A long, broad snout, nostrils flaring at the top, had short spikes across the bridge. Muddy yellow eyes with vertical pupils stared unblinking, having no solid lid to lower. When it neared, its attention locking on Eirik, it opened its jaws and gave a hollow hissing roar that raised the hairs on Eirik ’s arms.

  “The chest,” he whispered to himself. “How in Hel’s cold arms am I supposed to get that close?”

  The creature lowered its head, nostrils scenting, and made a wide circle around Eirik.

  Eirik turned slowly with it, his gaze never straying from those cold, dead eyes. The head jerked slightly to the left and Eirik had only a second to react as the tail whipped toward him. He leapt over it, rolling, then came quickly to his feet again.

  The monster was faster than his appearance would leave a man to believe. A good thing to know. Although Eirik didn’t have a clue how that helped him.

  Running seemed a mistake.

  He watched the mouth open again as the creature wagged its head, and tried not to fixate on the hundred gleaming teeth. The upper jaw lifted; the lower remained still.

  The creature pulled back, then lunged forward, snapping its huge jaws, but Eirik placed his fists atop its head and cartwheeled over the beast’s back, narrowly missing the swing of its tail as it lashed around to face him again.

  The pounding of feet in the stands was so loud he felt the reverberation bang inside his chest.

  Eirik’s chest heaved like a billow. The longer he dodged the beast’s attacks, the more his energy would be sapped. He tossed his sword from one hand to the other, drawing the stare of the beast. He lunged forward, slicing toward its snout, then jumped back just in time to avoid a bite.

  The claws would maim. The teeth would sever a limb. His only chance was as the fighter had said, to go for the chest.

  He darted in again twice, slashing, but never doing more than delivering a nick to draw blood and enrage the creature.

  But he studied its movements, the ways it betrayed its direction and intent. When he lunged toward it again, instead of dodging back, he tossed the sword away and dove beneath the beast’s belly, freeing his dagger as he rolled and stabbing upward at its unprotected torso.

  The creature roared and backed onto its hind legs, its body supported on its tail. It walked forward like a man, stalking Eirik, but now the dagger was useless because those forearms swung, claws extended to swipe at Eirik.

  A glancing blow opened three long gashes on his shoulder as he rolled and rose. His sword glinted in the sunlight, and his glance betrayed him to the beast. The beast edged toward it, its large body cutting off that avenue.

  And, knowing that he was giving up his last weapon, his only protection, Eirik gripped the dagger’s blade between his thumb and fingers and snapped it again toward the beast’s tough yellow belly.

  The blade sunk only a finger’s length deep. The creature raised its head and bellowed. Then lowered its face, nostrils huffing steamy gusts as it ran for Eirik.

  Eirik’s only hope was the sword. Sacrificing the same wounded shoulder, he hunched it, ran forward, and barreled into the beast, knocking it off its tail where it flailed, nearly unseating Eirik as he lunged for the sword.

  When his hand wrapped around the pommel, he had only a moment before he felt the weight of the creature stomping on his thigh. Giving a loud cry, he turned, stuck the pommel into the dirt, and angled the blade toward the beast’s chest as it fell over him.

  Jaws poised above his face, only the length of steel sliding between ribs stalled the fall. Just long enough for Eirik to scoot backward and out from beneath the creature.

  The beast’s gaze met his. It shook its snout, blood flying from its mouth and nose. It shuddered and slumped, the blade sliding through the bony plates at its back.

  Eirik crawled back a few more feet, then rested on his hands, his whole body shaking with exertion.

  Fighters flooded the arena floor, racing toward him. They lifted him gently upward, and, straddling two sets of broad shoulders, he was carried in a slow circle around the arena while the Helios shouted and cheered.

  When he passed the barred entrance where the Vikings watched, he saw their fists pumping ai
r, teeth gleaming between smiling lips—and Fatin’s pale face awash in tears.

  Twenty

  While the crowd was still on its feet, cheering for the Viking who’d killed the beast, Adem grabbed Birget’s arm. “We go now,” he shouted.

  “What?”

  One look into his face, jaw taut with excitement, she did no more than spare a glance behind her at Baraq to make sure he followed, then let Adem pull her behind him.

  At the top of the stands, he led them to a hatch that already had its lock cut. He opened it and pushed her toward the hole. “Down the ladder, as fast as you can go.”

  She climbed onto the rungs and gazed down. The bottom was shrouded in darkness, but she didn’t hesitate. They’d come to Adem for help. Now they had to put their trust in him.

  Placing her hands on either side of the rungs, she slipped her feet off the steps and glided down . . . down . . . until her toes touched earth, and she fell backward against the narrowed walls.

  She scrambled out of the way as first Adem, then Baraq, followed.

  “There are ventilation shafts, leading off this,” Adem said, his tone abrupt. “Follow me. We’ve got to get to the guards’ post before the men are led back to the compound.”

  On their bellies, they entered a maze of metal boxes, crawling on their knees, hunched over, until they reached a grating that overlooked a dimly lit corridor.

  Adem pushed the grate with his feet, loosening it, and then lifted it aside. He dropped to the floor, then waited while first she, then Baraq, joined him.

  “Stay behind me. We have friends inside.” He moved with such speed running down the tunnel-like corridor that she was soon breathless.

  When he halted, he raised his hand to stop them, then ducked around a corner. She slid closer to peer around it, saw him talking with a uniformed guard who passed him a package, and then returned. He broke open the seal and passed them three bundles. “Get dressed. We’re joining the contingent guarding the Vikings.” At the bottom of the bag, he pulled out a jar. “Birget, cover your arms and face with this.”

  She unscrewed the top and applied the stain to her skin, coating her hands all the way up to her forearms, then rubbed tint onto her face and neck.

  “Don’t forget the ears or the back of your neck.”

  When she finished, she dressed in a dark gray uniform, boots, and a helmet.

  “The visors are for show,” he whispered. “No comm. No special vision. We’ll fall in at the back of the formation and take out three guards. One at a time.”

  Adem stood shirtless and pulled the last items from the bag, square packages strapped along a band, which he tied around his waist.

  At her glance, he smiled. “Fireworks, Princess.” His chin pointed to weapons in the bottom of the bag. “Stunners. Charged and set to full. Use only if necessary, and at the last moment.”

  Birget strapped a holster to her thigh. “Are you going to tell us your plan?”

  “Once we’re inside the compound, all you need to do is watch for my signal, then get the Vikings running for the gates.”

  Birget shot Baraq a glance.

  He shrugged. “Got a better plan?”

  Irritated, she muttered, “Would have been nice to be forewarned that there was one.”

  “The fewer in the know, the better,” Adem said. “Ready?” He turned her and tucked her hair beneath her helmet. “Baraq, make sure you keep behind her.”

  When he turned again and began to run, Birget couldn’t help smiling. It might not be her plan, but at last something was going to happen. She’d still get her chance to earn her own place in the Icelandic annals.

  While the Vikings were herded back into the cargo car of the tram, Fatin found herself seated opposite Aliyah in one of the passenger coaches. Guards had prevented anyone entering. They were alone other than a pair of her personal protectors.

  Fatin sat, her back straight, her chin raised as high as she could manage, given that she was nearly nude, her skin smudged with sweat and grime, while Aliyah looked as cool and reserved as ever. And completely in control.

  “Whatever shall I do with you now?”

  Fatin didn’t venture an answer, guessing none was required. She was at the whore-mistress’s mercy.

  Aliyah draped an arm across the back of her seat and toyed with a lock of her hair. “The question I would like to have answered is why did you help him? Did he seduce you into forgetting your sister?”

  “He did not. But I don’t believe you ever intended to keep your promise regarding Zarah.”

  Aliyah’s lips curved into a sinister smile. “Now that we no longer have to keep that particular fairy tale alive, we should get down to business. You know that you broke the law?”

  Fatin kept her expression blank save for a blink of her eye to sweep away a sudden welling of tears.

  Aliyah slid her arm off the back of the seat and leaned toward Fatin. “You know that right this moment, I hold your fate in my hands. I have friends in high places, clientele eager for me to continue providing them my entertainments. They will not question how you came back into my service . . . should I decide to offer you again as a sex-thrall. And no matter how you might rail that you own your papers, they will not listen.”

  Fatin swallowed, her stomach clenching so hard she feared she might vomit. Her fingers bit into the padded arms of her seat, and she waited. She knew Aliyah enjoyed being dramatic. She was being truthful, yes, but was also doing her best to put the fear of the gods in her. Aliyah wanted something.

  Aliyah placed two lacquered nails beneath Fatin’s chin and turned her face side to side. “You begin to age. These lines,” she said, tracing the brackets around Fatin’s mouth, “they make you seem old. Too hard for the saray. I have other places I can send you.”

  She was talking about the brothel on the southern edge of the compound. The one with the door opening in the outer wall where anyone could enter and find a quick fuck at a low price.

  To be consigned there was to live in a true hell. Especially for someone like Fatin. Her heart stilled for a moment, horror raising goose bumps on her arms and bared breasts.

  “Now you understand that you haven’t any choices, Fatin. No matter what I want, where I would send you, you will always be mine to command. There is not a place on any Consortium world where you can flee my control. And should you escape to the frontier, remember that I hold your sister, and that as much as I adore her, I will make her suffer for your sins. I am a businesswoman. I cannot show mercy.”

  Fatin read the truth of her intent in Aliyah’s hard, cold gaze. “What do you wish from me, mistress?” she whispered.

  “Why, more Vikings, of course.”

  “Even knowing that they are difficult to manage.”

  “Even as we speak, I have engineers designing another facility to contain them. One where sensors will track their every move, where the implants will provide the painful reminders, according to an AI-based security module, without a human’s intervention. Humans are so gullible, so easily tricked. They will be enslaved. Without hope of escape, ever again.”

  Fatin’s fingers dug harder into the cushion.

  Aliyah’s gaze narrowed. “You want to ask me something else, don’t you, Fatin? Do you want to know what I have planned for your lover?”

  She saw no point denying that Eirik and her shared a bond. She gave a nod, then held her breath.

  “It seems you weren’t forthcoming about his origins, my dear. My friend Livia brought news to me that won’t be shared with the media, and that has been blocked thus far from Consortium channels. Wolf, your Eirik, is of noble birth. It’s too bad that his brother was mistaken about his being among the men transported to our facility for our genetics regeneration program.”

  “Mistaken?” Fatin’s horror grew. The cool calculation in the whore-mistress’s black eyes was fatalistic.

  She shrugged a shoulder. “He was never here. Will never be heard from again.”

  “What will you
do with him?” she asked, her throat closing because she wanted badly to scream and rail.

  “What I must to ensure the future of Helios.”

  To still the panic clawing its way up her throat, Fatin swallowed and froze, careful to hold the whore-mistress’s gaze. “You will hold me responsible for his disappearance,” she said, hopeful that Aliyah would let her make the sacrifice. “Disclaim his arrival? I could return him. With apologies.”

  Aliyah tsked. “But he would know. As I said, he never made it here. Never existed in my facility.”

  “And the men who know him?”

  “Will never be freed to tell the tale.”

  “Even should they earn their thrall-price?”

  “When I have what I need from them, and have that fresh batch of Vikings you will provide, they will be forgotten too.”

  “As though they too never existed,” Fatin whispered, understanding now. Aliyah’s mind was set on murder.

  Aliyah smiled. “You really should know better than to bite the hand that feeds you, sweet Fatin.”

  “What happens now? To me?”

  “After a proper punishment, a thrall’s punishment, you’ll be prepared—bathed and dressed—then transported to your ship, along with a couple of my own guards to ensure your good behavior. Then you will be free to leave.”

  “My sister?”

  “Will continue to enjoy good health in my care.”

  The tram pulled into the compound’s station. Fatin remained frozen in her seat until Aliyah and her guards left. They never looked back, knowing that she was well aware there was no escape. Not from her punishment, not from her fate.

  Then, moving like an old woman, she followed in their wake.

  She’d failed on an epic scale. Eirik’s life was forfeit. Soon the rest of the twenty she’d captured would be dead as well. And she saw no escape for any of them. No way to end the misery she had caused and would visit on the next group of Vikings.

  Her only hope was the destruction of her ship before she made New Iceland again—her and everyone on board sacrificed to thwart Aliyah’s ambitions. But someone would replace her.