Her Mercenary Harem

by Savannah Skye

  Her Mercenary Harem

  Savannah Skye

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Introduction

  Keira has always been a bad girl. Mouthy, troublesome, and quick to disobey. But in a village plagued by a band of cutthroats who would kill you as soon as look at you, breaking the rules could mean death.

  When being obedient becomes to much to bear and she finds herself in the frying pan, no one is more surprised than Keira when four mercenaries come to her rescue.

  Taka, enigmatic, commanding and sensual, a spear his weapon of choice.

  Kai, quick-witted and sexy, his mind and tongue as sharp as his arrows.

  Rex, a massive beast of a man, strong as an lion and twice as courageous, lethal with his axe.

  And Luca. Icy, angry, tortured Luca, who can’t decide whether to run Keira through with his sword or take her for his own.

  Can the five of them survive the onslaught of cutthroats out for blood…and if so, can they survive each other?

  Chapter 1

  The strange thing about the mountains is that it sometimes seems as if you can see to the end of the world and yet, you still feel as if nowhere else really exists. There were days when I felt that my village was the only one on earth, and the people who lived there the only people on earth. In fact, on those days I spent up on the higher slopes, tending to the goat herds, I could feel like the only person in the world. Certainly we were isolated from the never-ending civil war – rival warlords battling each other, all trying to grab power in these uncertain times.

  Who won would make relatively little difference to us; different names, same bastards.

  When you paid the taxes, didn’t really matter who was “asking” for them.

  The only effect we felt of the war up here was that the gangs of bandits who made their lairs in the crags were allowed to go unchecked, carving out little empires for themselves and carrying out discrete wars on each other, like a miniature version of what was going on elsewhere in the land. They demanded tribute from villages like ours, a tithe of food and other commodities paid quarterly. As long as we paid up in full and on time, then they usually left us alone.

  Usually.

  Sometimes they would kidnap young men and drag them off to join their bloodthirsty crews. Sometimes they would take young women, too, and it was best not to think about what happened to them. Or, at least, that was what I had been brought up to believe.

  “What would happen if we didn’t pay them?” I asked my grandfather when I was young.

  “We always pay,” he had replied.

  “But what would happen if we didn’t?”

  “Don’t ask impertinent questions, Keira.”

  “What would happen if we didn’t let them take people away?” The week before, three men and a woman had been taken, so it was on my mind.

  “Keira…”

  I could hear the exasperation in my grandfather’s voice and yet, I kept on asking.

  “But if they don’t want to go with the bandits, and we don’t want them to go, then why do we let them--”

  At which point, my grandfather had put me across his knee and given me a sound spanking. There were two reasons for his reaction, one I was not aware of at the time, and one which I rather was.

  Firstly, unbeknownst to me, my village had tried to stop those four young people from being taken. They had fought back against the bandits and two men had been killed. Then, the bandits had killed another three and burned down a house to make sure my village understood who was in charge. It must have been hard for my grandfather, who had lost friends that day, to listen to his granddaughter whining about why we didn’t stand up to them. We stood, it just hadn’t done any good.

  The second reason for my swift punishment was simpler; I was a very disobedient girl. Some said that my parents had been too lenient when I was little, but I’ve always thought I was just born mischievous. I was one of those people who was never happier than when doing what she had been specifically told not to do.

  Show me a wall, I had to climb it.

  Show me a locked door, I had to open it.

  Show me something forbidden, I had to have it.

  I liked to play fight with the boys and could best many of them in a scrap; I liked to sneak out at night and go swimming in the freezing cold mountain lakes. I liked to stay out at night, later than I was supposed to, just to see the moon rise over the mountain peaks, as my parents yelled for me to get my backside back indoors.

  To make matters worse, I had what my mother referred to as a ‘smart mouth’. I always had an answer, usually a cheeky one. I was always talking back to my parents, to my teachers, to the village elders, and to kids who were bigger than me, which led to real fights, which led to real trouble.

  And, of course, matters only got worse when I got old enough to be interested in boys and discovered a whole new level of disobedience.

  All in all, I suppose I spent a lot of time as a child being put over someone’s knee or being told off or given extra chores or sent to bed without supper. On the one hand, I can’t say if any of that did any good because I grew up cheeky, mischievous and still eager to do things that I shouldn’t. On the other hand, who knew how bad I might have grown up if not for my parents’ discipline?

  Perhaps that makes my childhood sound terrible, but it really wasn’t. It was idyllic in its way, with the occasional visits of the bandits providing the only noticeable cloud in the sky. I loved my childhood - full of fun and laughter and love.

  I loved my village and my family and friends. I loved my life. And who wouldn’t, living in a place like this? And yet, I still felt from time to time that there was something missing. When I came of age and discovered boys I thought that perhaps this was the thing that had been missing. I liked boys, and they liked me, and much fun was had. But at the end of the day, I would still find myself, up on the slopes amongst the goats, staring out at the horizon and wondering if there wasn’t something more. I didn’t know what, because I also didn’t want to lose what I had. In a strange way, I didn’t want to go out and see the world, I wanted the world to come here to see me, so I could get a good look at all the interesting stuff without leaving home.

  But until I figured out how to make that happen, there were still rules to break, there was still fun to be had, and there were still boys.

  “He’s a nice boy, Keira,” my mother remonstrated with me over breakfast.

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t,” I replied. “He’s just… not what I’m looking for.”

  “He was last week,” my mother pointed out.

  I turned red and my father concentrated very hard on his breakfast – he loved me as much as any father had ever loved a daughter, and found my sexual precociousness a little more than he could handle.

  “I like him,” I admitted. “I don’t love him. If you don’t try, you don’t know.”

  My mother sighed and shook her head. “I do wish you wouldn’t see all the boys in the village as a process of elimination.”

  I shrugged. “It’s the fair next month. I’ll be able to meet some boys from other villages.”

  The problem with growing up in a small village was that your ch
oice for life partners was limited. I felt strongly that if I was going to spend my life with someone, then it should be someone who ignited my passion, who I saw as at least my equal, who made me feel things I had only heard about in the tales of the storytellers who travelled from village to village. And while there were some young men about the village I liked or found attractive, none of them made me feel more than that.

  But, of course, the other thing about life in a small village is that sometimes these matters are taken out of your hands.

  “Abbas has been a friend of your father’s all his life,” my mother continued, looking to my father to back her up, while he strove to find his oatmeal ever more fascinating. “You and young Bren have grown up together and…”

  “That’s the problem, he’s more like my brother.”

  “And we have always planned for the two of you to tie the knot when you’re the right age. It’s time, Keira.”

  “How does Bren feel about it?” I asked.

  “He’s all in favor.”

  “He is not,” I objected. Bren and I had fooled around a bit but had made a pact not to get married. We wanted to stay friends.

  “I might be able to talk Abbas around if there was someone else,” suggested my father, using Bren as a pawn in his and my mother’s scheme. “What about Cirac? He likes you.”

  That was true and, again, he and I had fooled around a bit. But he wasn’t the one.

  “Dore? Asus? Martak?”

  None of them were the one.

  Mother shrugged. “Then Bren it is. I’ll start making arrangements.”

  “No,” I said firmly.

  “Keira…”

  “No!”

  This little outburst, combined with my refusal to marry as I was told, got me a day up on the slopes tending to the goats. Which, to be honest, I didn’t mind. At this time of year, when the sun was high, it was a fine place to be, it was only in winter when you had to muck out the goat shed that it became a real chore. I loved the mountains, I had been coming up to these high slopes, just below the crags – with and without permission – since I was little. This was my place.

  I arrived and stashed my packed lunch, wrapped in a cloth, between two rocks, then began to count up the herd. This was not an easy job as goats like to spread themselves far and wide, and you could be walking for hours trying to track down all of them, but again, I didn’t mind. I started as I always did, by walking further up to where the grass petered out to be replaced by hard rock and loose scree. The goats would not trespass further than this, so I would start up here and work my way back down. Or, at least, that was the plan.

  “Good morning.”

  I turned with a start to see a man, standing over me on a nearby outcropping of rock. He was in his mid-twenties, unshaven, unkempt and unwashed to the extent that I could smell him over the goats. He wore a broad-brimmed hat that kept his face partly in shadow, so all I could see was a leering, gap-toothed smile, and a jacket that was hung with various emblems and badges – trophies perhaps. Above one of his shoulders protruded the hilt of a sword strapped across his back.

  One look at him told me what he was. I was alone, face to face with one of the mountain bandits. My heart stuttered in my chest and my hands went slick with a cold, sticky sweat.

  “What have we got here?”

  The word ‘we’ caught my attention, and from around the outcrop on which the first bandit stood, a second emerged.

  “Aren’t you a pretty thing?”

  “That’s what they tell me.” The words were out before I could bite them back. It was a reflex for me to talk back. Despite my fear, it was like I couldn’t help myself. I hadn’t been lying, despite the snarky tone. I’d always been told I was pretty; auburn hair, round features, blue eyes. And even though I had developed a coltish strength through climbing, running, fighting and other “unladylike” activities, I had retained a curvy femininity as I grew up. I never really thought of my looks as a blessing or a curse.

  Until that very moment.

  Bandit one grinned, licking his chops in a way that sent a tremor through me. “She knows she’s a looker. I like a girl with the confidence to admit it.”

  “What are you doing up here, lovely?” asked number two.

  Show fear and cower or stand tall and dissent?

  The internal struggle was a quick one. I doubted it would matter either way, and something about the cruel mouth of the man closest to me made me think that my fear would only excite him.

  “I’m looking after the goats, obviously,” I shot back with an eye roll.

  “I reckon there’re more fun things you could be doing.”

  I gave him a quick look up and down. “I don’t think there are.”

  Bandit two lost his smile while his friend guffawed with laughter. “She’s heard about you!”

  “She’ll pay for that,” growled bandit two.

  I backed away from him and suddenly found my arms in a vise-like grip. I twisted back to see two more bandits who had come up behind me and were now each holding one of my arms.

  “You’ll regret that little joke.” Bandit two was still seething. “We could have done this the easy way or the hard, but you chose the third way; painful. Get her on the ground!”

  “Hang on.” Number three, holding my left arm, spoke up. “Who says you get her first? If you’re going to mess her up, then we should have our turns before you. Or, at least, I should.”

  “You heard what she said to me!” snapped number two.

  “She wouldn’t be the first.” Bandit one jumped nimbly down from his outcrop. “If you set to punishing every girl that didn’t fancy the look of you, then we’d be at it all day. We’ll draw lots for who gets her first. That’s fair. Hold the bitch steady a minute.”

  My stomach lurched in protest as I was held fast by my two captors, despite my frantic struggles, and bandit one strolled up to me, drawing a knife.

  “If you don’t mind.” He yanked, and then sawed through a length of my hair. I wanted to shrink back and toss my head to and fro, but instead I stayed still, afraid he’d as soon slit my throat.

  He pulled away and frayed out four long strands, one of which he cut in half. “Short hair gets her first, then we’ll draw again.”

  “There’s only one of you who’d even know what to do with a woman anyway, from the looks of it,” I muttered with a sniff of indifference I didn’t feel.

  “Thank you,” acknowledged one.

  “Hey,” three interjected. “Who said she’s talking about you?”

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s not,” four joined the argument. “You think you’re the gods’ gift to women. When’s the last time you had one that wasn’t tied down?”

  “Last month at Holbeck.”

  “She couldn’t run! She was too drunk even to stand.”

  “She still counts.”

  As the argument became more heated, the four men focusing more and more energy on each other, I felt the grip on my arms slacken almost infinitesimally.

  It wasn’t much, but it was enough. I had been fighting with boys since I was a toddler – these might not be boys, but the principle was the same.

  Number four cried out as I stamped on his sandaled foot as hard as I could. In his pain, he let go of my arm, allowing me to bring it round in a punch, hurling all my weight behind my fist as it impacted into number three’s junk with a satisfying crunch.

  I didn’t stop to see what one and two would do, now I was free, I legged it as fast as I could. Again, I had been racing boys all my life. When we were small, Bren and I used to have races in the crags, scrabbling over rock walls, skidding down escarpments and generally giving our parents heart attacks. I knew how to run fast in the crags.

  I took the path of least resistance, not worrying where I was going but just getting away from where I was. I made for the narrowest of gullies, dropped down into it and squeezed along, careless of the scratches and scrapes
of the rock against my skin. The bandits would not fit, they would have to take the long way around. I might have lost them already as I came out the far side, but I wasn’t about to stop and see, I just kept on running, my feet finding out the safe rocks as nimbly as the hooves of a mountain goat.

  On I raced. Reaching a cliff, I threw myself at it, my fingers automatically seeking out the tiniest of handholds. I levered myself up, sometimes with my whole bodyweight suspended from one hand.

  Reaching the top, I risked a glance back. Still nothing, but I didn’t feel safe yet – this was the bandits’ home, they knew every shortcut and they could be there to meet me at any moment. The only advantage was that while this was their home, it had been my play area. They might know their way around better, but I could get around faster. Plus, I was a lot slimmer and smaller built than they were, there were places I could go that they could not.

  Every other time I had run through these rocks, it had been screaming with laughter, playing with my friends, overflowing with happiness. Now, I was driven by fear. I had grown up with the shadow of the bandits looming over me. It had been a few years since they had taken anyone from our village – there were others in the area and they rotated their harvest of women like a farmer with his crops – so perhaps I had never really believed in the horrifying possibility that one day they might turn their attention to me.

  Finally, I came to a stop, my feet skidding at the bottom of the steep slope down which I had just run. I looked about me and two things came to mind. Firstly; that I was alone. I had surely lost my pursuers.

  Secondly; where in the hell was I?

  I knew the crags about my village like the back of my own hand, but had never ventured further in because they were infested with bandits. I had no idea where I was or how I had gotten here. I had run without any concern for direction, deliberately taking an all over the place type of route to make sure I wasn’t followed. It had been the right thing to do, but the result was that I was lost. Even if it was safe to go back the way I had come, I wasn’t sure what way that was.