Barbarian's Soul: A Historical Romance

by Joan Kayse

  Tiege snorted and popped the rancid bit into his own mouth. Adria could feel the weight of his regard on her but kept her chin raised and stared at the far wall, blocking without success the cries of the poor slave girl who was being raped in the corner.

  She took a shuddering breath. It had been little more than a day since she’d left Bran’s bed but it seemed an eternity. The comfort of his arms, his heat pressed against her, inside her.

  “You realize that your position here is lower than my slaves?”

  She refused to respond. Despite his lunacy, Tiege was still a master at baiting and she would not rise to it.

  “Yes,” he drawled. “You cannot expect the same level of generous care I bestow on them.”

  Adria slid her gaze to the small group of slaves serving the room. Every one was dressed as a beggar, if they had clothes at all. Bruises and welts covered their exposed flesh, dark circles shadowed their eyes and they were so thin she could not imagine how they were sustaining themselves.

  “I’ll kill him in front of you.”

  The slave girl screamed.

  “Do you not wonder why I have not raped you?”

  Adria recoiled at Tiege’s sour breath as he forced her to face him. Yes, she’d wondered why that part of her torture had not occurred. Gods, she’d watched three others not counting the poor woman sobbing in the corner suffer violation. She darted a look at Parius’ wife. The poor woman had been taken off the rod and dumped in a corner. Adria had not seen her move since.

  “Oh, yes,” hissed Tiege. “I’ll kill that bastard but not before I force him to watch me rip you apart with my cock.”

  Adria swallowed against the sting of tears behind her eyes for she knew if she began to weep she would not be able to stop. She squeezed her eyes shut. Thank the gods, Bran did not know where she was. There would be no need for torture if he were hurt or killed, for she would cease to exist. No, he was home, safe with the children including, if the gods were merciful, Linus. “Do not threaten me with something as shriveled as that meat.”

  Tiege snarled and squeezed her breast with his hands.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rage clawed at Bran as he watched Adria being led around like an animal, her beautiful body marked and hurt, that filthy bastard daring to lay hands on her! Every violent urge he’d experienced as a gladiator roared to life and clamored to be free of the barriers he’d built to control those very tendencies that robbed him of honor.

  But he would gut the son of a whore for touching and hurting his woman.

  Some faraway reason stayed his impulse. This was not the arena. This was Adria held in the midst of criminals with skills just as deadly as any he had and he could not risk her life with rash actions.

  Bran eased from the window, shivered at a tingle of warning skittering down his spine. He narrowed his eyes to study the tall man who had intervened. As if he knew he was being observed, the man faced the window. Bran stared in shock. Gair. His clansman!

  Pleasure at the discovery of another survivor was buried beneath the urgency to get to Adria. But the warrior in him knew he had one sure ally. A clansman always stood with his own. Gripping the hilt of his gladius, he slipped through the shadows to the door.

  “I hear, bastard Roman, that you seek me.”

  Bran locked eyes with Adria, relief and fury mingling to find her alive yet so abused. He watched her lift her chin though her eyes brimmed with tears and, with a rush of relief, a spark of that temper he loved so well.

  He braced his legs, arms at his side, his gladius held loosely in one hand. He sent a slow, leisurely look at the men who had fallen silent at his arrival, ending with Gair who acknowledged him with a subtle nod of his head. Bran tensed. There was something amiss. Gair did not look like the man he remembered. No time to consider that now. He turned his hard gaze back to Tiege. “Release my woman.”

  Tiege twisted the leash in his hand forcing Adria to rise to her knees else be strangled. “Her life belongs to me.” He leaned forward. “As does yours.”

  Bran took his time descending the three steps into the cavernous room, his scanning gaze warning away any who thought to attack. “Yours is already forfeit,” he drawled. “You have hurt my woman. I will kill you.”

  “My lord,” interjected Gair, his gaze shifting from Bran to Tiege.

  Bran narrowed his eyes at the flash of unease he felt at the sound of Gair’s voice.

  “This man is known to me. He knows well how to use his weapon.”

  Tiege made a dismissive gesture. “I know that already.” His voice rose in a falsetto. “A renowned gladiator, so skilled in combat that the Emperor himself granted him freedom.”

  “One of the Emperor’s lackeys,” Bran corrected, taking another step forward. “Gair. It is good to see you well.”

  “And you.”

  The hair on the back of Bran’s neck rose in warning and a flash of red crossed his vision. He studied Gair for a moment, his stony expression lacking any hint of pleasure at finding his clansman alive.

  “So,” Gair said. “You were trained as a gladiator after our enslavement?”

  Bran frowned. This was not the time to renew acquaintance. Not when his woman was in danger, not when he had a master thief to kill. He gave a curt nod, his attention hard on Adria.

  “I was not so fortunate,” Gair said in a flat voice. “I spent three months laboring in a salt mine.”

  “It grieves me to know it, brother.” Bran scanned the men surrounding them. They had not moved, seemed mesmerized by this inane exchange.

  He sent Adria a look of reassurance. He was rewarded with a small smile and a look so filled with love he thought his chest would burst. He would not lose her. He hardened his gaze and turned back to Tiege. “Release. My. Woman.”

  “No!” he shrilled. “She’s mine!”

  Gair stood then, his hands outstretched in a placating manner. “Surely an understanding can be reached.” He slid his own sword from the sheath at his side.

  Bran tightened his grip on his own weapon, watched Gair. The certainty that he would stand with a fellow clansman faded at the calculating expression on Gair’s face.

  “I propose a match.” Gair indicated the large room lined with Tiege’s men. “Does this not remind you of the arena?”

  In truth it did, and the tension in Bran’s body was strung tight.

  Gair continued. “Winner takes the girl.”

  “No! She is...”

  Tiege never finished his sentence, Gair’s sword having sliced across his throat. Adria paled and scrambled away tugging at the leash still caught in the dead thief’s hand, unable to avoid the blood spurting from the gaping wound in his neck.

  “You have no say in it.” Gair kicked Tiege’s lifeless body off the chair.

  Cold fury replaced the relief Bran felt as Gair snatched Adria’s lead and pulled her against him. He looked at the assembly. “I am your new master now! Do any challenge me?”

  There was a hushed silence. Then one by one the men shouted out their allegiance. Bran had seen the same look on Gair’s face before. Masters, overseers, opponents in the arena, men intoxicated with power. There was no way to predict what they would do and Gair’s next words proved him right.

  “We will have a match, brother,” he said on a sneer. “A gladiatorial match. And you will lose.”

  “He’s undefeated,” called out one of the thieves. “My brother lost fifty denarii wagering against him in Antioch.”

  The match he’d almost lost. The one where he had lost Beatrix.

  The realization hit him like a pail of cold water, the guilt that he’d carried for so long unraveling. Beatrix had been his lover but she had never asked nor demanded any commitment or promises from Bran. She’d spent years fighting as a gladiatrix and had recognized what he had not; to live each moment for its worth. She had fought for her children. As he now fought for Adria.

  Bran gave Gair a measured look. “Why must we fight? We are clansmen. We w
ere betrayed together.”

  Gair’s bitter laugh held a sharp edge. “No, you were betrayed. I’m the one who arranged for the Ileni to kill you!”

  Anger surged up, displaced his surprise. Bran stared at Gair. “You?”

  “Yes, I could not bear living another moment in the shadow of Fynbar’s golden son! A fine warrior,” he said in a mocking voice. “A wise man, the one who would follow his father and rule the clan. Look at his success! His talent! He will make a fine chieftain.” Gair spit in the dirt. “It was my place to be chieftain.”

  Bran fought to school his face into one of indifference, a difficult task as the truth sank in. Jealousy? That was what had led to his life being torn to pieces? Gair and he had been friends. They were clansmen, a bond as strong as brothers, but as he watched the play of madness and hunger for power consume the man’s face all the pieces fell into place.

  It was Gair who had fostered trade with the tribe from across the sea. Gair who had urged Bran to do more with his gold work, to look beyond the fields and the tuath and, fool that he was, had thought his friend supportive and listened. Never suspecting the knife poised at his back. Bran leveled a look at him. “The salt mines are a long way from the chieftain’s place of honor.”

  Gair’s face went scarlet.

  Anger or pride, Bran had no care which, he’d use both to his advantage. “Were the chains you wore worth the treachery? Did you feel like a chieftain when the lash sliced your flesh?”

  Gair’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you were taught in the luda? Goad your enemy? Unsettle them with lies and insults? Pathetic. The way of cowards.” A sneer twisted his lips. “But then a dog does what his master dictates.”

  A muscle ticked in Bran’s jaw. “Release my woman and we will battle.”

  Gair tsked and shook his head, a twisted smile on his lips. “I think not. Will your mind be on the fight knowing that her life is in my hands?” He unsheathed his sword and swung it in a wide arc. “I will not kill you outright. No, I will maim you, force you to watch as I fuck your woman.”

  Adria squirmed in Gair’s hold. “Bran! No! Do not risk yourself! They will not let you live!” Her captor shook her but she continued, her voice like an anchor through the red haze of fury Gair stirred. She caught Bran’s gaze, held it and spoke softly though he heard her every word. “Your life is not worth a Roman’s.”

  Bran’s lips curled in a wry smile. “Thief, it is the only thing worth dying for.” Astonishment flashed across her lovely features only to replaced by a look of love so potent that it took Bran’s breath away. “Nobody dies today—” He cut his eyes to Gair’s smirk.”—save this bastard.”

  Gair flung his head back and laughed, an unholy sound that fed the impotent fury that surged through Bran when his clansman grasped Adria by the neck and caught her mouth in a savage kiss.

  The monster within him roared to kill but he allowed the cold fury to hold him at bay, keep him from rash actions, just what Gair wanted. Gair thought to incite his temper, prod him to act without guard. It was a mistake made by novice gladiators.

  He was no novice.

  Proud, he watched Adria sputter her outrage and spit in Gair’s face. Bran tensed for him to retaliate but Gair merely shoved her into the hands of two Vipera members.

  “So, clansman,” Gair drawled, wiping the back of his hand across his cheek and raising his sword. “Now we end this.”

  Bran circled the perimeter, matching Gair step for step. He spared a look at the room, gauged the space, searched for breaks in the crowd. There wasn’t much of it, no more than two sword lengths in any direction. Tiege’s men were shoulder to shoulder, their sour stench overwhelming. Would they interfere on behalf of their new leader? He measured the looks on their faces, every bit as eager and bloodthirsty as the crowds in the arena. He doubted it. They wanted a show.

  Bran swallowed against the pressure building in his chest. This wasn’t the arena, he reminded himself. He was not fighting for his owners, he was not here to entertain. His gaze flicked to Adria, who still resisted the boys’ grip, still watched him. The battle mattered now. She gave him an encouraging smile and the pressure shattered. Bran drew in a deep breath, tested the familiar weight of his sword and pinned Gair with a glare. “Prepare to die, traitor.”

  Bran feinted with his sword, growled at Gair’s reflex action, his clansman’s long, unwieldy sword swiping air as Bran spun and evaded the weapon. Gair’s expression darkened. Bran swung his gladius, taking full advantage of his anger. “You bastard,” he growled.

  “You were the one to go to hell,” snarled Gair, recovering his focus, blocking Bran’s weapon with a harsh clang of iron against iron. “You and that witch of a sister. It was the perfect plan.”

  Bran sliced upward, the tip of his sword rending the wool of Gair’s tunic and quickly changed direction, slashing downward, his blade meeting air. The thieves roared as Gair spun out of reach. “I did,” he ground out. “And now you will.”

  The room narrowed in Bran’s vision, just as it always did in the arena, the stage of death. The jeering and shouts of the spectators faded into a dull roar, his concentration completely on his target. A portion of his mind recognized that was not entirely true, as his senses caught and held onto Adria. He knew where she was. He felt her gaze like a hot iron, her love and courage bolstering him. Oh, yes, this encounter was far different than any in his bloody past. The knowledge had him reining in the blackness of the monster within. This kill had to be controlled.

  Bran advanced on Gair. His clansman’s sword increased the distance between them, appropriate for a coward but the sword’s weight also meant it took him a breath longer to recover from a missed strike. Bran gripped the hilt of his shorter weapon and aimed for vulnerable belly. Gair twisted and spun to avoid the blows but Bran pressed on. With a growl, Gair recovered, gained balance and drove Bran back.

  Sweat streamed down Bran’s face, the air in the room thick with too many bodies. A sharp pain sliced across his arm as Gair’s blade caught him near the elbow. Cheers and jeers rippled through the spectators. Someone in the crowd tossed two small, leather-covered shields into the middle of the room.

  Bran hammered at Gair, forced him to the periphery, he found an opening and swiped his blade along Gair’s ribs. Gair faltered for only a moment, the wound more surprising than fatal—damn the gods—but it gave Bran enough time to snatch up one of the shields.

  The group of men Gair had fallen against jeered and pushed him back to the center of the room. Fumbling he managed to pick up the remaining shield.

  “End this now,” Bran said in their native tongue, “and I will allow you a quick death.”

  Gair wiped his sleeve across his face. “The grand gladiator would show mercy? Did you show mercy to those you slaughtered in the arena?”

  Bran tightened his jaw against the surge of pain but Gair must have seen it his eyes. He raised his shield a breath too late, sucked in a breath at the searing pain across his thigh. Blood ran hot down his leg.

  “You’re a murderer,” panted Gair.

  Bran’s arm ached at the force of the blows Gair rained down on the shield. Yes, he’d killed. He’d also survived. For Bryna, for his clansman. His eyes narrowed. For this clansman. A surge of fury propelled him at Gair.

  “Look around you,” Gair growled. “These Roman cretins respect only strength and power and I intend to prove my strength by killing you.”

  “The power of a coward?” Bran grated out as Gair’s blade struck his shield, sent a harsh vibration along his arm. Back and forth, blade and shield they fought. Bran was the stronger fighter but Gair’s black determination kept him on the offensive. Sweat blurred Bran’s vision, his arm ached from blocking Gair’s blows. The air in the room had become stifling. The motley crowd began to murmur their discontent at the lack of show. From the corner of his vision, Bran saw that the boys holding Adria had loosened their grasp. He forced Gair to switch positions so that his enemy fought from the opposite sid
e of the room, bringing Bran closer to Adria. Once he delivered the killing blow he’d be able to reach her in one step. He flashed her a look, pleased when she nodded, understanding his intent.

  The red flash of warning crossed his vision even as his mind registered his mistake. He swung his attention back to his clansman who, braced on one leg, kicked the other dead center into Bran’s knee. He gripped the hilt of his sword as an explosion of pain sent him to the ground. The red haze lifted only to find Gair’s sword at his throat and his foot pinning his sword arm to the ground.

  Gods be damned! It was happening again. The woman he cared for—the woman he loved—was in danger and he was powerless.

  You’ve never lost a match.

  Bran shook his head at the sharp whisper in his mind. Yes, he’d won every match but he’d been chasing Fortune the entire time. And no deity stood a mere mortal challenging them for long without demanding retribution, as Beatrix’s death proved.

  Gods be damned, the voice shot back, angry and impatient. You won because you had purpose—as you have now. You will save Adria. Bran swallowed, felt the sword point nick his skin. Even if the price demanded was his own life.

  “Should I make it quick? Painless?” Gair panted.

  “Bastard!”

  Bran’s heart stuttered in his chest as Adria attacked Gair, the lead from the collar she wore swinging wildly as she leapt like a wild cat onto his back. Bran shot a look to the corner where one of her guards knelt, holding onto his balls. The other was futilely trying to stem the flow of blood from his nose. Gods, the stubborn, bold woman!

  “I won’t let you hurt him,” she said again, beating useless fists at Gair’s chest.

  Gair laughed, and clamped an arm around her waist, holding her to his side. “See how eager your woman is for the thrust of my cock?”

  Bran growled low in his throat, forced himself not to lunge at Gair, ending his own life before he could get Adria away to safety. Stubborn woman, he thought again. Complicating matters by throwing herself in the midst of harm. As if she heard his chastisement Adria twisted around and looked down at him, those violet eyes bright as amethysts, edged with not nearly enough fear to keep her from doing foolish things. He returned her look intent on sending that message when she shifted her gaze ever so slightly, drawing his attention to the object in her hand. Gair’s short-bladed knife.