Barbarian Gladiator (Princesses of the Ironbound Book 4)

by Aaron Crash

  He had to remind himself that he was among the southerners now, at least until he finished his studies at Old Ironbound and learned all five Categoria Magica in the four Studiae Magica. And he finished forging the Akkiric Rings. Both kept him at the school. War might disrupt those twin goals.

  Besides, he knew the winds of war blew on both the innocent and the damned. Above all, above everything else, he had to keep his women safe—that was simply easier in times of peace.

  He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. “I would protect my family first—the women who warm my bed. Then? I would protect this school because I need it to master magic. Finally? Yes, if I could stop war, I would, for the innocent souls such conflict devours. You can’t tell me the details. I can’t bless them.”

  “I didn’t expect you to, clansman.” She waved a hand. “Go. I believe your Fourth Exam is in the morning. You need your sleep to prepare for it.”

  Ymir sat in the chair. He wasn’t about to be dismissed by her like some serving boy. “I say bring this battle here. You, me, Gharam, and Gatha, we will fight together, like we did against the merfolk.”

  “You used forbidden magic in that fight,” she said. “And I can’t scry you because of the Obanathy cantrips. And you won’t tell me a thing. Do I have all of that right?”

  Ymir leaned back, smiling. “You have that right. You also have my loyalty, Della Pennez, as well as the strength of my sword arm. Any fight you need me for, I will be there. Gatha, too, will defend Old Ironbound. Perhaps my loyalty is more valuable than your trust.”

  She went to sputter something, but Ymir laughed her into silence. Now he could stand and leave.

  Halfway down the steps, he heard her laughing. He was glad. He liked the verbal skirmishes he had with the Princept. He knew she would never trust him, yet he found himself trusting her. She only had one goal in life, as far as he could tell, and that was to keep Old Ironbound safe. In that, they shared the same mind.

  They differed on the tactics. The Princept would never condone him crafting ancient rings that might or might not be cursed. And she wouldn’t like him speaking with demons outside of time and space.

  He walked into the cold night and across the Flow courtyard, wet with the smashing surf below the Sea Stair Market. He paused at the top of the Sea Stair to listen to the surf crashing into the rocks far below and to smell the salt in the chill air. He turned to see the two moons at the tip of the Flow Tower itself. He felt a shiver on his spine. It felt like an omen. It was the Axman moon, waning, which meant it was a good time for him to act. And the Shieldmaiden moon was full, which meant he would have protection. Interestingly enough, the Therans believed similar things, but for them it was the Warrior Moon that was waning, and the Artist Moon was so swollen.

  To think, his fate was becoming intertwined with the fates of the Therans. It could be that he might carve out a kingdom of his own—that was what many, including the Midnight Guild, were expecting. Was that what he wanted?

  He wasn’t sure. For now, he would stay focused.

  However, something else was bothering him. Why had Della mentioned Sarina Sia? Was it merely coincidence? Or had she seen something? Or felt something?

  He thought that might be the case. The past was alive and well at Old Ironbound, and the dead were restless. He figured there was magic that would take care of that. For now, he would climb into his bed between Jennybelle and Lillee and sleep.

  The next morning, he would take the Fourth Exam and complete his sophist year at the school. He could ponder all of this more during the long, warm weeks of summer.

  Chapter Four

  YMIR FOUND HIS FOURTH Exam endlessly fascinating. It was basically a review of the Four Ages of Thera.

  A stone bridge spanned a bottomless abyss. Across the ceiling were images from Theran history corresponding to dates scrawled onto the bridge itself. The images glowed, providing the light. Across the abyss stood the Examiner, in their open palm mask, cloak, and robes. Ymir had to get to them to complete the test.

  Underneath the bridge were shadow golems, dark things that couldn’t be hit with a normal weapon. Only when he dipped his sword in phosphora blanca, which ignited a blast of alchemical heat and light, could he fight the golems using techniques from his Personal Combat Techniques class. He had to engage several opponents at once without falling off the narrow bridge.

  The Alchemist’s Rack sat near the entrance, and that was where he mixed the phosphora blanca together. They’d given him a sword, strengthened with Form magic, so it could resist the heat of the phosphora.

  The bridge began at Year Zero. Above showed the signing of the Theranuvial Agreement, which brought the old kingdoms together and founded the Theranus Publicus. There was peace and prosperity for nearly three thousand years until the rise of Aeno Asraelus, who was later renamed Akkridor when he made it clear he wanted an empire.

  Ymir fought off shadow golems. He cut through their indistinct bodies with his alchemical sword and ducked their smoky claws. He dodged attacks and destroyed shadows until he reached the year 2486, etched into the bridge. Glancing up, he saw Aeno Akkridor’s naming ceremony, when he’d put on the mantle of king after nearly destroying the western coast. He wanted power above all else. Ymir had known men like him in the tundra. If they couldn’t gather a following, they were soon killed, and their sycophants with them. Empires weren’t easily crafted in the unforgiving climate of the north.

  Ymir found he’d come to the end of the bridge, but there was still another hundred feet to cross. Above, he saw a painting of Aeno’s firstborn son, Paeno, who was an idiot compared to his father, as was often the case. Great men sired mediocre, if not insipid, children.

  Ymir saw the game. “The Vempor Paeno Akkridor!”

  A stone came sailing up from the abyss with Paeno’s dates marked on it. He’d have to build the stone bridge to the other side by naming the Age of Discord’s vempors—thirty names. Luckily he’d studied up on that very topic.

  A shadow golem scrambled up the side, and he cut the thing’s head off with his curved sword, spitting white light.

  “The Vempor Pae Nho Akkridor!” Ymir yelled.

  And he was given another part of the bridge. Pae Nho was Aeno’s grandson, but Ymir couldn’t remember the next vempor. Dammit. He did recall the fifth Discord vempor. That was Aeneas. At the name, the stone came rising up. He had to jump, but he made it, and just in time to fight two shadow golems.

  This was fun. Combat, memory, focus. He felt tested, but he knew the shadow golems were moving slowly because most of Old Ironbound’s scholars would’ve had a hard time fighting and thinking. For him? It was almost like a dance.

  The fifteenth Discord vempor had been Faegen the Cripple, a disaster of a ruler who was both stupid and cruel, a bad combination. Most thought that Faegen had been killed by his oldest brother, Anthaegen, who had abdicated the throne at first but soon returned to be the sixteenth vempor, although only after much begging from the aristocracy. Anthaegen was soon killed by his own son, but for the life of him, Ymir couldn’t remember the name.

  Nor could he remember the eighteenth vempor. Nineteen, twenty, and twenty-one were far easier, since they were called the Triumvirate of Good Vempors, gaining land and power with diplomacy as much as the sword. The Vempors Dedgeley, Lifeson, and Tepar gave him a part of the bridge, but the leap nearly killed him. He scrambled onto the rock, glancing up to see more vempors captured in art on the ceiling.

  At last, Ymir came to the Vempor Aegel Akkridor. He was the interesting one. He was a man who had defied death and had brought Thera together under an unforgiving hand. He’d ruled the continent for a thousand years, or most of it at least. He’d never tried to conquer the Ax Tundra, though he had the navy to cross the Hell Sea. Why had he left the clans alone?

  Ymir stood on a piecemeal bridge, with the Age of Discord ending in the year 4914 with the death of Aegel Akkridor. Yet the artwork above showed him key scenes from the Willmur Swordwrite
play called the Seven Nights of Midsummer’s Fancy.

  Each night was named after one of Aegel’s wives. Horrensia the Raven. Brave Kurla. Shy Emalia. Hailey Gold. Bly. Kyla. Lucee the Last.

  He named each of the wives from the play. He could’ve named Aegel’s seven generals-turned-governors, or the seven warriors who made up the Corvidae, the vempor’s personal guard at the time of his death. Some historians thought that those seven men were the same, though others disagreed. Ymir knew all fourteen names regardless.

  He only had a few more stones to get to the other side.

  Two more ages to go. It was interesting. During the time of Aegel Akkridor, scholars had proclaimed it a new age, the Age of the Grand Vempor! However, after Aegel’s murder, scholars were quick to downplay the importance of Aegel, and so the entire time period was called the Age of Discord.

  To get through this last part of the exam, Ymir didn’t need to call out the name of vempors. The artwork above showed scenes from several key Willmur Swordwrite histories. This was his other class. Those histories chronicled the Age of Withering with various plays about various kings. Rex Lera was one, and there were the Ehryn histories, which included Ehryn IX, Ehryn XVI, and Ehryn XX.

  The Ehryn histories marked the Age of Withering, from 4914 to 5450. The vempor’s empire crumbled as several kings tried to rise but ended up failing spectacularly. Races retreated to their ancestral homelands. The empire shrank until it was no more.

  Old Ironbound was founded in the year 5000, and that wasn't an accident. That pinnacle year, scholars wanted to reclaim Aegel’s westernmost palace and turn it into a place of learning. At the same time, the Sorrow Coast Kingdom rose to support the school.

  Willmur Swordwrite mentioned Old Ironbound in a play called The Sorrow King’s Madness. In it was a famous couplet:

  Shall I beseech thee for a walk down the aisle?

  Shall we dance at the Majestrial?

  Ymir called out the name of the play, and more stones rose to give him more of a walkway. Shadow golems appeared, but he easily dispatched them.

  His sword, though, was beginning to lose the light that spat along its edge.

  In the year 5450, the Holy Theranus Empire was founded, which was a small speck of land at the center of Thera, with its capital in Four Roads. It was laughable, and some of Willmur Swordwrite’s most famous comedies were about the inept kings that tried to govern this small, troubled kingdom.

  It was the Age of Separation, with all races living isolated in their kingdoms. This led to the rise of the guilds in Four Roads, and what the city lacked in political power, it made up for with the guilds. In fact, it really was the de facto capital for all of Thera. Too bad the Grand Vempor Acadius was such a pathetic little man. Even the Gruul city-states held more sway than the supposed ruler of a misnamed empire.

  Ymir cut apart another shadow golem. A glance up, and there, above him, was the famous unmasking scene from the play Hate Leads to Love, where a man dresses up as a woman to woo a princess that loathes him.

  The comedy took place in the Four Roads court and had a famous merchant character, Onald Patrum, who sacrificed his fortune to help the hero marry the princess. It was a sympathetic view of the guilds, quite unlike Swordwrite’s other plays. Many thought it was written by someone else and only attributed to the great playwright after his death.

  Willmur Swordwrite had been born on April 1, 5564, and he’d died on April 23, 5616, at the age of fifty-two.

  His last play was Ehryn XXX, and all agreed it was his worst.

  However, saying the name of that last awful play ended Ymir’s Fourth Exam. He walked onto the other side. The Examiner floated over in their robes, their feet not touching the ground.

  “You have succeeded, Ymir, son of Ymok. You may go on to your next year. Congratulations.”

  More stones floated up to complete the bridge, filling in the sections for the vempors he’d missed. Ymir followed the Examiner up the stairs to the ground floor of the Flow Tower. The Examiner turned and descended back into the dungeon.

  Had they walked before? Ymir wasn’t sure. It all seemed hazy after the fact. Most forgot their exams completely. Not Ymir. He’d been altered by both the Veil Tear Ring and the Obanathy cantrips, and so his memory wasn’t as affected.

  He was surprised to see Gatha leaning against the Flow Tower. It was Monday evening, and the air was cool as the fog came in to relieve them from the heat of the day.

  The she-orc nodded at him. “You passed.”

  Ymir smiled and stepped in close. Her strong musk hit him, and he leaned in to kiss her lips. She stepped back. “Yes, you passed. And now you’re horny. I don’t remember my exam, but you do. Was their fighting?”

  “Shadow golems,” he replied. “Very easy to defeat. There was a bridge aspect to it that was clever.” He gave her a brief explanation.

  She grunted. “No real battle.” She paused, touching the scar that wrinkled her lip. “This place, the exams, there is little meaning here. They test us, but it’s not the true test of battle. At times, I find this tiresome.”

  Ymir loved the pensive look in her rose-colored eyes even as she frowned.

  He went to seize her, to pull her close, but she danced away, fast and graceful.

  “I want another kiss!” he said, smiling.

  “Just a kiss?” Gatha snapped her tusks out. “Would you kiss me like this?”

  “I would. I’m not afraid of your teeth.” He tried again to get a hand on her, but she feinted and darted the opposite way. He’d have to wait—use his cleverness to snare her.

  “Not teeth.” She stood a bit away. “My tusks.”

  “Made from the same substance. You know that since you are so smart as well as skilled.” He paused. “And most are tested at this school. Some fail. Even now, there are scholars of every grade being escorted out.” Ymir stood with his arms folded across his chest. “You are dissatisfied because you are better than most everyone here, on the battlefield as well as the classroom. Is it so hard being Gatha of Ssunash? Gatha of the White Hair? Gatha of Grass City?” He was teasing her, and perhaps he shouldn’t.

  But he was also luring her in. She stepped forward, coming closer. “I was Gatha the Igptoor for a time. No longer. No, it is not hard being me.” She stopped moving, her face troubled. Her eyes fell to the cobblestones. “It was difficult. For a long time. But not now. I hope not ever...and yet...”

  He struck. In seconds, he had one arm pulled behind her back and the other in her hair, pulling her head back. She was almost as tall as he was, and nearly as strong. Yet she didn’t fight as he kissed her mouth, feeling the tusks against his lips and not minding a bit. Mid-kiss, she retracted the tusks, took his own blond mane in her free hand, and stuck her tongue into his mouth. It was a wild, wet kiss that left both their faces wet.

  She stared into his eyes. “The battle with the merfolk, our fight on the Sea Stair, knowing defeat in both. It makes me long for a real test of my skills. I want real stakes...not merely being expelled, which would be a shame, but there wouldn’t be blood. I want defeat to mean death. I want victory to mean sweet fucking.”

  Ymir thought of his conversation with the Princept. Yes. True battle focused you, and if you came out alive, life became sweet because you realized how very, very short it could be. It was a wonder that Lillee had any joy at all because she had hundreds of years left to live. Not for him. And definitely not for Gatha. Most likely, she’d die before she was fifty even if she avoided the fighting pits of Ssunash.

  He felt her body shift, and he moved to the side as her knee came up. It would’ve struck him in his stones, but instead it hammered his thigh. She tried to shove him away, but he had her arm. He could’ve broken her shoulder. Instead, he let her go.

  She danced back, fists up.

  Other scholars had drifted over to watch. Already some were whispering about their fight before, which had taken them into the Unicorn’s Uht. Ymir had nearly killed the Gruul girl, and that h
ad won him her respect. Which was priceless.

  Ymir didn’t put his fists up. He stayed back out of her reach, however, and he remained ready for an attack. He laughed. “Grandfather Bear talked of warrior boredom. Warrior boredom, he said, killed more men than actual wars. Warriors would become listless, take to drinking, lose interest in their families, and then die. Because the song of battle is sweet, and the silence afterwards could be crushing. You and I both know about the silence.”

  Gatha dropped her hands. She nodded. “The silence weighs on me, Ymir.”

  “And life is learning to enjoy the silence of this moment right here,” he said. “That would be something my Grandmother Rabbit would say. In your books, do you not relish the silence?”

  The she-orc stepped up to him, moving slowly. She cast a glance at the scholars watching. “Away, you vultures. There will be no fight between my man and me. If you want to try me, I would be more than willing.”

  The students retreated. Such children. Such soft children. Ymir found them laughable, yet did some part of him not envy their softness? Their naïvete? They had not known war or suffering like he had. Like Gatha had.

  Gatha turned to sigh. “My good friend, Migdish, would read to quiet her mind. She taught me my love of books. For in books, I can relive, somewhat, the battles I have known, the struggles, the thrills. And yet, when I close the pages, the restlessness returns.”

  Ymir offered her an open palm. “No fighting. Just hold my hand. And let us enjoy this moment now. There is no war. There is no threat of death. Our friends live. We are together. Let us be grateful, Gatha.”

  She took his hand. Her fingers were strong, her palms rough from her work on the Sunfire Field, honing her already considerable fighting skills.

  Ymir continued. “You and I both know we are not done fighting, and death is impatient for the taste of our blood. In the end, my friend, if war does not come for us, we will go in search of it. The world is troubled. For many, that is a bad thing. For us? It means if we want a fight, we can always find one.”