The Barbarian

Grinda pressed her forehead against Mirabelle’s, holding her close, trying to conceal as much of the older woman’s naked body as she could.

But she was wider and taller than Grinda, and Grinda had nothing to cover her with. She tried not to notice the stain of pink between her legs or the blood around her nipples.

There were deep scratches down her abdomen and along her thighs too, inflamed and weeping. By the look of it, they’d been made by fingernails.

But worst of all was the wound above her left ear. Blood had matted in her hair, sticking to the sickening hollow in her head.

Someone had sunken in her skull, hitting her so hard she wasn’t Mirabelle anymore.

“You’re going to be all right. You’re going to be all right,” Grinda murmured in her ear, but nothing could stop the woman’s violent shuddering.

She was babbling, eyes rolling in her head, as she gripped onto Grinda’s arms, digging in her nails until Grinda winced.

What they had done to her defied imagination. And where were Janelle and the other women? Shivering, Grinda blinked back a wave of dizziness. She began to shudder as violently as Mirabelle.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes and spilled over. Nausea tied her stomach in a hard knot.

In a burst of hatred, she glanced over at the two barbarians, wishing for that dagger back, wishing she could go back in time.

The knot in her stomach twisted. A shot of terror made her heart pound. What were they eating? She swallowed, recalling the rumors. Please, no.

She made herself look closer, made herself see beyond the disturbing, horrifying first impression. A rush of relief eased the pounding in her heart, and she could breathe again.

A trotter. A beast only. She spat, trying to clear her mouth of vomit, then pressed her head back against Mirabelle’s.

They clung together as the dawn turned to noon. Mirabelle somehow found a few decent hours of sleep, and even Grinda fell in and out of dozes.

Numerous barbarians trudged in and out of camp, but for the most part, they left them alone. The other two women joined them, but to her despair, Janelle didn’t.

Both were in differing states of distress. Out of the four of them, Mirabelle was by far the worst and Grinda the most fortunate. It was clear the others had been brutally abused too.

Bekka and Felicia—she knew them now in the bright light of day. Felicia was a little older than Grinda, unmarried, the smithy’s daughter. Clearly a virgin no longer.

Bekka was a mother of three. They both still wore the vestiges of clothing, black with soot and old blood.

They were quiet as mice, too afraid to attract attention, preferring to speak with their eyes and their hands, holding and soothing each other, weeping and fearing together.

Every time a barbarian passed too close, they all huddled and clung, except for Mirabelle.

She didn’t seem to understand much outside of her own world of darkness, though her babbling intensified, her grip on their arms turning painful.

They kept her safely in the middle, arms around her, protecting and consoling. Grinda had never felt so needed in her life, not even when it had come to her little brothers.

Not only because of Mirabelle, but Bekka and Felicia too. Something was different. Something had switched. She could see the need in their eyes and feel the desperation in their grips.

She was their source of strength now. For some reason, they were looking to her for direction.

They are broken, and I am whole. By some chance twist of fate, she had so far escaped relatively unscathed. Looking over at her kidnapper, she wondered.

They were thrown discarded bones to chew on, but nobody offered them water, and the very idea of getting up to urinate filled Grinda with dread.

So, she held onto her urges and went thirsty until her lips cracked and her throat ached. Bekka and Felicia did the same, but Mirabelle was another matter. By mid-afternoon, she became agitated.

“Hold onto her!” Grinda hissed as the woman twisted and squirmed in their grasp. She kept smacking her lips and babbling as she tried to get to her feet.

Heads were turning now. It was getting dangerous. Grinda hated herself for what she was about to do.

She recalled the way Mirabelle had once been, how she had only last night tried to speak words of comfort. She’d been the strong one then. A tear trickled down her cheek. “Let her go.”

They did, and the woman lurched to her feet. The three of them held onto each other as they watched. It was a pitiful sight.

She staggered around, as though she couldn’t keep her balance, still babbling and smacking her lips, and that was when Grinda saw the dried blood on her backside. She winced.

The barbarians laughed and gabbled at each other in their language as she fruitlessly swiped at their skins of ale. They pushed, shoved, and kicked out.

One of them caught at her hair and threw her to the ground. Pressing a boot between her breasts, he took a swig from his skin and dribbled a mouthful of ale into her face.

Worse yet, another approached, reaching beneath his skirt as he stood over her. She gladly opened her mouth as he pissed.

Before she could stop herself, Grinda was on her feet. “Stop it!”

Silence descended so suddenly her ears rang. All eyes turned to her, crooked grins, open sneers. A few of them spat. Even Mirabelle looked at her, licking her wet lips.

Grinda stood frozen, holding her ruined tunic against her breasts, not knowing what to do. At her feet, Bekka and Felicia kept themselves small.

“L-leave her alone. Haven’t you done enough?” Her lips seemed to move of their own volition, her voice somehow strong and controlled as it echoed around the clearing.

She felt detached, as though she were floating high above, far away and safe from the terrifying things below.

The barbarian with his boot braced against Mirabelle raised his eyebrows, then stepped away. Sneering, he gestured at Mirabelle. She’s all yours—if you dare.

Taking a breath, Grinda held out a trembling hand. “Come to me, Mirabelle.”

But of course, she didn’t. She blinked at the sound of her name, but that was all. Instead, she gazed beggingly up at the man who’d pissed on her, reaching for his ankle.

Somebody snickered. Another laughed. Grinda glanced over at her kidnapper. He was swigging on his skin, watching. She saw he had wrapped up the gash on his arm with a clean bandage.

Their gazes met, but his was cold and merciless, and he didn’t make a move to help her.

Her feet were heavy, and her knees seemed to lock in and out of place as she went over to the woman, crouching beside her. “Come, Mirabelle. I have water for you.”

She gave no response, still reaching for the man’s ankle with grasping fingers. Grinda straightened. She could feel the heat of their stares like thorny prickling up her spine.

Fear and failure were thick in the air, making it difficult to breathe. She looked at the man who had stood on poor Mirabelle and held out her hand.

She was in too deep now. There was nothing for it but to persist. “Give me your skin.”

The barbarian glanced at his companion, gave a snort, then howled with laughter. The other pulled back his lips in a sneer and spat at her feet.

“Give it to me!” She swiped at it, but the barbarian thrust it out of reach. More laughter. More derision. She made a jump for it while he was busy snickering and managed to knock it out of his grasp.

She scrambled for it. No longer laughing, the barbarian glared at her as she crouched beside Mirabelle and helped her to drink.

Grabbing onto her wrist, Mirabelle gulped like a baby, ale running down her neck. Grinda tried to ignore the glaring barbarian, though she could feel his eyes boring into the back of her neck.

Her heart hammered. She was done for. He wouldn’t let her get away with this.

She gasped, dropping the skin as a sharp pain shot up her throat and into her left eye, so badly that white light exploded in her vision.

He squeezed tighter, cutting off her air as he lifted her slowly to her feet by the throat. Choking and gasping, she scrabbled at his hand, but he was far too strong, his grip like a steel vise.

Her feet were almost off the ground, the toes of her boots dragging through the leaves. The other barbarians were laughing, their mouths wide open, filled with spit and ale.

Felicia and Bekka watched helplessly while Mirabelle smiled up at her, sucking at the skin.

She could feel his damp, hot breath on the back of her neck. She tried to beg him to stop, but only a squeak came out. The pain was agonizing, but her need for air quickly became so much worse.

Her lungs screamed. Fingertips of fire ran along her ribs. A film of darkness spread over her eyes until there was nothing left of the camp but a tiny dot.

Then blackness.

She experienced a pleasant nothing. Then a flash of light peeled away the darkness, and Grinda came to with a racking gasp. The ground was hard and cold against her back.

Rolling onto her stomach, she coughed and spluttered, gulped and sucked, never realizing until then how wonderful air could taste. Keep your wine and sweet treats. Just give me air!

Rolling onto her side, she looked up and blinked. Boots, a man’s calves, a barbarian’s skirt. Long, knotted hair trailed down a broad back covered in white scars. She couldn’t believe it.

Her kidnapper, Father’s murderer, was standing between her and her almost killer. Mirabelle looked up at him too. Creeping over, Grinda pulled her close.

Grinda’s ears rang in the silence. Everything and everyone was quiet and still, except for the rustling of leaves in the breeze. What was happening?

The barbarians were no longer laughing. They seemed surprised, almost confused, all eyes turned to the man defending Mirabelle and herself.

Defending. Was that what he was really doing?

Impossible.

Then he turned to her, and she realized she was right. For a passing moment at least, before that glint in his gaze hardened into stone.

She didn’t need to be told. Dragging herself to her feet, she pulled Mirabelle up along with her. The barbarian narrowed his eyes.

I will not leave her behind. Grinda glared back.

There was nothing she could do for Bekka and Felicia, who both looked up at her imploringly.

Forgive me.

Grinda kept her eyes lowered, not daring a glance at the watching barbarians as she followed him into the trees, Mirabelle’s hand tightly in her grasp.

The sun had almost set, and rays of warm red light beamed through the canopy. Mirabelle kept staggering beside her, holding onto Grinda’s hand with both of hers, using her to keep her balance.

It was torture. She ached everywhere. Wincing, she rubbed at her throat. She winced again as she tentatively explored the gash on her arm, which was sticky and clotted with blood.

They walked for a long time; at least it seemed that way, though Grinda was so drained every step felt like forever. Finally, the barbarian stopped. He turned.

Grinda stared at him, and he stared back. Turning away again, he sat on a fallen branch and dropped his head into his hands.

Unable to stand any longer, Grinda sat hard on her arse, dragging Mirabelle down along with her.

There, she lay down, the ground cold against her back, gazing into the canopy as she panted, the air scratching against her aching throat.

They were silent a long time, the air between them churning with a range of emotions Grinda didn’t care to explore, was afraid to explore. She should be alert. She should be on edge.

He’d done the same the night before, saving her from the others, only to almost rape and kill her. But her eyelids were so heavy, and it felt as though her body had sunk into the ground.

She closed her eyes.

***

Mock’s head was pounding. What had he done? He’d just risked everything, and for what? An idiot woman and a timid Paleskin who only knew how to cause trouble.

Gripping his head, he peered through his fingers. She’d fallen asleep, breasts gently rising and falling, nipples red against the setting sun.

Perhaps not so timid anymore. Not after standing up to Thrick, of all people. She was lucky he hadn’t torn her throat out.

She was stupid. Brave, but stupid.

But no more stupid than I. Dropping his hands, he gripped his knees. He had to make things right. His brothers despised weakness. ~He~ despised weakness. And he was weak. So very weak.

He stood.

The idiot woman with the sunken head looked up at him, garbled something, then laughed. The girl jerked awake and sat up, staring up at him with eyes bright with uncertainty. Not fear.

He should hate that. He should show her how fearsome he really was.

Weak.

She coughed and wiped her mouth, and Mock saw that her lips were so chapped they were bleeding. He should have brought his skin.

His eyes fell to her breasts, but she quickly pulled up her tunic with a scowl.

“I know where there’s water.” He didn’t give her a chance to respond before walking away. Moments later, he heard the crunch of ground litter and the idiot woman’s incessant gabbling.

The two Paleskins kept their distance from him. Enemies behind, enemies ahead. He knew how that felt. He’d felt it every day for the past five years.

The trees stood guard high along the creek bed, their roots plunging deep into the soil and coiling along the edges of the banks.

It was dark now, and the usually green water glowed blue against the moonlight. He looked up.

The canopy pulled back along the water, revealing twinkling stars. A thin white cloud draped like a moth’s wing over the gray moon.

He remembered seeing the sky that first night he’d stepped out into the world a free man again. It had been a feeling he would never forget. His skin pimpled as he felt an echo of it now.

It was strange how the sky could look so different through different eyes.

The girl climbed carefully down the bank, leaving the woman to follow as she willed. Mock stood watching. She knelt by the edge, cupping handfuls of water into her mouth.

She was small and thin, not particularly smart, not even that pretty. If it weren’t for her youth and so few women around, he wouldn’t have noticed her.

She was nothing special—and yet she was, changing everything.

“Don’t forget to wash that wound,” he called down to her.

She paused, looking up at him. He pointed at her arm. She continued to drink. The other woman knelt beside her and copied her movements, like a teasing younger sister.

When they were done, they climbed back up the bank. The girl said nothing but simply followed him back through the trees.

He sat back on the same branch. She sat on the ground. The woman padded about, running her fingers up and down the trees, giggling as the leaves brushed against her head.

“We have to do the right thing,” he said. The girl looked at him in confusion. He nodded at the woman.

She was still confused. Then her eyes widened. “No!”

“Yes.”

“You’re a monster,” she spat, “just like the rest of them.”

A sudden rage licked at his belly. “No more a monster than your people. And at least I know when the battle is lost.

“There is nothing for her now. Leave her alive, and my brothers will use her for sport.”

She pulled her knees up to her chest, face creased with anguish as she watched the woman tug at a leafy vine, jump back giggling, then tug at it again. “I won’t let you. She’s suffered enough.”

“She’s bound to suffer a lot worse.”

“I’ll protect her.”

“Like you did tonight?”

She looked away, kicking the heels of her boots through the damp earth.

“She puts us at too much risk.”

The word seemed to echo through the trees. It stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Us.

He dragged his tongue over his teeth. He didn’t like where this was going. There couldn’t be an us. Not with a Paleskin.

He spat, then grabbed the hilt of the dagger at his waist, finding comfort in its familiar grip. He could feel her watching him, feel the prickle of fear in the air.

Better.

“Let us go,” she dared in a small voice.

“No.”

“You saved me twice already. You can do it again.”

“Saved you?” He gave a dangerous laugh. “You make me hard, I won’t deny it, but just because I want to wet your insides doesn’t mean I care for you.”

She winced. He waited, daring her to challenge him. The question hung in the air: Why hadn’t he done it already?

Ask me. Ask me. Ask me. He tightened his grip on his dagger as he willed the heat into his balls. He would do it, and it would be the best fuck of his life.

Ask me.

But she didn’t, and the danger passed. She was either smarter than he thought or more cowardly than he’d expected.

He stood. She looked up at him, and this time there was dread in her eyes. He shrugged. “So be it. She will live.”

The girl took a breath.

“But when we get back, she will be under your protection. Defend her if you can. I will do nothing.”

“No! You can’t take us back! They’ll—they’ll…”

“She is my brothers’ right.”

She looked over at the woman. She was sitting in the leaves now, laughing as she threw them in the air.

The girl’s eyes shone like little stars in the moonlight. He saw her stiffen, heard the breath catch in her throat. “Do it.”

He unsheathed his dagger.

“Wait.” She went over to the woman. Crouching beside her, she spoke quietly, then embraced her. The woman hugged her back before quickly pulling away, more interested in the leaves.

The girl stood, watching her a moment, then walked away, sparing Mock a glare of sheer hatred as she disappeared into the trees.

The girl was silent on their journey back to camp, but he could feel the hate rolling off her in waves. How he hated it. And how he hated how he hated it.