Barbarian Slave Page 5

  Donnel did not see him approach, for his attention was taken up by the crowd of warriors who clustered around him. To Tarl’s amusement, they were making a great fuss of him.

  “I saw you fight,” a man exclaimed, lifting a wooden cup of mead high into the air in tribute. “I’ve never seen the like—never seen a man kill with such fury.”

  “Battle Eagle,” another warrior cried out from behind them. “That’s what we’ll call you from now on!”

  Tarl smiled. Battle Eagle. The name had a ring to it.

  Donnel caught sight of Tarl then. “Brother,” he called out. “I didn't expect to see you this evening—not with that comely slave of yours.”

  Tarl shrugged, taking a cup of mead one of his men passed him. “She can wait. There will be time enough for that. Tonight, I’d rather drink to our victory with you all.”

  His words brought a chorus of cheers from around the fire side. Tarl lifted his cup and took a deep draft. It was then, as he lowered his cup, that he spotted a familiar—and wholly unwelcome—figure in the crowd. A huge man with wild black hair, who stood head and shoulders above many of the warriors around him.

  Wurgest.

  Chapter Six

  A Matter of Honor

  Wurgest was at least twenty yards away—and a crowd of men separated them—yet Tarl went rigid at the sight of him.

  The Boar warrior was stalking through the encampment, weaving his way from fire to fire, his gaze scanning the crowd. He was looking for someone—and Tarl did not need to guess who it was.

  Tarl inhaled deeply as Wurgest’s seeking gaze found him, pinning Tarl to the spot.

  Wurgest’s heavy featured face creased into a deep scowl, and his massive shoulders hunched. Then he put his head down like a charging ram, and drove through the crowd of warriors separating him from his target.

  Tarl watched him approach, as did Donnel.

  “Tarl?” His brother’s tone was wary. “What’s this?”

  Tarl cleared his throat. “I should have told you earlier,” he murmured back, never taking his gaze from the charging Boar warrior. “But that woman … I took her from Wurgest. After I scaled the wall, I went into one of the houses on the other side and found him about to rape her.”

  Donnel muttered a low curse. “You didn’t …”

  “Aye … I did.”

  Tarl deliberately avoided looking his brother’s way. “It was a rash act, I admit—but it’s done, and I don’t regret saving her.”

  There were no more words between the brothers, for Wurgest was upon them. He stopped before the glowing fire pit and stared across at Tarl, a murderous look on his face. “You have something of mine.”

  Tarl forced a lazy smile. “I took her for myself, Wurgest. You no longer have a claim.”

  Tension rippled around the fire. The warriors around it glanced at each other, confusion on their faces.

  “The woman is mine,” Wurgest growled. “I found her first … before you stole her.”

  Tarl’s smile widened, and he showed his teeth. “The rules are different in a raid, Wurgest. You know that. It’s every man for himself.”

  The Boar warrior let out a low feral growl. “We follow different rules, Eagle.” He bit out the words as if they were choking him. “I will have that woman, even if I have to fight you for her.”

  The two men stared at each other. It had fallen silent around the fire now; there was no sound except for the hiss of burning peat and the rumble of voices in the surrounding encampment. A sense of inevitability settled over Tarl. He had known it would come to this the moment he punched Wurgest in the side of the head.

  He was not surprised that the warrior did not back down—it was a matter of honor. Wurgest could not, and would not, let the matter drop.

  “Very well,” he said finally. “Then we’ll fight.”

  A savage smile twisted Wurgest’s face. “Good, let’s get this over with now. The sooner I smash your face to a pulp the better.”

  The evening took on a different atmosphere. Earlier, men and women had been content to gather around the fire, swapping tales of the battle, downing mead and nursing their wounds. Now there was a fight to be had, and excitement filled the camp as warriors drew back and made a clearing for the two opponents.

  It was a strange occasion, for although these men came from different tribes, they were both from An t-Eilean Sgitheanach—The Winged Isle—far to the north-west of the wall. It was an isolated isle, with a scattered population, and for many here it seemed odd that two men who hailed from the same place would come to blows after such a glorious victory.

  Yet it was not the first time friends had turned to enemies over a woman.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Donnel watched Wurgest prepare for the fight on the other side of the clearing. The warrior was naked, save for a loin-cloth, and had removed his weapons and foot coverings. He stood now, cracking his knuckles and watching Tarl. “Look at him—he’s twice your size.”

  “Thanks for the reminder,” Tarl replied. Like Wurgest, he had divested himself of his weapons. He had also stripped off his leather vest, and now wore only his plaid leggings, with his feet bare. The gelid night air nipped at his bare skin although Tarl paid it no mind. If anything, he welcomed the chill. It kept his senses sharp, braced him for what was to come.

  “He’ll kill you,” Donnel continued, undeterred by his brother’s dry response.

  “Enough,” Tarl snapped. “You’re not helping.”

  “I’m just stating a fact … hoping you’ll see sense.”

  “Try having some faith in me—you know I’m good with my fists.”

  Donnel raised a dark eyebrow. “Aye, and I also know you two are about to pummel each other over a woman you only just met today. Let her go—she’s not worth it.”

  Tarl shook his head, stubbornness settling over him. Donnel spoke true, but he did not realize the connection that Tarl now felt for his new slave. He could not bear the thought of handing her back to Wurgest. It was not just what The Boar warrior would do to her—for she would likely not survive long afterward—but the fact that every time the woman’s luminous brown eyes settled upon him, Tarl felt something tug deep in his chest. He had to keep her safe.

  “Ready, Eagle?” Wurgest bellowed from across the clearing. The warrior spat on the ground in a challenge. “Or are you pissing your breeches?”

  Tarl smiled back, adrenalin surging through him. Wurgest’s insults did him a favor, for they drove out any fear. He stepped forward, loosening his shoulders as he did so. This was not going to be easy, but there was something about Wurgest’s leering face that made him want to smash his fist into it—repeatedly.

  “Save your insults, Boar,” he replied. “You’ll need them later when I beat you.”

  Wurgest gave a grating laugh and advanced toward him, flexing his meaty fists. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  Lucrezia tried nibbling at the bread but found it stuck in her craw. Her captor had placed a cup of wine next to her, which was difficult to drink with her hands bound. She managed eventually, even if the drink made her eyes water—she had tasted vinegar that was less acidic.

  Sitting hunched by the fire, misery enshrouding her, she tried not to think of the life she had just lost—but she could not shut the images out.

  Marcus. The evenings they spent together chatting over a meal or a cup of wine. Their comfortable, homely villa with the garden she had spent years cultivating.

  Safety, comfort, and freedom—she had lost them all.

  Lucrezia stared into the fire. Her eyes burned yet she did not cry. She wanted to—tears would have brought her relief of a sort. The grief, rage, and fear had burrowed deep within her, hollowing her out.

  She was so immersed in her own thoughts that Lucrezia paid little mind to the noises beyond the tent. However, after a while, she became aware that the mood inside the encampment had changed.

  Earlier, she had heard the rumble of men’s voices, mixed wi
th the higher pitch of female ones. There had been laughter and amiable conversation—but now she could hear shouting.

  Lucrezia stiffened, her ears straining.

  Was the encampment under attack? Had reinforcements come to aid the Vindolanda garrison?

  Hope surged through her. Perhaps all is not lost.

  Long, tense moments passed, and slowly Lucrezia’s burgeoning hope flickered and died like a tender flame doused by a draft. It did not sound like the camp was under attack—screams and cries of fear did not follow the initial commotion. After a while, it dawned on her that some kind of spectacle must be going on outside. The noise was that of excitement, not warfare.

  Despair crashed over her, and Lucrezia bowed her head.

  Tears welled up then. For a moment she had dared to hope, and that had been her mistake. Hope had departed the moment she saw Marcus fall. She should have known then that there would be no rescue.

  A sob rippled through her, and burying her face against her knees, Lucrezia wept at last.

  Tarl stumbled, his vision blurring. Blood filled his mouth and his legs wobbled under him, but he managed to keep his feet. A yard away he watched Wurgest stagger back, swaying like a sapling caught in a storm, before the warrior crashed to the ground.

  A roar went up, rising high above the encampment, causing the very air to tremble.

  Eventually the crowd settled. The onlookers appeared to be collectively holding their breath—waiting for Wurgest to rise—but he did not. Tarl had knocked him out cold. After a prolonged fight, one in which Wurgest had nearly bested him, Tarl had punched him in the side of the head—the very same hit as last time.

  Tarl’s own knees buckled, and he would have collapsed too if his brother had not stepped forward, catching him by the shoulder and hauling him upright.

  “Well done.” Donnel slapped him on the back. “I wish Galan could be here to see this.”

  Tarl huffed out an exhausted breath and spat out a gob of blood at his feet. It felt as if Wurgest had loosened a few teeth. It also hurt to breathe. He was not sure their elder brother would approve of this. Peace with his neighbors was important to Galan mac Muin—and although Tarl had bested Wurgest in a fair fight, he knew The Boar warrior would never forget this slight. He would nurse it like a bruise for a long while after this night.

  “Well fought!” Macum shoved a cup of mead into Tarl’s hands with a grin. “Now let’s get back to celebrating.”

  A chorus of approval went up around them. The Eagle warriors had gathered close now that the fight had ended, their faces flushed with excitement, their eyes gleaming with pride. Even Donnel was smiling.

  The brothers’ gazes met, and Donnel’s mouth quirked, stretching into a rueful grin. “Impressive … although you’ll be black and blue tomorrow.”

  Tarl laughed before wincing. Wurgest had indeed given him a good beating. Then he raised his cup to his brother. “Aye—but it was worth it.”

  Lucrezia had fallen on her side and was dozing fitfully, when she heard someone enter the tent. Fatigue and exhaustion forgotten, she bolted upright, her gaze shifting to the entrance.

  The fire pit had burned low, but it threw out enough light for her to recognize her captor. She went still as her gaze raked over him—taking in his swollen bottom lip and blood-streaked face. He walked with a limp and seemed to have difficulty breathing.

  The noise outside had gone on for a long while, although Lucrezia had been too consumed by despair to pay it much mind. She realized now that there had been a fight, and that this man had been involved in it.

  “Do I look that bad?” he asked, lowering himself with a groan to the ground on the opposite side of the fire pit.

  “You look half-dead,” she replied, stumbling over the words. “Who did this?”

  He stretched out onto his back, his face contorted with pain. “Who do you think?”

  It was an odd question, and Lucrezia stared back at him for a moment, frowning in confusion. Then understanding dawned. The man who had attacked her—he must have tracked this one down and confronted him.

  Lucrezia tried to suppress a shudder and failed. Watching her, her captor gave a half-smile. “Don’t worry, he won’t be bothering you again … not for a while at least.”

  Chapter Seven

  Barbarian Slave

  The Barbarian army—if you could call the unruly war band of savages that—remained a few furlongs north of the wall for another two days.

  Lucrezia stayed in her tent the whole time, yet she did not relax for an instant. The rough laughter outside, the raised voices, and the occasional sounds of fighting between the northerners scared her. The savages were a rowdy lot, and drunken singing went on until late both nights. Throughout the day she sat tense, her senses alert, waiting for the moment one of the barbarians would burst into the tent and attack her. None did.

  In the few words they shared, her captor had informed her that they were finishing pillaging the fort and outlying settlements and tending to their wounded. In those two days she did not see anyone besides him, although she heard plenty beyond the thin hide walls of her tent.

  And all the while, Lucrezia waited for the moment her captor would force himself upon her.

  He’s injured, she told herself. As soon as he’s well enough he will rape me.

  She steeled herself for the moment she knew was inevitable, fear cramping her belly and stretching her nerves to breaking point. Lucrezia felt as if she dwelt within some dark dream. For the first time she realized how fragile her existence had been, for in the space of just one morning it had been torn from her.

  She wondered what had become of the villa. The attackers would have trampled her lovely garden and looted the interior of her home by now.

  They may not have discovered our gold, she consoled herself. Marcus had hidden the iron box of gold pieces under the flagstones in the inner courtyard. If I could escape and unearth our trove, I could flee south to safety and start again.

  The thought made her pulse race. The wall only lay a handful of furlongs to the south of here. It was her only chance, and yet she sat here with her wrists bound in the midst of the enemy camp. Her villa might as well have sat across an uncharted sea, for it would be impossible to reach.

  On the second evening of their stay north of the wall, the barbarian brought Lucrezia a meal of roast mutton, boiled onions and turnip, accompanied by coarse bread. He had to untie her hands in order for her to eat, and then he watched her from the other side of the fire as she devoured her supper.

  She knew he was daring her to try and escape.

  Lucrezia did not make such an attempt, even if she had thought of little else ever since her capture. This was the first proper meal she had eaten since the attack, and her appetite had now recovered. She had to force herself not to shove the food into her mouth; if she ate too quickly she would make herself ill.

  The barbarian watched her steadily, his bruised face thoughtful. After a short while he spoke.

  “My name’s Tarl … what’s yours?”

  She glanced up and swallowed a mouthful of mutton. She could feel grease running down her chin, but she was so hungry she did not care. “Lucrezia.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Lutetsia.”

  She shook her head. “Lou…. cret … zeeah.”

  He smiled, an attractive expression despite his battered face. “Lucrezia.”

  She nodded and looked away, tearing off a hunk of bread and taking a bite.

  “It’s a strange, but nice name,” he commented.

  Lucrezia shrugged. She cared not whether this Tarl liked her name. Wiping her mouth, she fixed him with a hard stare.

  His smile faded. “I am sorry about your husband,” he said finally. “It’s hard to watch someone you love die, even if his death was an honorable one. I know, for I saw my own father die in battle.”

  She stared back at him, his words making her want to lash out. She did not want his sympathy, or his opinions.

 
“Where will you take me?” she asked, the language her servants had taught her clumsy upon her tongue. She had to concentrate when he spoke, or she missed words.

  “North,” he replied. “To my isle.”

  She frowned. “Your isle?”

  “It lies to the north-west of here—an island shaped like a lobster claw. We call it ‘The Winged Isle’. It is a misty island of mountains, moors, and cliffs, he replied, his expression turning wistful. “My people, The tribe of The Eagle, reside there.”

  Lucrezia’s gaze went to the tattoo of an eagle he bore on his right bicep. She had seen similar tattoos—of different beasts—on the upper arms of the other warriors. The man who had tried to rape her had the mark of a boar. She tensed, her supper curdling in her belly. It sounded like a bleak feral place—so far from the civilized world that the Empire likely did not even know it existed.

  “What will happen to me?” she asked finally, her voice husky. It was the question she had been dreading to ask, but she had to know the answer nonetheless.

  Tarl held her gaze, his expression turning serious. “I will take you home with me,” he replied. “You are my slave.”

  Lucrezia swallowed. There were many types of slaves: those who tilled the fields, those who cleaned up after their masters … and those who warmed their beds. This man did not stare at her with feral hunger in his eyes, as some of the warriors had after the attack, but she still did not trust him in the least.

  “I am a woman of noble birth,” she said finally, struggling to keep the panic out of her voice. “If you send word south of my capture, you could ask gold for me.”

  He watched her, and even appeared to consider her words for a few moments, before shaking his head. “Too risky. You’ll be more use to me than gold.”

  Fear fluttered up within her like a trapped bird. She could not bear the thought of becoming this man’s whore, of being forced to submit to him.