Barbarian Dragonslayer (Princesses of the Ironbound Book 5)

by Aaron Crash

  Her time in the Silent Scream also taught her that everyone, everyone alive, had secrets they kept from even their closest loved ones. To be alive was to have secrets.

  Very few were honest with themselves, let alone others.

  Della glanced around the Throne Auditorium to take in the new incoming imprudens and those dominists who would be graduating in nine short months. Some would return for post-domini graduate work, but most would go out into the world to do wonderful or terrible things. And in this time, there was much to be done. A new age was upon them, the Fifth Age, and while the Midnight Guild had tried to stop it, history had consumed them. Della’s blade had drunk the blood of the Midnight Guild’s leadership, ending their reign.

  Or that was her assumption. She’d revealed her research in a sand letter to all of the colleges and places of power across Thera. She hadn’t named the secret guild’s leadership, but she had described, in great deal, their activities, especially as to how they related to Old Ironbound. That had been six weeks ago.

  In that time, many of her fellow Princepts and many government officials had agreed there had been a secret organization trying to manipulate events on Thera, to keep the status quo. From the courts of King Velis Naoar IX of the Sorrow Coast Kingdom, to the Grand Vempor Acadius in Four Roads, even to the witch families of the Swamp Coast queendoms—all agreed that the Midnight Guild existed. Did it still?

  It was hard to say. But Della wanted to believe that killing Gatha’s mother, Lillee Nehenna’s father, and Jennybelle Josen’s aunt had ended the secret organization. It had brought any number of changes. New leadership in Greenhome, the seat of Ohlyrran power in the east. A further splintering of the Gruul city-states in the Blood Steppes, and an unlikely alliance between the Josens and the Cujans—Arribelle Josen was set to wed Darisbeau Cujan, though Nellybelle Tucker would be at the heart of that relationship no matter what the marriage papers said.

  Daris and Nelly had been caught by any number of professors, librarians, and scholars fucking out in the open. Della wasn’t one of them, and it wasn’t clear which one had the fetish of public sex, but one of them did. If Della had to guess, it would be Nellybelle—she wanted to flaunt that she was juicing the next king of the Josen Queendom every chance she got.

  Della had brought them both in to warn them enough was enough, and then, when the scholars had left, Della had masturbated herself into three orgasms. Daris was a slim boy, uninteresting, but Nelly was conniving and ambitious and pretty. And horny.

  Della had fantasies about many of her scholars—but all of her lurid desires had to remain fantasies. Sleeping with a scholar, or any of the faculty, was something she wouldn’t let herself do. She’d slipped here and there, mostly with faculty, and there was the ill-advised Ymir kiss, but all in all, she’d kept herself strong.

  Despite the whispers of the ghost that now haunted the halls of Old Ironbound—Sarina Sia, a former Princept, a Sullied elf, cuff-less and wanton.

  Another piece of gossip that had swept through the school—Lillee Nehenna wore her essess less and less, if at all. With the death of her father, it seemed that Lillee had embraced her sexual self. It was shocking. It was hot.

  Della liked the way Lillee strutted, chest up, eyes up, shoulders back. And when Gatha was around, the pair looked like goddesses surveying their realm. Gatha’s friendship with Lillee was giving the elf girl more confidence, but then, those two were a part of Ymir’s harem. His ptoor. His ohnessla. His sharreb.

  Orcs, elves, the merfolk—all had their words for a harem. It was interesting that the Swamp Coast queendoms had reversed things, the women seizing power and gathering men, when men were in such short supply. It took power and cunning, and the Swamp Coast witches had that, certainly, and Della liked the idea. Having any number of men around to service her whenever she wanted? Yes, that would do well for her.

  But one man in particular had drawn her attention—Ymir, son of Ymok, of the Black Wolf Clan.

  Their kiss haunted her.

  She wanted more kisses from him. Like she wanted more kharo.

  She was still struggling not to smoke. And unlike her vow not to fuck scholars, she knew that night she’d go to Agneeyeshka, and Della would get some kharo, smoke it, and then go up to her room and fuck herself silly while fantasizing about Ymir.

  First, though, Della was starting the year off with the ultimate secret.

  She waited for Ymir to give her a certain look, and he left the dance, sweating, having danced with his harem. His wives left with him.

  Della would have to wait before she joined them.

  In the meantime, the Princept made small talk with her professors, including the fairy teacher, Lolazny Lyla, or Professor Lola for short. The fairies sometimes liked to play with their names. For example, Dillyday sometimes liked to be called Deedee.

  Professor Lola would be teaching Ymir a special class that year, one that combined Flow magic and Moons magic.

  The fairy teacher tossed her short dark hair, batted her dark eyes, and fluttered her bright silver wings, all before giggling. “Another year, Princept Pennez, Pennez. And aren’t we wishing for some quiet finally.”

  “I am wishing for that,” Della agreed. She had a lot of questions for the Fayee, but that night was not the time to ask them. She had secrets to engage in with Ymir and his princesses.

  Della excused herself and slipped out of the Throne Auditorium without anyone noticing—another one of the benefits of her assassin training. She moved quickly across the Librarium floor. From her vantage point, moonlight filtered through the window to illuminate the center mosaic of the four schools of magic. Then she was at the locked door down to the Scrollery.

  “Lutum lutarum.” A simple Form cantrip opened the gate.

  Della closed it behind herself and descended the circular stone staircase. She pushed her way through another gate and emerged into the Scrollery. She took a moment to take in the scene. This had been the old dungeon and torture chamber when the Vempor Aegel Akkridor ruled Thera and Old Ironbound had been his westernmost fortress. Later, after the vempor’s death, the dungeon had become Sarina Sia’s pleasure cave, which was apparent from the polished wood, the ornate metal sconces, the clean rock, and gorgeous red carpets.

  Now it was where they kept their important scrolls, tucked away in the dungeon cells, thirteen cells on each wall, the writings organized in alphabetical order by the authors’ last names. At the end of the room was a huge magical glass window that showed the swirling waters of the moat. The laughing eels slithered through the dark water.

  The Scrollery contained scrolls, of course, but there were other important books there as well, texts that weren’t explicitly forbidden but troublesome enough to be kept out of the Coruscation Shelves of the main floors above.

  Della approached the long central table where they were going to delve into forbidden magic. For a second, Della felt old, out-of-step with these students. She felt like the old woman who had forgotten what it was like to be young.

  Della was two hundred and fifty-two years old, a hundred years older than even Lillee Nehenna, who was just starting out her life. And yet, the five students there had added many a mile to their souls—Gatha had several lifetimes of sorrow and war marking her.

  Della knew, though, that she could never belong with these scholars. She wanted to, but no, she was the authority figure at the school. She approached them with her head up, showing a mask of courage and seriousness she didn’t feel. Della wanted to run. This wasn’t right. Nervous sweat leaked down her sides.

  She couldn’t dab her brow without giving away her anxiety.

  Lillee Nehenna, ever the sensitive artist, saw it immediately. “Hello, Princept, and welcome. We are glad to have you here.”

  Toriah also felt it. The dwab leapt up and guided Della over to a seat across from Ymir. “I have wine, Princept, just how you like it, mulled and spicy. I have canapés as well, goose liver in a nice flaky pastry dough. Gatha has eaten tw
elve.”

  “Twice that,” the Gruul princess growled from across the table. “We shouldn’t have food and drink in the Scrollery at all.”

  Gatha turned her burning gaze on Della.

  The Princept knew there was only one reaction to that. Della raised her eyes and stared into the rose-colored pupils. “The canapés must be delicious then, Gatha.”

  Another growl. “They are.”

  Jennybelle’s eyes darted back and forth. She tried to lighten the mood. “Yeah, Princept, we always have snacks when we do our forbidden magic.”

  Ymir didn’t say a word. He seemed to be enjoying Della’s discomfort.

  That also required only one response. Della tore her eyes away from Gatha to smile at Ymir. “Since I’m involved in the creation of demonic artifacts, I believe it wouldn’t be appropriate for you to refer to me as your Princept. Here I am merely Della. Now, I’m curious to know what you five have found out about the seventh Akkiric Ring.”

  “Yes. The seventh ring. I wish I had better news about that.” Ymir cast his eyes about. “You provided wine, Tori, but I hope you brought us that hearty festival beer.”

  Gatha sighed. “He gets his beer, but I don’t get my ippa.”

  Tori hefted a basket of big beer bottles onto the table. “Sorry, Gatha, but you’ve had enough of that awful stuff. Have another canapé.”

  Gatha gave the dwab a heated look, but then she had eyes of fire for Della as well. “I’ll have beer then. Forging demonic artifacts does make one thirsty.”

  Della felt the lust emanating from the Gruul. She knew what the she-orc did down here, still, even with her erotica in the Librarium Annex.

  The Princept kept all emotion off her face. She didn’t want these powerful scholars to know about the tingles between her legs.

  Chapter Four

  DELLA PENNEZ SIPPED from her glass of wine. Ymir uncapped a big brown bottle of beer and drank half in a mighty gulp.

  Jennybelle went with wine. Lillee did as well, while Tori ate cherry xocalati drops.

  Gatha scowled. While she ate the canapés and drank the beer, she wasn’t comfortable with the snacks. Officially, food and drink were not allowed in the Scrollery. It was funny to see how many moral rules Gatha could break, yet there were certain laws she found sacrosanct. It was the Gruul in her, bound by honor and rituals while at the same time embracing her animalistic nature.

  Ymir took off his Focus ring. “This was the first of the Akkiric Rings I forged, the Black Ice Ring.” It was part gold and part black crystal. He laid it on the table. “I used it to slow time when I fought Gulnash, but I needed a full dusza to crack time like black ice. I used the Gather Breath to pull power from my ptoor.”

  Ymir laid down the Gather Breath, a gold, silver, and platinum hoop bound together by strands of what look liked metallic seaweed.

  Ymir wasn’t done. He set a rough crystal ring down, with a smooth inner hoop. “That is the Crystal Null Ring, the one that Gulnash forged using an unknown text.”

  “Fucker was in the Coruscation Shelves,” Gatha growled. “I’ve combed that section. I’ve gone through tome after tome. I’ve found nothing on fucking demonic artifacts.”

  “Neither has Maezelith Bealheam.” Saying the name of the head librarian put a strange feeling in the pit of Della’s stomach. What would Mrs. Bealheam think of the Princept meeting with these scholars to discuss forging the seventh Akkiric Ring? All the rings should be in the Illuminates Spire without a doubt. To crack time? To gather the power of others? To steal the dusza from someone?

  The barbarian smiled, showing even, white teeth. He held up two more rings: one was made from gold and bone, the other from ice and bone.

  Della had read about them. “The Yellow Scorch and the Winter Flame Rings. Sunfire and Flow magic.” She counted the rings on the table. “That’s five. Where is the sixth?”

  Tori set down the last ring, silver with black runes etched on the outside. “That there is the Veil Tear Ring. I’ve not been able to use it because Fluffy is enjoying her treats less and less.”

  Ymir shook his head. “Fluffy. By the Axman, I feel ridiculous even saying the word.”

  “Fluffy?” Della asked uncertainly.

  Tori shrugged. “It’s the demon dog that hunts the user of the ring. You can see a lot with the Veil Tear Ring before Fluffy gets you. Only, you have to be careful. I ain’t felt her fangs just yet. Ymir can’t use it, or shouldn’t. Lillee might be able to use it, but we haven’t tried it on her. She drew the pictures that helped create it. And I think Ymir said something about the Akkir Akkor knowing about Lillee. But I reckon the Akkir Akkor have been watching us all along.”

  Jennybelle laid a soft hand on Della’s bare arm. It nearly made Della jump out of her skin. The swamp woman’s voice was as soft as her fingertips. “The Akkir Akkor are the orishas that are somehow connected to the rings. As far as we can tell. They aren’t exactly evil, but I wouldn’t call ’em good.”

  Thankfully, Jennybelle withdrew her hand.

  Della swallowed. She felt damp and jittery, and she had to concentrate on not trembling when she raised the glass to her lips. She forced herself to be cold and remote around these scholars, around Ymir, who was staring at her with interest.

  The Princept met his gaze with a coolness she hardly felt. “I can guess some of the texts you’ve used to create these rings. The Scrolls of Octovato, and then there’s Akkiric, Akkoric, Akkarotic by Derzahla Lubda, and lastly, Circulum, though I don’t know where you found that last one.”

  “From the White Rose Society,” Ymir said.

  Jennybelle chuckled and drank wine. “Well, now, we’re not hiding any of our secrets, are we? Just throwing it all right out there. Well, why not? Bringing in the headmistress is either gonna save us or damn us further.” Jenny might’ve been a little drunk. This time, she didn’t lay a hand on Della, but she did stare into her face. “And why are you with us, Honored Princept? Oh, that’s right. Can’t call you by your title. Okay, Della, did you just get bored up in that fancy room of yours? Or is there another reason you’re down here with us scholars? Tell us. ’Cause I don’t see it.”

  Della hadn’t expected such a move from the swamp woman. If Jennybelle had been more sober, she wouldn’t have let her malice show. Yet, the woman might’ve just wanted to call Della’s bluff. The Princept could understand that.

  Della answered immediately. “I’ve known about the Black Ice Ring for two years now. I told Ymir if he made a second ring, I would kill him. I would imagine if I murder him, I would have to kill all four of you.”

  Tori had paused with a xocalati-covered cherry halfway to her mouth. “Gosh. Murderous threats do make for awkward conversation.”

  Lillee looked troubled—such a soft heart she had.

  Jennybelle appeared amused, since of course she’d been threatened with death for most of her life. That left Gatha and Ymir.

  Gatha drained her cup of beer in a single gulp. “I’ve seen you fight. You’d be a worthy opponent. But perhaps I don’t know my own skills anymore.” She looked disgusted and sullen, and that scowl spoke of a troubled heart.

  As for Ymir, he merely motioned for her to keep talking.

  Della appraised the five remarkable scholars. “Since I’m not going to kill you five, and since you won’t stop forging ancient artifacts, it would be in the best interest of this school, our realm, this world, that I oversee your illegal activities. If I’m found out, I would be removed from my position and imprisoned, if not executed outright. All of us would be. While some academics see the Akkiric Rings as quaint objects of antiquity, curiosities, others would study them and soon learn of their power. It would be clear I was in the wrong not to murder Ymir after I warned him to stop.”

  Jennybelle’s laughter was jagged. She poured herself another glass of wine. Which was a mistake, though Della couldn’t very well suggest the swamp woman had had enough. That would be far too maternal. “So if you can’t kill ’em, join ’em. Fin
e. I guess that’s a good enough reason as any.”

  “I’m not done, Ms. Josen.” Della drew herself upright. “For most of my time here at the Majestrial, decade upon decade, for a century, my work has been quiet and orderly. I have kept the peace, educated ten generations of human scholars, and kept this university’s honor and integrity. For that time, we’ve known a stability across the realm. That stability was what the Midnight Guild wanted to preserve. All in vain.”

  “All in vain,” Ymir agreed. “For life is change. If you are fortunate, it is as slow as measuring in teaspoons. Or if the gods hate you, ’tis more like a murder on a dark night, where the blood is measured in gallons.”

  “Quoting Wilmur Swordwrite, I see.” Della smiled. “Very nicely put.”

  Ymir took the compliment in stride. The others listened intently.

  Feeling their eyes on her made Della’s heart tremble. Such power these princesses had. Only the strength and courage of this barbarian could’ve drawn them all together.

  “A century of peace, prosperity, and power. Then the barbarian blessed with magic comes to my school, with a deer carcass slung over his shoulder, and the murders start. Siteev Ckins. Hayleesia Heenn. The Ironcoats. The trouble started as well. The trouble with the merfolk. The trouble with Gulnash the Betrayer.” Della didn’t hide her passion and frustration. “And I’ve spent most of that time one step behind the fucking barbarian with the dusza. I know there are things you haven’t told me. Well, we all have our secrets.”

  Ymir tipped his head at her.

  Della continued. “I refuse to let another year go by scrambling to keep up with you all. I will not be two steps behind because we will be marching together to not only forge the rings, but to do what we can to sculpt the future for not just this school but for the entire continent. Since we’re quoting Swordwrite, he says in The Tragedy of Amleth, ‘To see the seconds pass, to carelessly drop the minutes, is to become death’s slave. To forge tomorrow in the hours of this day is to become the master of life.’”