The Stolen Warrior
By
Anastasia Rabiyah
The Stolen Warrior
ISBN 978-1-936110-50-6
Copyright © January 2009, Anastasia Rabiyah
Cover art by Anastasia Rabiyah © January 2009
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious or used fictitiously. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Sugar and Spice Press
North Carolina, USA
www.sugarnspicepress.com
Dedicated to Carol McKenzie who helped fuel my courage to write naughty things.
May she rest in peace and always be remembered.
Chapter One
Hessa stepped into the hall, her arms weighted by the bundles of food. Through the bars, the men held out their hands, some missing fingers, others still bloody from fighting in the pits, but all too tired to taunt her. She walked along the cells and dropped the required amount into their palms. A round of bread, a chunk of dry cheese. Behind her, the water girl followed with her bucket and ladle. It was not difficult work for a servant of the Omi House to feed the prisoners kept for the fighting pits—certainly not as bad as what the more beautiful women were expected to do. But Hessa didn’t hope her life would end in the place of her birth. She was a daughter of the brothel. An unfortunate act of rebellion as a child had scarred her face—but fortunately for her, she was considered undesirable as a result. Still, she longed for the company of a man who could love her and see past her imperfection.
She passed her reflection in the window of the miserable prison, and counted her blessings, smiling to herself. Hessa opened the door that led to the lower cells, her bundle lighter now for her work was nearly done. Someone down there grunted. She held her breath as she descended into the darkness. The men kept here had proved their worth in battle and now were required to breed more children to fight in the pits.
She set the food into the hands of the first three captives. They leered at her and muttered provocative words. The last man sat in the corner of his chamber, his mouth a grim, straight line, his body muscular and tense. He stared at the light from the doorway she had come through and held up one hand to shadow his eyes. He was handsome and dangerous looking, huge compared to the other men there. All he wore was a beaded, embroidered loincloth that barely covered his extremities, a piece of fabric that looked exotic, as unusual in the dungeons as he was.
When she stopped at his cell, he faced her and stood. She stared, her head tilting back so she could hold his steely gaze while he approached the bars parting them. She reached into the bag and set her fingers around a piece of bread, a fiery heat spreading through her body and settling in her womb. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, impossibly large, impossibly wild looking, and hardly scarred from the pits at all. She held the bread out. His hand closed over hers and remained there, hot, commanding.
“What is your name?” he asked, his voice low and deep, his dark eyes holding her attention.
“Hessa.”
“And your surname?”
“Hesssa Omi.” It was the name all wards of the Omi House took. It meant they were guildless, clanless, without family.
He grunted, and she knew it had been him when she first entered that made that guttural sound of disapproval. His rough fingers traveled over her wrist, along her upper arm and settled around the middle to cradle her elbow. His thumb traced back and forth across the sensitive skin where her arm naturally bent. “Hessa. It’s a pretty name.” He smiled ever so slowly, but the expression soon vanished. His fingers traveled higher, past her sleeve and ran over her shoulder beneath the fabric of her dress. His was a gentle touch, but full of desire and lust all the same.
She breathed out a sigh. Her nipples hardened beneath her dress, longing for his fingers to reach for them. Hessa glanced at his broad chest, then her eyes searched lower, across his muscular abdomen and halted at the loincloth—which had tightened over the treasure hidden beneath.
“I’m Gunnar Cathwe from Chalois.” He leaned closer, his face a hair’s breadth from the bars, his brown eyes razing her. “Will you help me get home?”
The water bearer’s shoes clopped against the stairs. Hessa forced herself to look over her shoulder at her helper. It wasn’t easy to draw her attention from the man before her. She wanted him, wanted to be in that cell with him. It was no secret why he was in the lower reaches and what would soon be expected of him. She could only imagine what it would be like to have him tear away her clothes and force her down onto the pallet in his cell. If the rest of him is as big as his body…
He took the bread she offered.
Hessa returned her attention to Gunnar and held out the cheese.
He licked his full upper lip when he took the apportioned offering and backed away from her. “Hessa,” he said softly, as if memorizing her name as his eyes inspected her shape.
She had not answered his question. How could she help him escape? She was a prisoner as much as he was. There was nowhere in Bisura she could go without the leave of her masters, unless she was sold to another—which had been her hope all along. The mark of the Omi was upon her body, burned into her skin when she came of age, and the marks that scarred her face kept any man from truly taking interest in her—until now. But if she worked hard, perhaps a farmer might notice and purchase her to labor in the fields on the outskirts of Bisura.
She watched as Gunnar held out a bowl to catch the single ladleful of water the bearer offered. He brought it to his lips and drank, his eyes set on Hessa.
She nibbled at her cheek, nervous. “Sleep well,” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Breakfast comes at dawn.”
The water bearer started back up the steps, silent as always for she was mute. Hessa knew she should follow, but she didn’t want to leave him. She took one step and then another, until her breasts brushed against the bars. “You know why you’re in this part of the prison, right?”
He nodded. “I belong to no one. My body is my own, and they will not have what they want from me—just as they did not have my blood in their fighting pits.”
“They’ll kill you if you resist.”
He set the water bowl upon the pallet in his cell and returned to her. With one finger, he touched her cheek, caressing her scarred flesh and trailing his finger down to her chin. “I survived the pits just as you survived this wound. We are alike.” He leaned toward her, his mouth so close. “Help me, Hessa. Find a way to get me out.” His fingertip brushed her lips.
She stared at his mouth, thinking she would do anything he asked, anything at all if only he would kiss her. She imagined how commanding yet soft his large lips would feel crushing against hers. Would he taste good? Would he thread his fingers in her hair and pull her closer? Would he push his tongue into her mouth? A blush crept up her neck, heating her skin.
She swallowed hard and reached past the bars to set her fingers on his mouth. His lips parted. The soft wetness of the tip of his tongue met her skin before she pulled away, startled at what she had done. She shouldn’t be with him, shouldn’t let him touch her, and if she were caught tracing his lips, she faced a harsh punishment.
“Help me. I’ll do anything you ask of me, if you help me get home.”
“Home,” she repeated. “Where is Chalois? I’ve never heard of it.”
Her words seemed to disappoint him, judging by the way his forehead crinkled. “An island. Far from this place. A beautiful island where men are not kept in cages unless they deserve to be there for committing crimes. I come from a place where there is order, not chaos like Bisura.”
She did
n’t fully understand what he meant. To her, Bisura had order. There were guilds, tradesfolk, and the brothels. The castes were of the rich, the mid-class workers, and those born into or forced into slavery. But a place where men only stayed behind bars for committing crimes? The entire assassin’s guild would be there.
“Tell me more about Chalois…when I return in the morning. In truth, she was hungry for news of what lay in the outside world, not that she could ever leave, but it was nice to wonder, to dream.
“For a kiss I will tell you how I came to be here.” He grinned sideways.
Hessa leaned toward him once more, intrigued. “A deal then.”
His smile vanished, and his expression turned serious. Gunnar offered his mouth to her. She closed her eyes, worried that she would not do it right. Their lips touched, hot, soft, tender. It was not like the way the brothel women kissed. It was not like anything she had ever seen or experienced. Something about his closeness mesmerized her, as if he were made of dreams and magic. The kiss went on for some time—lips pressed to lips—and she hoped the other men could not see what she was doing.
When he pulled away, she whispered, “At dawn tomorrow you will tell me your story.”
“Come before dawn,” he said. “It’s a long story.”
She nodded then turned to leave. It was a strange encounter to say the least. As Hessa ascended the stairs out of the darkness, her mind raced. She had just kissed a man she felt attracted to. It wasn’t a kiss forced on her by some drunkard in the lounge by the pits where she often worked. It meant something, even if it was for the price of a story.
Hessa took her empty bags back to the kitchens. She tried to keep her thoughts on task, because there were still more chores to be done. Beds in the brothel needed to be turned down and the linens changed; privies needed to be freshened. But all the while as she went about her menial tasks, all she could think of was Gunnar’s fingers on her arm, or on her mouth. He looked like he could crush her if he wanted to, but his touch had been gentle.
When she finished her duties, it was well past the joining of the triple moons. Hessa trudged to the barracks where she slept at night. She washed her body with soap, tepid water, and a cloth, then crawled into her small cot and pulled the single blanket over her body. Sleep didn’t claim her as it usually did, despite how tired she felt. Instead, she lay awake staring up at the ceiling. Her fingers ran across her lips, back and forth, as Gunnar had done. She imagined he was with her in the small room, and that his large body crushed down atop her. She sighed, content in her fantasies.
Waking dreams like this were futile. When the women were sent to Gunnar’s cell, he would take them. All men did. She had seen enough of them go through the cells to know. Some were violent. Some were not. But all of them took that offering. His soft touch was probably all a façade to gain her trust.
She grazed her fingertips across her cheek, then down the side of her neck until her hand dipped beneath the blanket. Although she knew she should not want to be one of the brothel women, she wanted to be one, if only to be placed in Gunnar’s cell for a night—a single night to be taken by him, or touched in the way he had caressed her. She turned to her side and closed her eyes, trying to sleep.
Outside the small window of her allotted room, the wind picked up, tapping a branch in the glass. She thought the sound was like a tiny heart beat, a rhythm steady and slow, and she soon fell into dreams. They were not the usual nightmares she suffered of her masters beating her when she didn’t work fast enough, or the large, black bugs that hid in the privy. This night she dreamed of Gunnar’s body, of setting her fingers in the bindings of his loincloth and untying the fabric. Her night vision had her pressed nude against his warm body, held close by his strong arms. She knew what he was—a warrior, a protector. And if anyone needed such a man, it was her.
Chapter Two
Well before dawn, Hessa opened her eyes and groaned. She didn’t want to slip from the heated blanket. In its embrace she imagined she was still in her dream, safe, loved, precious to someone. But rise she did. She washed the sleep from her eyes and pulled on fresh clothes—a simple dress of unbleached cloth, and underbreeches. She slipped on her leather shoes. In the cracked looking glass she examined the scars on the side of her face as she combed through her black hair. Her skin was darker than most from spending midday in the sun, raking up the animal dung behind the pits. Her teeth were bright and white when she smiled. Hessa tied off the braid in her hair and took a deep breath, hopeful at what this morning would bring.
She went to the kitchen stores to fill her bags of food for the prisoners. The cooks were busy preparing for the day’s festivities to feed the crowd that always came to watch the fights. Men against men, men against monsters, it was whatever appeased the bloodthirsty populace of Bisura, and already being murderers, that task proved a daily challenge.
The sun rested just beyond the horizon when she stepped into the hall of cells. She passed out her food and hurried down into the darkness. All of the men there were still asleep—save one. Her warrior rose from his pallet and came to stand at the bars to greet her.
“Hessa,” he whispered, a smile parting his lips. He reached out his hand to her, and she set the bread in his palm. His other hand shot through the bars to cup her cheek. “Did you dream last night?”
She nodded.
“Of me?” he asked, his voice devilish.
She blushed and pulled out the cheese. He took that as well and set both provisions on the small table in his cell. When he returned to her, Gunnar reached through the bars that parted them and threaded the fingers of his left hand with hers. Heat spread through her from his touch, radiating in her body, and waking her completely to his presence. She breathed deep and smelled his scent, warm and musky.
“I will tell you how I came to this place as we agreed. I was fishing off the coast of Chalois when my ship was taken by thieves. The day was windy, and a fog had settled in. Sunlight spilled through the haze in rays.” His thumb played across the side of her hand. “I remember thinking I could take them all, that I could bludgeon them and toss them over the ship’s side into the sea.” He frowned, his eyes distant for a moment. “But I was wrong. There were so many of them. At least thirty men.”
His free hand curled around her waist. For a moment, she panicked. He could hurt her if he wanted to—even imprisoned as he was. She sucked in a tight breath. Gunnar urged her closer until her body pressed against the cell bars. His hand massaged her lower back while he kept spinning his tale. Each circle warmed her more than before.
“I fought hard and well, and I did offer many to the water goddess, but they soon overcame me, and even with my magic, I couldn’t escape.”
Hessa frowned. “Magic?”
He nodded, his eyes fixating on her mouth. “Yes, magic. Old magic. Passed down by blood from my ancestors. I’m an air singer. That’s why they came for me. Omi House pays high for magical breeders…especially those that survive the pit fighting. High enough that they seek out others of my kind no matter how far they must travel or what they must face.”
She knew what he said was true. Many a priest from the neighboring city of Shan-Sei had been stolen or at the least, seduced in the hopes of a child with magical abilities to be raised in an assassin guild. But she had never heard of an air singer.
He went on, leaving her no time to ask what he meant. “They bound my hands in slip-rope so that I couldn’t escape. I was gagged so I couldn’t sing, and they hooded my face to keep me from knowing where I was. I remember listening to the gulls calling high above, the cold, damp feel of the deck beneath me, biting into my skin. The boat tossed and turned on the waves. They fed me little, much less than you offer.” His hand moved up her spine to the back of her neck. Those hot, rough fingers of his drew patterns on her skin beneath the thick braid of her hair.
“I arrived on the mainland and was kept in a cage along with other prisoners or animals from the far reaches of the world. For weeks
the caravan traveled, and I lived in filth with little to eat and nothing to sustain my spirit. The winds answered me on the rare occasions I was left alone and able to call to them, but the guards soon silenced me with drugs or a blow to the back of my head.”
Hessa winced.
Gunnar nodded. “I survived. That’s all that matters. All things in life test our will. My time here is no exception.”
She reached past the bars to touch his chest, and reveled in the way he felt against her skin. Her dream of pressing her naked body to his was the closest she ever though it could be. Her fingertips brushed over one of his small, hard nipples. He exhaled, and his breath blew across her cheek. Down his side and along his abdomen, she explored his body. He had stopped telling his tale in order to watch her touch him. She circled his navel three times, imagining what it would have been like to have parents, to be cared for as a child rather than taught to work. She closed her eyes, her fingers dipping to the edge of his loincloth. Hessa imagined the scent of the sea and the fresh air of freedom. Her nostrils flared as she breathed in the vision.
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