Barbarian's Hope: A SciFi Alien Romance (Ice Planet Barbarians Book 11)

by Ruby Dixon

  Barbarian’s Hope

  A SciFi Alien Romance

  Ruby Dixon

  Ruby Dixon

  Contents

  Barbarian’s Hope

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  The People of Ice Planet Barbarians

  Ice Planet Barbarians Reading List

  Ruby Rec - Markon’s Claim

  Want More?

  Boring Copyright Stuff

  Barbarian’s Hope

  Seasons ago, I resonated to the quietest of tribesmates, a male content to love me from afar while I was the center of attention. We could have been happy. Despite our differences, I loved him and he loved me.

  But then a terrible thing happened…and my world was never the same again.

  Now resonance is giving us a second chance, but…I’m afraid. What if what I have with my mate is too broken to be fixed? What if there’s no hope left for us at all?

  1

  ASHA

  When I agreed to let Farli be my cave mate, I did not think things through.

  I roll over in my furs, rubbing my face. It’s early. My breath fogs in the darkness and the fire is nothing but embers. The howse is dark, and I’m not sure what woke me up.

  Then something noses at my mane.

  I shriek and sit up in bed, swatting at my mane. My head bangs into that of the dvisti, and it bleats, scurrying away, its hooves clacking on the stones.

  “What? What is it?” Farli asks sleepily.

  “Your pet was trying to eat my braid again,” I bite out, running my hands over my hair. For some reason, Cham-pee finds my hair tasty and this is the third time in the last handful of days he has attempted to nibble on it.

  She chuckles, which does not help my mood. “He thinks it’s one of the braids of straw I’ve made for him.” She gets up and I see her face in the shadows as she heads over to the storage bins. She pulls out a thick braid of straw and offers it to the dvisti. “He’s just hungry, aren’t you, little one?”

  “He smells,” I say with a scowl. “And he relieves himself on the floor.”

  “It’s ready-made fuel,” Farli tells me, unruffled by my anger. “No gathering needed.” She gives her pet a hug, then wanders back to her bed. “He’s harmless. Just hide your braid.”

  I snort and pull the covers back over my head, but I can’t go back to sleep. The dvisti is chewing noisily, his large teeth grinding. It sounds overloud in the small howse and makes me toss and turn. I might as well get up. Somewhere out in the vee-lage, a kit cries.

  My skin prickles with awareness and I think of my own little Hashala. Her cries were so weak, not the strong, healthy wails of the kits in the vee-lage now. I remember holding her in my arms, no bigger than my hand, and wishing my own strength into her small body. Anything to save her.

  It did not work. Nothing ever worked. She died before a khui could even light her eyes.

  I reach under my pillow and pull out her small tunic. It has lost her scent, but I still like to close my eyes and hold it close, imagining that it is her. Imagining that she lives yet again and my mate smiles at me and my kit nurses from my teats and we are a family. We are whole.

  The kit cries again in the distance, and I sit up, putting on my tunic. I cannot sleep, and the sound of the crying tells me that there is another mother somewhere in the vee-lage that cannot sleep, either. Perhaps she will need help. Lately the only thing to rouse me from my bed is the thought of holding one of the many kits that fill our tribe with such hope and joy.

  Seeing so many kits in the tribe is both the most wonderful thing…and the most difficult.

  I slip on my boots as Farli rolls over in her furs, going back to sleep. The dvisti just chews placidly and watches me as I walk past. Sometimes I think it would be better if I had a howse of my own, but it would be very lonely. I do not think I want that.

  I emerge from my small howse and head toward the center of the vee-lage. It is brisk today, a bit of snow falling. The sky is dark with storms, yet not much falls down below in our protected valley. The wind howls loudly above, which means that the hunters will be staying in this day. This also means that because their mates are home, many of the women will not be gathering by the main fire to exchange stories and let others hold their kits. They will be snuggled in their furs with their mates.

  I am envious of the image this forms in my mind. There is nothing I would like more than a little family to fuss over at my own fire. Kits to hold close and spoil. A mate whose smiles promise wonderful things.

  This is not for me, though. I have no living kits, nor do I think I will ever have one again. My mate has abandoned me. Everything I have ever wanted is out of my reach.

  But life must go on, and it seems that this morning I cannot spend my time in my furs, sleeping. Not with that horrid dvisti trying to snack on my mane. I smooth a hand over one of my braids as if to double-check them, and make my way toward the center of the vee-lage, toward the big building the others are calling the long-howse. In it is the central fire and the bathing pool. If others are about today, they will be there.

  As I walk down the main path, I see people climbing onto the walls of one of the small howses, straightening one of the hide covers. A teepee top, the humans call it. Since the howses have no lids, great hide covers have been constructed and vaulted over the top of each of the howses to allow smoke from fires to vent out and for the light snows that fall into the gorge to trickle harmlessly down the sloping sides. Each howse requires a very large hide to cover it, which means several are stitched together and fitted over the frame. It is a task that requires many hands working together.

  I should not be surprised to see my once-mate there, but I am.

  Hemalo has his back to me, his tail flicking as he smooths hide over one of the long bones that props up the frame. I recognize his body instantly, the graceful motion of his shoulders as he reaches over and points at the far end of the structure. “Tighten your corner, Kashrem. We need to pull taut.”

  I pause to watch them work. Kashrem and Hemalo are the tribe’s most experienced leather-workers, so it is natural that they should take charge of roofing each of the howses. He is in his element, confidence and knowledge in his stance, and enthusiasm in his smooth, rolling voice that still sends ripples right down to my tail when he speaks.

  I should hate him. I should hate him for abandoning me. For giving up on me as I work through my grief. But I do not hate him. Instead, all I feel is a bone-deep ache that seems to devour from within.

  He is happy, my once-mate. Hemalo has always loved to feel needed, and that is something I have not been able to give him. This move to the new vee-lage, the chance to work his skills and be important to the tribe—all of it is wonderful for him. For once, it is Hemalo that is needed and in demand, and Asha who is unimportant.

  I cross my arms over my chest, curious at how uneasy that makes me feel. In my mind, I am very different from the Asha I used to be. The one that flirted with all the males of the tribe and who went from pleasure-mate to pleasure-mate, just because she coul
d. Just because I was one of two young females in the tribe and all the strong hunters wanted my attention. Then, all I wanted was to be the center of attention.

  Now, the thought makes me tired.

  “Grab the cords,” Hemalo instructs, and I watch as Taushen and Ereven move around the far side of the howse, and the roof pitches even higher. “Just like that, Hemalo tells them. “Good job.”

  “Ho, Asha,” Taushen calls out. “Do you come here to help?”

  All of the workers stop, but my gaze is on Hemalo. He stiffens, his tail flicking, and he turns slowly to look at me. There is sorrow and apology in his eyes. It makes me angry.

  “No,” I say, keeping my voice tart. “I was looking to see who was making so much noise that they would rouse good people from their sleep.” Not that I was asleep, but they do not need to know that. “It is early.”

  “Ah, but if we wait until you are awake and out of the furs, we could be waiting a very long time,” Ereven calls out.

  I ignore his jibe.

  Hemalo shoots Ereven a look. “My apologies,” my once-mate says in his low, thrumming voice. “We will be quieter.”

  “Do as you like.” I shrug as if it does not matter to me. It feels strange to stand apart from him as if we are merely tribesmates and not once-mates. I cannot be easy around him, and judging by the tense set of his shoulders, he feels the same about me.

  Nothing is simple between us. I hate that, even though I know it is my fault as much as his.

  The males continue to watch me, as if waiting for something. I shrug and move on, as if I am unaffected. The truth is, being this near Hemalo bothers me, like an itch I cannot scratch. Things are wrong between us, and I can feel the hot eyes of the others as they watch us both, waiting for one of us to blow up at the other. Waiting for us to fight and snarl like we always have in the past.

  I am not interested in that, though. I am just…tired. I want to move on.

  I head toward the long-howse, and the closer I get, I smell something cooking over the fire. Someone is there, at least. I hurry in to get out of the wind—one of the things I am not quite used to despite several moons of living in the vee-lage. It still feels very open to me, very exposed. Perhaps it always will. The humans love it, though. They say it feels more like home to them.

  I step into the long-howse, and warmth hits me. This room is drowsy-warm and humid, thanks to the warm pool at the center. The lid of the long-howse is cleverly rigged as multiple skins that can be dragged closed or pulled open, depending on the weather. Most days it is left open because the walls keep the worst of the wind out, and everyone likes the sunlight. It is so warm here that Tee-fah-ni has potted several fruit plants and keeps them in the direct sunlight, hoping they will grow. In one corner, there are drying racks of roots and herbs, and another of meat.

  Stay-see is by the fire, and No-rah is with her, both of her kits’ baskets at her feet. I feel my spirits lift at the sight of them—No-rah always needs help with her twins, and I am glad to hold them. “Good morning.”

  “Hi, Asha. We were just sitting down to have some eggs.” No-rah beams a bright smile at me. “You hungry?”

  “I will eat.” I sit down next to No-rah while Stay-see pushes a lumpy yellow paste around in her skillet over the fire. I personally do not like the taste—or the thought—of the eggs. The humans love them, but the sa-khui are revolted by the taste and texture and the fact that they are uncooked young. We revere the act of life, so it seems horrible to me to eat dirtbeaks before they hatch from the shell…but it is food, and the stores are lean. So I will eat eggs and smile through gritted teeth as I do so.

  One of the twins starts to snuffle and cry, and I look over at No-rah. “May I?”

  “Please do.” She gives me a tired smile. “They were up all night fussing.” No-rah stifles a yawn.

  I pick up one of the twins—Ah-nah. I can tell her apart from her sister because of the way her bright yellow mane sticks up. Her ‘cow-lick,’ as the humans call it, makes her tufts stick up toward her brow, whereas El-sah has a smooth mane. If I have to be particular, Ah-nah is my favorite of the two. She is a little fussier than her calm twin, a little less settled. I can relate to that.

  I hold her close, inhaling her sweet kit scent. She cries a little but quiets when I tuck her against my neck and I stroke her small head. My kit would have been like this. Not with the yellow mane or the pale, pale blue skin, but my Hashala would have filled out like Ah-nah if given time. Her little fingers would curl around my larger one, and she would gurgle and make happy noises and tug on my braid when she got excited, like Ah-nah is right now. My heart squeezes painfully.

  Sometimes I pretend that No-rah is tired of two kits and will give me one. It is a foolish hope, but one that lives in my head anyhow. Why should one female have two when I have none? But that is not how life works, and my arms must be empty while No-rah’s overflow.

  Stay-see serves up the eggs, and she and No-rah tuck into the food with enthusiasm. I choke down a few bites but spend most of my time cuddling the kit as the two humans chatter about the weather, their mates, and Stay-see’s ever-increasing stash of frozen eggs.

  As the humans talk, Claire wanders over. “I smell eggs. Are there any left?” She rubs her lightly rounded stomach, the kit she is carrying now starting to show even though it will not be born until well after the brutal season is over.

  “I can make more,” Stay-see tells her. “Not sleeping in today?”

  Claire shakes her head and sits down by the fire, smiling a greeting at me. “Sleep? Not with the men shouting instructions at each other while I’m in my furs. But at least the leak in the roof will be fixed. Hemalo knew exactly what the problem was. Something about how the leather was treated, so they removed the piece that was dripping meltwater and replacing it.”

  The humans glance over at me, as if expecting me to say something since my once-mate was brought up. I remain silent, content to hold Ah-nah. I do not want to leave and return to my howse. Not when there are kits here by the fire and I have nothing waiting for me at home.

  Stay-see cracks another egg over her skillet and then begins to stir. “So, did you talk to Georgie?” She asks Claire.

  “It’s a go,” Claire says happily, settling into her seat and sliding her hands over her rounded belly. “She thinks another holiday will help perk everyone up.”

  No-rah looks excited. “I would love that. I think it’s nice to have the guys home on bad weather days, but I know they get restless when too many of them string together. Just the other day it snowed so hard that the hunters were stuck in the village for five days straight, and I thought Dagesh would climb the walls, he was so restless. By the time the weather cleared I was ready to shove him out the door.” She chuckles.

  I smile faintly. “It is just part of the brutal season. We endure the slow days and get as much as we can get done on the good weather days.” I shrug. I would not mind a day that was so busy myself. Without a mate or kit at my hearth, I have too much free time. I am no huntress, like Leezh or some of the other humans that are learning.

  All I have ever wanted is to be a mother.

  “So what is the plan?” Stay-see asks as she cracks another egg over the skillet and begins to swirl it around with her bone spoon. “Another mashup of holidays like last time?”

  Claire clasps her hands together under her chin. “I was thinking we could do twelve days of Christmas. Except, not Christmas,” she amends, giving No-rah an apologetic look. “I know you’re Jewish.”

  No-rah waves a hand. “It’s not about religion here, anyhow. It’s about community. We can call it whatever.”

  “Well, I was talking to Ariana,” Claire continues. “She said that in medieval times they celebrated twelve days of Christmas overall. It was called Epiphany.”

  “Twelve days of Christmas,” Stay-see murmurs, nodding.

  “Right. I thought that might be something fun we could do—take the holiday and spread it out over severa
l days so we can make the most out of it.” She looks over at me. “What do you think, Asha?”

  I am being asked? I shrug. “Everyone enjoyed the last haw-lee-deh.” Except me, but there are few things I enjoy anymore. I hold Ah-nah closer and sniff her sweet-smelling mane again, lost in her scent. “If anyone wishes to celebrate, I will be happy to watch their kits.” That will give me more joy than the foot-and-ball game they played last time there was a haw-lee-deh.

  “But maybe we can think of ways to bring in sa-khui customs instead of just purely human ones,” Claire tells me. “Surely there are games you play, or foods you eat to celebrate. You must have customs that I’m not thinking of, yes?”

  I shrug.

  “I remember the head-butting thing from last year,” Stay-see says with a shudder. “Maybe we skip that part.”

  “Eeek, I remember that, too.” Claire looks worried.

  “It is a game,” I tell them, amused at how it bothers the humans. Head-butts between hunters are nothing but showing off for females. It does not hurt them, because their great horns protect their hard skulls. But I suppose there are no human females to show off for this time.

  “Maybe we need different games. Like Secret Santa.”

  “Oh my god, I love Secret Santa!” Stay-see stirs the eggs vigorously and gives Claire an excited look. “We should totally do that!”

  “San-tuh?“ I echo. “It is a food? Better than eggs?” I eye my half-eaten plate of yellow fluff. It is going to take all that I have to choke it down.

  The humans laugh. No-rah explains, “Santa is Santa Claus. It’s a Christmas tradition. He‘s a man—”

  “A jolly old elf,” Claire breaks in.

  “Right,” No-rah continues. “And he slides down the chimney and brings gifts to all the boys and girls who have been good all year…um, season.”

  “Chim-nee?” I ask.

  “The smoke hole in the ceiling. Kinda.”