Princesses of the Ironbound Boxset: Books 1 - 3 (Barbarian Outcast, Barbarian Assassin, Barbarian Alchemist)

by Aaron Crash

  She found his eggs between his legs and touched them gently. “The Ohlyrra value art above all else. Sex is a distraction, hated by some, endured by others. A single man will have many wives so that the women can divide up the work. But I do not want to talk about that.”

  “Then don’t.”

  The strange hands on his sensitive sack had him leaking from his tip. When would she grip him? And would that be all she’d do? She did mention drinking him, and he could only hope they both meant the same thing.

  “This morning, on the beach, I felt you under me. I felt your...uht.”

  He didn’t need help translating that word. It must be elven.

  “It was thick and hard. Big, so big,” she said with a sigh. “I have been curious about you, and your length.”

  “Then satisfy yourself.”

  “Will you hate me tomorrow? Will you shun me?” she asked.

  “Never. What we do now is only a celebration, like you said. But I must know how we will stand in other matters after tonight. If I flirt with other girls, if I bed other girls, will that make you jealous?”

  Lillee’s chuckle came out kind. It might’ve been the first time he’d ever heard her laugh. She’d never said so much to him or been so free with her words. “You really are a stranger among us, Ymir. Why limit the celebration to a few or the one? Like I said, the Ohlyrran men have many wives. As for me, I am a poor partner for you. You should find others. Tonight, I will help you, and other nights perhaps. It could be I can control myself, and I would like for this to be enough. Bah, enough talk.”

  She gripped his shaft in a strong, sure hand. “Oh, by the Tree, you are a big boy. Long and thick, you are a mighty, mighty man. And you’re so slick. I can easily slide my hand up and down you.”

  Months of nothing, then a day of flirting and following the curves of every woman he met—Ymir came dangerously close to popping in her urgent fist.

  Up and down she went on him, up and down, a nice rhythm. The pleasure was so intense, her touch, her smell—he knew, if he could see her, he would’ve already filled her hand with his essence. He found the velvety skin of her back and the muscles underneath. His hand drifted down until her felt the squish of fat on her hips. Reaching farther, he cupped her ass cheek. It fit his palm perfectly.

  “Are all clansmen so large?” Lillee asked.

  “Truthfully, they are not.” He laughed, which helped him keep from tumbling into an orgasm. “But you’d be a fool to believe me. Of course I’d say I had the biggest uht in the Ax Tundra.”

  “I’m a fool for a lot of reasons,” she said lightly. “My truth is, if you were bigger, I wouldn’t be able to do this.”

  She leaned down. Her hair tickled his stomach and hips. Her mouth slipped over his shaft. She sucked on the head of his uht. He liked that word a great deal. What other words did she know?

  He touched her head, and her hair felt so very soft and fine. The four fingers of his other hand found the crack of her ass. He slid them up and down, going deeper and deeper.

  Until she stopped him. “This is for you. I’m not ready for anything else. Is that all right?”

  “Very fine,” he said. “Can I touch your tits?”

  “You can if you are gentle.”

  “I can be gentle.”

  “This morning you weren’t. You grabbed me. You threw me down on the sand, and I liked it. I liked it so much. Perhaps not as much as you enjoy this.” Her tight lips stretched back over his shaft, sucking even as she gripped him, sliding up and down. Her mouth, warm and wet and soft, was so tight he nearly spilled his juice onto her teasing tongue.

  Her left hand rested on his chest. She had her cuff on. The metal was warm on his skin.

  Lillee knelt on the floor, not complaining. He touched her side. She shivered. He found where her breast bulged from her body, pressed against her knees.

  She knew what he wanted. She adjusted to let her tit swing free. He stroked the sides of the pliant flesh before finding the pebbled skin of her areola and then the long, thick nipples. He didn’t pull, only touched them, and they tightened further.

  Feeling her bare breast brought a growl to his throat. He wanted to grip her hair and get rough. He stopped himself.

  She was growing more insistent, her sucking mouth demanding his juice. Didn’t they talk about juice earlier? Life’s juices? She’d been such a little devil on the beach, a wanton, yearning animal.

  In his cell, she was more controlled, focused on him rather than on her own pleasure. Her grip tightened, her lips and tongue worked him, and then he was teetering on the precipice. One more lick. One more suck. One more of anything would take him away.

  “If you want to drink me, I have a draught for you,” he warned.

  No words, but a mumble of desire from her, and then he was spilling his seed, riding the winds of bliss.

  His eyes were closed. Through his lids, he noticed the glow. He knew it was from him, from his dusza, or the curse, or both. He opened his eyes to take in her figure, long and lithe, her thick-nippled breasts, her strong, slim arms, and her messy platinum hair.

  Her ears. Damn the Ax, he’d forgotten to touch her pointed ears. Next time.

  She leaned back, a happy, satisfied look on her face. She traced a finger across his scintillating skin. His sweat gleamed like jewels. Any clanswoman would’ve been repulsed by the show of magic, but not her. Not his elf girl.

  “Just so you know, that doesn’t happen every time I come,” he said.

  Lillee smiled impishly. “How would you know? You haven’t been with anyone since the innkeeper’s daughter in Winterhome.”

  He took the implication in stride. “When one has an appetite, one longs for elk steaks. If all you have are grubs, you learn to swallow them, in hopes of better meals.”

  “How I know that,” she said sadly. “I’ve spent many nights playing with my own little grub.” Then she brightened and kissed the tip of his sex. “You are wonderful, Ymir. Thank you for letting me give you pleasure.”

  He laughed, loudly, brazenly. He always liked to laugh after he came. It was a celebration, after all. “Girl, if pleasuring me pleasures you, we shall remain great friends until the ice shadows all things everywhere.”

  The light faded from him. They were in darkness again. He felt a bit embarrassed for glowing like that.

  She crawled in next to him, her naked skin on his, her musky sweet stink on him. She trembled, and he had to smile. Therans wouldn’t survive even a summer up north. It simply wasn’t cold for him. For her, it was, though she burned so hot.

  Seconds later, they were both under the bear pelt. He lay on his back, while she slept on his chest. She’d fallen asleep so quickly, and he would soon join her in slumber.

  Ha, I didn’t have to fuck myself, orc, he thought. You can go fuck yourself. Perhaps she was. Most everyone did.

  He felt Lillee leave during the night. He didn’t ask any questions. Waking early, he stretched and grinned. Now, to get on with this school business.

  A pounding rattled the door.

  He sat up. “Yes?”

  Gurla, flanked by Kacky and Gluck, filled the doorway. The Janistra Dux tossed robes at him and slammed a leather satchel down on the floor. “September 15th, clansman, the first day of school. I hope you enjoy your morning without work, though you shouldn’t get used to it. Now, get your ass up and get to class.”

  Ymir held the gray robes out in front of him. A black palm had been embroidered on the chest of the robe. The five-fingered open hand was the symbol of the Flow. He’d tolerate the satchel, but he wasn’t going to be wearing the damn robe.

  Chapter Twelve

  ON THE WAY UP THE SEA Stair, Ymir noticed all the changes the first day of school had brought.

  Shopkeepers had arrived early to set up the staircase market. Newly arrived scholars bought fried dough and held big mugs with all the symbols of the colleges on them. Their robes matched the cups: red and yellow for Sunfire, blue and white for M
oons, brown and green for the Form, and gray and black for the Flow.

  He mostly saw Homme, Ohlyrra, and Gruul scholars, though there were a few Morbuskor men with braided beards walking about. Their faces were young; how young, Ymir didn’t know. He’d heard the Fallen Fruit people all aged differently. They had to be of age, though. There were no children at Old Ironbound.

  Ymir hurried up to the feasting hall. The place was packed, and the line at the counter was chaotic. Voices shook the buttresses. The windows were steamed from all the bodies. Old friends greeted each other, men hugged, women chatted. There were obvious veteran scholars, mixed in with the more timid imprudens, who stood unsure of what to do.

  There were four different levels at the Majestrial: imprudens, sophists, judicians, and dominists. That didn’t include the post-domini scholars. They had levels of their own.

  He didn’t think he could get through the line in time to make the opening ceremonies in the Throne Auditorium in the east part of the citadel. This was his life now: crowds of strangers, all chained to the minutes of the day. The clans lived by the sun and the seasons, not enslaved to seconds.

  Toriah caught his eye and waved him over. He pushed through two elves, forearm cuffs in place and no tattoos on their temples. The dwarf lady stood on her stool, balanced on her sturdy legs—that was some delicious skin right there.

  “My friend, do you remember our deal?” the Morbuskor maiden asked.

  He raised a clenched fist.

  She smiled warmly, a red blush on her cheeks. “Yes, the promise. You look like you could use some help. And I love to help.”

  “And I love that you do.” He returned the smile.

  She handed him a plate with eggs, a long strip of some kind of fried meat, and fried potatoes. A yellow fruit had been quartered and laid on top. “Enjoy, clansman.”

  “I shall, my friend.” He took the plate and tried to find an open table, but every square inch of bench was occupied. He stood against the wall and wolfed down the meal, greasy and filling. Whatever those strips of meat were, he was going to eat nothing else if he could help it.

  Jenny held court at her table, which included a few new faces. She wore a Flow robe, as did some of the other women, but there was a mixture. Which were Jenny’s friends? Which were her lovers? It seemed all were both or neither—it was hard to tell. Again, she didn’t throw a glance his way. Their bad conversation had made them strangers.

  He sniffed the fruit, then ate it, rind and all. He grimaced at the sourness. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to eat the rind. This fruit tasted like his bucket soap smelled, and he didn’t like it. Too many memories of cleaning had probably ruined it for him.

  He rummaged through his satchel and found a large leather book with empty pages. Next to it were sheaves of paper, a pen, and an inkwell stoppered with a cork. A little vial of sand lay inside a thin metal tray. He also saw a mirror with a black-and-gray background. He wasn’t sure what to think about that. He closed up the satchel and threw it over his shoulder.

  He stopped at his favorite rainwater cistern in the Librarium and sipped from a ladle to wash his breakfast down. Then he walked over the short stone bridge spanning the moat and into the auditorium. He had no reason to be late.

  The Throne Auditorium had rows of seating, like the pews in the Chapel of the Tree. There were far more seats here—room for five hundred. All the red-cushioned benches faced east, where the sun struck a stained glass window of Old Ironbound’s seal: a diamond divided into four sections marked with the starburst, the moons, the clenched fist, and the open palm.

  A raised dais supported five ornate chairs, with the grand throne in the middle. The four smaller seats had the college symbols on them, while the biggest, the middle fifth chair, showed the diamond-shaped coat of arms. Ymir thought the hall had been the throne room of some Theran king, though he didn’t know which one.

  He took a seat in the back to wait. He noticed a couple golden-skinned fairies, wings blurring behind their backs, floating near the front. Twelve inches tall; he wondered at the sight of them. Would he have any fairies in his classes? He wasn’t sure he liked the idea. Out of all the Fallen Fruit people he’d seen, they were the strangest.

  Scholars threaded in, including Lillee, who sat next to Kacky and Gluck along with the other cleaning staff. He thought about going to them. Lillee wore the Flow’s gray and black. The Gruul women were both adorned in the blue and white of Moons.

  Ymir caught the hand before it touched his shoulder. A group of men, in an array of colors, clustered around him. At the front was the kid from the Open Exam, Viscount Roger Knellknapp, the one who’d managed to pass. He looked different without his face covered in blood. A scar, from Open Exam, cut down his forehead from his wavy dark hair. He had light brown eyes and a slightly pudgy face.

  Ymir flung his hand away. “You’re lucky I don’t have my ax, or you would’ve lost that hand.”

  One of the men smirked. “He isn’t wearing his robes. Does this animal even go here?” He had wispy red hair, a crooked nose, and thin lips. He’d probably gotten his nose broken for being such a little weasel.

  Ymir leaned back, stretched out his legs, turned his head casually to the side, and gave the smirking kid a relaxed smile. His eyes, though, would do all the talking for him.

  A quick look of fear swept through the child. It was replaced by a false boredom.

  Another whispered, “His eyes changed from brown to blue. So it’s true—a clansman with magic.”

  The viscount motioned to Ymir. “You need to move over to the center. Every seat will be filled.”

  Ymir stood up, towering over the children. He pointed. “I want the end.”

  “You should be wearing your robes,” the viscount said evenly.

  “I should do a lot of things.”

  The others shuffled in. Some were wise enough to keep their eyes lowered. The unwise tried their game at matching his gaze, and Ymir had to stop himself from spilling their blood. He knew he’d get abuse for being the outsider, the barbarian. He also knew the minute any of these man-boys touched him, he would crush their noses, if not their skulls.

  The viscount went last. “I’m impressed you made it through the Open Exam, my friend. You should make things interesting at least. What college did they put you in?”

  The clansman considered his response. He was looking for friends, and this Roger fellow hadn’t paid his way in. He’d earned his seat, and that gave Ymir some respect for him. “I’m in Flow.”

  Roger pointed to his chest. “I am also, along with some of the lesser dukes. You’re going to get guff for your dress.”

  “Guff? Is that a Farmington term?”

  “Seems like it, since you don’t know the word in Pidgin. I would imagine you’ll learn a lot of new words.”

  Was that an insult? A friendly joke?

  It didn’t matter. Roger would prove himself one way or another.

  One boy kept throwing disgusted glances Ymir’s way, some asshole in Flow robes with brown hair hanging in his face, half covering nearly black eyes. He didn’t say a word, didn’t mess with Ymir, yet the clansman had an instant dislike for that dark-eyed devil.

  The viscount sat. Ymir sat next to him. Roger the Viscount wore flowery perfume. Did the man have no pride? Stinking was one thing, and Ymir washed himself to stop that. To douse yourself in some kind of field fragrance? Troubling. But the viscount had probably grown up with too many women in his life.

  Or was it that he was a viscount? Maybe all the royalty in Thera wore perfume.

  Five faculty climbed to the stage as the stragglers found places to sit. Gharam Ssornap joined Siteev Ckins and the Princept. Two others were there, professors that Ymir recognized from the entrance table at the Open Exam. He knew their faces but not their names. The tall elf woman with the silver hair was dressed in the gray and black of the Flow. The other was the dwarf man, topped with wild auburn hair and a braided auburn beard that tumbled onto his chest. He wore
the Form’s colors. His black boots were as big as he was.

  “Who’s the dwarf and the elf?” Ymir asked.

  Roger turned to his asshole friend and asked him the same question.

  The smirking boy replied, “The Flow professor is Issa Leel, and that’s Brodor Bootblack, from Form. They’re the Studia Dux of their respective colleges.”

  Ymir didn’t need to ask anything more. Again, he felt the hand hovering over his shoulder. This new person smelled like the kitchen and a certain sweetness he’d come to enjoy.

  “Toriah Welldeep, my very good friend.” He spoke to her without looking.

  “Is there room for me?” she asked in her musical voice.

  Ymir knocked Roger with his elbow. “Tell your friends to move down.”

  “But there’s no room,” the smirking boy complained.

  The viscount shoved him. “Shut up, Odd. There’s room.”

  They shifted down, and Toriah sat next to him. He’d only ever seen her in her tunic and her apron, but now she wore a frilly gray dress under her Moons robes. Black boots covered her legs to a bulging mid-calf. He was a tad disappointed she wouldn’t be in his college. He wasn’t sure if the different schools mixed at all.

  The professors all took their seats on the dais while the Princept Della Pennez approached the podium. She cast her eyes about. The auditorium quieted from the power of her gaze. That was something, but she had a magic to her. She might’ve even been able to hush a gathering at Lost Herot.

  She spoke in a loud voice that echoed through the auditorium. “Welcome to the nine hundredth and ninety-seventh year of the Majestrial Collegium Universitas.”

  Applause, whistles, and some hooting from Roger and his rabble spread across the hall.

  Ymir stayed quiet, thinking that this fortress-turned-college had been around for nearly a thousand years. An icy feeling spread through him, and every hair on his arm stood straight up. He expected a vision. He wasn’t so fortunate. He drifted off the cushion of his seat. This would not do! He’d never before floated when awake.