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

by Aaron Crash

  Crimson gushed from her nose, dribbling over her lips and coloring her tusks. If she didn’t look monstrous before, she did now. Her hair wild and wet from the rains, the tunic sticking to her body, her muscles pumped with blood, and those red eyes wild with battle lust—all of it made her look like a demon with blood gushing down her face and dripping onto her chest.

  Standing in the tavern, covered in gore, she grinned at him. “You’ll have to do better than that, clansman. You’ll have to batter me unconscious.”

  One of the owners, Melissa Teheregi, called out. “Get campus security here! Now!”

  Kadie Gnal, the other bar owner, screamed at them. “Dammit, Ymir! I knew at some point, you would fuck up our place! Stop this now! Or you’ll pay twice for anything you break!”

  Ymir ignored them both. He had less than five minutes before one of Gharam’s orcs showed up, probably Agneeyeshka, and then the fight would get even messier. If he didn’t win, and win decisively, his relationship with Gatha really would be over.

  And the truth was, Tori would side with Ymir and the other princesses. Fucking Gatha would be left alone again, and that just might break her more than a good beating. He would have to pummel her to save her life.

  It was a grim task, and a difficult one, because it could very well be that the she-orc would knock him senseless. It was by far the best fight he’d had since the Lonely Man. And thank the Axman, he didn’t have to use magic. It was all about his wit, speed, muscle, and skill.

  Good. It had been too long since he’d been in a good, old-fashioned fistfight. He just hoped he didn’t lose the damn thing because there was no way that Gatha would ever relent.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THEY WERE CIRCLED BY scholars, drunks, and some fisherfolk, who probably came to the Sea Stair Market just to see what was left after the earthquake wave.

  Ymir kept light on his feet, squaring up with his opponent to inflict more damage on her. She did the same. Both had their fists up. The she-orc, however, had those tusks to contend with. If he hit one, it might cut his hands to shreds.

  She struck, fast, hitting him square in the face. His cheek popped open. Blood gushed down his face and dripped off his chin. She was back out of his reach in seconds. She was a warrior, waiting for another chance. Now they were both bleeding.

  They danced around and around, each waiting for the other to strike. Ymir frowned. Gatha might not be worried about the security guard coming, but he was. Time was growing short.

  He stepped in and opened himself up, and she took the bait. She threw a series of jabs, striking him in the back, side, and stomach. He punched her face again, then got her into a clinch, which sent them both to the floor, wet with rain, beer, and blood.

  They’d already gone to the ground before, and Ymir had almost wrestled her to a stop, but this woman was strong, tireless, and full of endless anger.

  The clansman only had one chance, one last chance, to win. He shifted his weight, making her think she had a way out, and when she took it, he spun her around, and got his arm around her neck. He was careful not to let her gash him with her tusks. Both were on their knees, Ymir behind the she-orc. When she threw elbows, he was ready for them, and when she tried to reverse headbutt him in the face, he dodged her skull.

  She tried to push back against him, using her legs to break free. That was what he’d been waiting for. He used the momentum to push them both up. She was gagging and gasping at this stage, clawing at his arms and opening more wounds.

  He’d be fine. He had her. She shoved him back against the bar, knocking mugs off, the glasses shattering. He took the wood in his kidneys. The pain lit up his head, but he used it to keep his determination solid. He didn’t let go. He didn’t give her a fucking inch.

  She was fighting for each breath.

  He hissed into her ear. “I have you, Gatha. I won this fight. I beat you.”

  “Never!” She threw her weight forward this time, and again he was amazed at her fury and strength. He shifted her around and rammed her head into the bar. That was what did it. She went limp. Blood from her nose dripped off an exposed tusk.

  He let her drop to the ground. He sucked in breath. All those nice scholars gazed at him in awe. More attention would not help him. Getting caught would be worse.

  Both Melissa and Kadie were behind the bar, shock and anger on their haggard faces. He tipped his head at them. “You cover for me, and I’ll pay three times the cost of those glasses I broke.”

  He stooped and used the last bit of his strength to lift Gatha. She felt as heavy as an elk mare. He hefted her up with a grunt and carried her through the crowd. Nellybelle Tucker was there with her retinue of Swamp Coast women, along with Daris and his crew. Odd Corry smirked. Roger the Viscount looked worried. Fucking Roger should find new friends.

  Ymir took Gatha out into the rains. He couldn’t go left—campus security would be coming from that direction. Yes, he would eventually get in trouble for the fight, but it would be better for everyone to let a little time pass. Della might be less likely to call in the constables once she realized it was a simple fight, a way to blow off steam after a rough day.

  The clansman turned right and started down the Sea Stair. He turned down the alley that led to Gatha’s annex. That took him by the windows of The Paradise Tree, which was open but had no customers. Ziziva fluttered up to the window, her eyes red from crying.

  The clansman paused to look at her. She seemed vulnerable now. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe Ziziva’s deals with the merfolk weren’t doing well. Even if she needed to find new suppliers, she should be happy that her shop hadn’t been destroyed. Every business had gotten lucky. Was that luck? Or was it the skill of the sorcerer who summoned the wave?

  He nodded at the little fairy. She put a tiny hand on the window and nodded back.

  Then he heard Agneeyeshka cry out, “Where in the hell did he go?”

  Ymir pushed on, got to the door of Gatha’s annex, and rushed inside. After hurrying away, Gatha and Tori had forgotten to lock it. Inside the long room, the shelves had tumbled from the rain, the place had a definite stink to it from all the water in the basement, and yes, Gatha’s precious books and scrolls were ruined.

  The clansman realized that was probably why Gatha had come after him—she’d been devastated by the loss of her collection. And then, when Tori had offered the she-orc some love, it had wrecked her. It all made sense now.

  He walked through the swollen books and unfurled scrolls and found the stairs leading to the second floor. He took her there. The windows facing the ocean had been shattered. All of the furniture had been tumbled against the far wall, and there were still puddles of muddy water soaking into the wood. A fireplace sat against the wall with a stack of old wood nearby.

  Ymir needed light, and he wanted to check Gatha to see how bad the damage was—damage he’d caused. He set her down on a dry bit of floor. Finding a padded bench that wasn’t so wet, he dragged it over. He picked the she-orc off the floor and laid her on the couch.

  Using Flow magic, he removed the water from chunks of firewood, casting the droplets on the floor. This fucking sorcery was damn useful. He got a fire going with Sunfire magic, and once the flames started, they greedily ate into the wood.

  When he turned, Gatha was sitting on the couch, looking at him. Her tusks had been retracted. The blood had dried on her face. Tears shone in her eyes. “You won.”

  Ymir found a cloth and some ocean water in a cast-off bowl. He knelt in front of her. “I did. Look into the fire. I want to make sure your eyes are all right. You hit your head. Those injuries can be as deadly as they are strange.”

  “I didn’t hit my head. You slammed it into the bar top.” Her voice was quiet. Her anger was gone.

  The clansman grinned. “You set the rules of the match. No magic. The winner was the last one standing.” He pushed her sweaty white hair out of her face and checked her pupils. In the shadow, they contracted, both the same. In darkness, her
red irises opened wide.

  The she-orc touched his cheek. “At least I made you bleed. And your body will be bruised. I tried to hit you in the windribbon.”

  That was his diaphragm. He was sore, and the aches would only grow, and he knew his right eye would blacken. He was glad the wound on his face had stopped bleeding. “You also tried to knee me in my berries.”

  He touched the cloth and wiped the blood from around her mouth.

  She had nice lips, however green, and he liked how the firelight made her skin seem darker. She was calm now, gentle.

  He cleaned the blood from her chin before dipping the rag back into the bowl. The only sounds were the trickle of the rag in the water, the crackle of the fire, and their breathing. Ymir could smell both their stink. He didn’t mind it a bit.

  Gatha stared into his eyes. “No one ever cleaned me after the Pits. After my victories, after a fight, I wanted to be alone. I wanted to clean myself. I’d stand in the showers there, in the mildew, in the muck, and wash the blood off me.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. He could easily wipe them away.

  “How did I lose? I’ve never lost before. What did I do wrong?” she asked.

  Ymir knew the answer easily. “You’ve lived long enough to lose. I could say that you let your anger get the better of you. You took my feints without thinking, and it allowed me to get behind you. If your mind had been clearer, you wouldn’t have lost. I could say those things. They aren’t the truth. Live long enough and you will know defeat. Survive that? And you’ll know death. That’s from the Sacred Mysteries of the Ax.”

  “Is that a book?” the she-orc asked.

  “No,” Ymir said. “It’s the poems, proverbs, and stories of the Ax Tundra clans. We all have a piece memorized, and we put them together in our heads sometimes. I wondered why we never wrote them down, like in a contract, but my grandmother said that stories should change with every new teller. If there is wisdom there, that won’t change. The truth can’t be shaken away. Write something down and it dies. Keep retelling a story, and it will live forever.”

  “If there is wisdom in it,” Gatha whispered. “In the south, we try to cage truth. I reread books because I don’t want them to change. There is comfort in that.”

  “And you don’t need to deal with people to tell you the story. You can get it yourself. You like that, I think.”

  Ymir sat back. Gatha’s face was clean of blood, but not of tears. They continued to course down her cheeks.

  “Do you think I’m weak?” she asked.

  He looked her in the eye. “I do. You are alone. I’m stronger because I’m not alone. You take a single stick, and it’s easy to break. You take ten sticks and they are impossible to break.”

  She smiled. Had he ever seen her smile? Maybe once or twice, but mostly she glared, sighed, and sneered at him. She’d always been so full of anger and trouble.

  Gatha winced as she moved. She rubbed at her neck. “I’ll be sore for sure. You’re strong because of your muscle, but I understand what you have said. I’ve felt that strength before, not in myself, or in my family. No, but I had a friend, Migdish, and she was strong because she wasn’t alone. She didn’t fight. She couldn’t because of a withered leg, and yet, she had happiness. Her whole family did. It was all so different than mine.”

  She took the bowl from him. She squeezed the old water out of the cloth, and then got some fresh water in it. It was far from clean, but he appreciated the effort. She cleaned his cheek quickly and efficiently, if not without pain.

  He didn’t wince. This tough woman had opened his flesh with a ferocious punch. He was lucky he didn’t need to stitch it closed.

  “Have you ever lost a fight?” she asked.

  “Many,” Ymir said. “I liked to taunt the older boys when I was little. I don’t know why. Maybe because I hated them for being grown, or maybe when they looked at me as merely a child, I wanted to show them I wasn’t. I was beaten bloody time after time. And remember, I did fail my First Exam.”

  “You were sabotaged though,” Gatha murmured, smiling. It was a sweet little smile, weary but happy. “My defeat feels strangely good. I’ve spent my life training, breaking my bones, straining every part of me to make sure I never lost. I had to be faster, quicker, better than everyone. I learned magic far beyond my abilities because in the Pits, in the death matches, there are no rules. You either win or you die.”

  “In the north, it is like that,” he said quietly. “The Axman will not save you. He won’t stop an arrow from finding your heart, he won’t keep you fed, and he won’t stop the wind from freezing you. The Shieldmaiden might, or the Wolf may, if he feels like it. I fought to live, but I didn’t fight alone. Come and be friends with me and my princesses. You were alone in the Pits. You don’t have to be alone here.”

  She closed her eyes and lowered her forehead against his. “I thought I would come here and live forever in my books. But then I found you and your girls. I don’t want to fight you again, Ymir. I want to take this defeat as my only one.”

  “I don’t want to fight you again either. You fucking orcs have those fucking tusks and that makes punching you difficult. Let us be friends.”

  “Friends only,” the Gruul woman whispered. “Losing those books hurt me. If I lost you or Tori? I would have to kill myself.”

  Ymir took her chin in his hand. “That is weakness. That is defeat. Life is meant to be lived fully and savored bravely.” He let his eyes show how serious he was.

  Gatha growled and kissed him—to escape his gaze or to betray herself, he didn’t know. She’d said they would only be friends. That kiss, though—hot, salty with the remnants of her blood, and with her smell around him. He joined her in growling as he grew stiff.

  His hands fell on her thighs, and that was where they stayed. She held them down, finished the kiss, and drew back.

  “Friends only?” he asked.

  She seemed to get a little embarrassed, which melted his heart. This strong warrior woman had wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp, and here she was, getting shy after a little kiss that hadn’t even included any tongue. “I had to know, Ymir. I’ve thought about it. But I promised myself I would only kiss you if you beat me in a fight.”

  “Thank the Ax I won.” He drew back and really surveyed the room above the Librarium’s washed-out annex. The fireplace did have a nearby stove, like what Jenny had in her apartment, but only two burners. They might be able to install a second stovetop. They had plenty of room for supplies, and for the machinery that Tori was building to process the pods. Then he saw the ladder that led to the roof. They could dry the pods up there, if they could find a day that wasn’t rainy.

  Better to have drying racks.

  Gatha saw that his thoughts had left her. She rose. “I will go turn myself in to Gharam and his guards. I will say I started the fight.”

  “And that would be the truth,” he said.

  “No,” she countered, “you started the fight that first time you looked up my tunic. I should’ve come down that ladder and dropped you.”

  “And why didn’t you?” he asked.

  She raised her chin and stared into his eyes. “Because a part of me liked it. Now, let us go. I need a shower and a change of clothes.”

  “And a book?” he asked.

  She gave him another rare smile, something that he could get quite used to. “Always a book,” she said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  BACK AT JENNY’S APARTMENT, Ymir was surprised to find it empty. He found a note saying that both Jenny and Lillee were at the Zoo with Tori and some other scholars, drinking.

  Ymir wasn’t about to miss out on such a party. He hung up his scholar robes—both he and Gatha had collected them from the Flow courtyard. Ymir stripped and showered, washing the grime of the fight and the day off him. He was lucky to be alive—the wave hadn’t destroyed the Librarium, the assassin hadn’t crushed him under the falling archway, Marrib Delphino hadn’t hacked him in two with that big sea ax,
and Gatha hadn’t ripped open his throat with her tusks. All in all, a good day.

  Ymir put on a new leather shirt, made from cow hide, and soft cotton pants. He’d grown accustomed to wool socks and Gharam’s boots. What would the old Gruul warrior have thought of his fight with Gatha? Ymir thought he would’ve loved it.

  As for Gatha? If he had lost that fight, she would’ve cast him aside forever. Because he’d won it? Everything was different now. He tarried for a bit, drinking wine and watching the rain drip onto the balcony. The clouds drifted low, misty and haunting.

  Someone was trying to kill him. That archway trap had been for him. He’d have to use the Veil Tear Ring again, and soon, to unearth his killer. However, the hellhound would be waiting.

  No, he had to come up with another plan.

  Finally, he grew tired of the wine and wished for beer. Tori had brought in a keg for the Zoo. That girl—no wonder all the men of Thera, of every race, prized a dwab in their harem. Her cheer was only matched by her generosity, and both were nothing compared to her considerable work ethic.

  He left the apartment in his storm cloak. Walking through the Librarium, he noticed Gatha at her desk, her hair washed, cleaned, and dried, and braided down her back. She had another set of Sunfire robes on over her normal tunic. Her thick boots came up to her knees.

  He went over to her. “Come with me, Gatha. You can read later. For tonight? Let’s drink beer and laugh.”

  She closed her book, leaned back, and gave him a nasty look, probably annoyed at him for interrupting her reading. This woman was maddening.

  Then a grin curved her lips and the light in her eyes changed. Her nose was swollen. Bruises crept up to her eyes. Both would be black by the next day. Ymir only had the triangular wound on his right cheek, though his eye would bruise up as well.