Siren Slave

by Aurora Styles

  Table of Contents

  Siren Slave

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Also Available

  Thank You

  Siren Slave

  by

  Aurora Styles

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Siren Slave

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Aurora Styles

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com

  Publishing History

  First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2014

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-515-9

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-516-6

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  Thank you to all the people who believed in me enough to help me make it this far. Heartfelt thanks to anyone who proofread and shared opinions, putting up with my long moments of venting. I know you all thought I had lost it, upon hearing, “Why? Why is Siegfried being so difficult? How are his trust issues this bad?”

  A lifetime’s worth of gratitude goes to my father, who always pushed me to be creative, to be silly. Your humor and puns—as bad as they are—will always be an inspiration to me. It’s special people who can appreciate groan up humor. Another lifetime’s worth of gratitude goes to

  my mother. Though she hates “that fantasy crap,” she always believed I could write it.

  Many thanks to my dearest friends. Kristen, for always recommending fun, new literature, and for writing those silly stories when we were younger. Yes, I still have the copies of those. Shaun, Rebecca, Erica, Chad, Katie, and all the rest for keeping my life interesting. You have truly been an inspiration.

  Also, thanks to my friends on World of Warcraft’s Emerald Dream server—Tyler Locke, Erin Honour, and Garitt Hetrick. When things in my life got rough and giving up seemed like the best route, you continued to push me to keep being creative.

  Excerpt from

  Bringing Peace to the Wilds:

  Tales of the Great War

  by Nuada Airgetlam, Chief Spearman of

  the Ard Righ, Warden of Summer Isle

  I will not lie and say there was no fear during those long nights of waiting. Every sound might be one of the many peoples warring with others. Did they not want the peace we brought? Did they reject the order and structure? It was inconvenient at best and deadly at worst to be caught in their crossfire.

  But the worst, by far the worst, the sounds that made every elf stiffen and cry out to He Whose Mane Tames the Winds were the howl of a wolf, the roar of some lion in the distance, the shriek of a griffin, because there was always the chance that, instead of the mundane, it was something far more sinister, the fell Beasts of the wilds. Oh, worse they were than any hydra or wyrm, because they were intelligent, with just enough humanity to understand and use it against all of us. They knew what we wanted, what we stood for, perhaps better than any of the warring peoples, because they wholly rejected it. Instead of being elevated by laws and civility, they were slaves to bloodlust, to the hunt, to lust itself. They were the reason there was a war and not just a settling of the chaos that prevailed. Animals leading a war, an impossible thought.

  Yet, I’d seen it. I’d seen the cold fire of Balor’s blue eyes burning off the morning mist, bodies rent in twain by his claws. Although Balor was brutal, it was his second in command who frightened me most, perhaps because I am a man. The lust I felt when I first saw her disgusted me.

  Hecate never used her claws, preferring, instead to appear in the guise of a human, one with translucent, white skin, coils of black curls brushing her small waist. Her lips were always painted red, her eyes outlined in kohl. Her face didn’t have the same wild vulgarity of Balor’s. He chose fangs and roars or sometimes became the panther stalking his prey. Hecate would stand before us, looking fragile, perhaps exchanging a few pleasantries. But her eyes were cold, like a viper’s, waiting for the moment she would strike. With her, it was never fangs. It was a wave of the hand and our comrades, the very ones Balor and his Beasts had slain, would rise up again, against their friends. It was we who’d have to slay our own friends, men who, nights earlier, had sat with me as I penned earlier words, exchanging a drink and cares. Why would she have to resort to her feral powers if she wielded the filthy magic of Oblivion?

  Even the Beasts, save Hecate, backed away from this unnatural phenomenon. The air reeked of rot and dried blood. It was chill and still, like the air inside a tomb. The feel of Oblivion. Hecate would perch herself in some high place, out of reach of our arrows, sipping red wine and watching her work. I’d look at the other Beasts with their lashing tails, leathery wings, or thick, furred bodies and know that something like that was under Hecate’s serene face. I had to remind myself of it, lest I succumb to this weakness of the flesh.

  Balor, a sea beast, led the battles at sea. If he wasn’t using his claws, he was stealing powers. It was these two, only these two, who were never caught. The others were properly subdued, properly tamed. They were given purpose.

  Conversion was accomplished by a simple blessing, a magical Mark imprinted on the Beast, placing all that wildness, all that insanity under the control of another. If the captives refused to cede this control, the Marks caused the Beasts to go mad, destroying even their own kind. It instilled in their brutish minds a sense of the inevitable. The Marks were the first order of business once these creatures were captured. This allowed them to be productive, to be calmed, and to submit to laws. I, myself, was given the burden of controlling them. At times, after they were Marked, they seemed almost human. I began to see the Beasts not as a blight upon our world, but as a power that could be harnessed to the benefit of all. Most of them have perished in their service by now, but it is still those two who remain loose.

  It was Balor who disappeared without a trace. At the time of this writing, he has not been recovered. I am content to let that creature fade into the mists of the past. But Hecate lingers on the fringes of fey consciousness, appearing as if to taunt us, disconcerting us with her presence. She’s never attacked us again, not without Balor. She plays at being a human now, but we all wait for her to turn again and set those dead things upon us, or perhaps give us a quicker, less painful ending in her jaws. We leave her alone; she doesn’t linger long enough to be caught, if such a thing is possible. Is she plotting? Does she know where Balor is? Do they conspire again to bring doom to countless others between their gnashing fangs? What kind of child could those two possibly have? Such a thing does not bear comprehension.

  Perhaps they could have been saved from their fates, saved from their insanity, wildness, lawlessness, like the other dark creatures, if o
nly we’d been more fervent.

  Chapter One

  Gaul, 52 BC

  Princess Freya was lightheaded, tasting the honeyed ale on her tongue. The bitter mixed with the sweet. She took another pull from the flagon she wore on her hips, but the crowd jostled her. Some of it spilled across the rough woolen cloak, the cool liquid dribbling between her breasts. She glared at the person who had bumped her elbow or thought she did, but there were too many to tell who was guilty of abusing good brew. She settled for a general glare at everyone in her way, lest someone else think of wasting more ale.

  It was market day outside the palace in the Remi city of Folkvang. The city seemed full, the streets crowded on this day. Those from other tribes stood out in their leathers and wool, with face piercings and ink in their skin, so unlike the Romanized Remi in their civilized togas.

  Some people, walking with their heads down, even had ink under the flesh of their faces. The Romanized tribes had adopted the practice of marking the face of a slave with what the Romans called stigma. She couldn’t see their faces without thinking of those old myths her Greek tutor had made her read as a child.

  Some of the armored men were questioning or accosting those wearing less-expensive clothing, cheap peasant garb like she wore. She could not afford doing anything to catch the interest of authority at this moment, so she tried to shove through the throng. The crowd might as well have been made of steel.

  “You’re not going anywhere in this,” a woman with thick rings in her nose and brows said. “We’re all here to see the pearls from the merchants, as if you can be affordin’ any. And the Cimbri.”

  The Cimbri were a small tribe, diminished when Rome had nearly killed them off decades before. But the remainder of their people were dedicated to Rome. The Cimbri had an almost legendary history among those tribes who still rebelled against Rome. They’d been seafarers who fought like berserkers against the Romans, but it was ultimately Rome who won. Having this last chieftain come here with what was left of the proud Cimbri to wed the Remi princess, Freya of Folkvang, was highly strategic.

  It was also something she didn’t want to think about. Freya tugged at her disguise of peasant garb, making sure the crowd didn’t see any part of her she didn’t want them to see. She used her usual plan for the problem of crowds. “I—I’m going to vomit. I shouldn’t have eaten all that stew, that garlicky stew with chunks of fatty mutton.”

  It was as if the Jewish Moses had parted the Red Sea. A path opened before her. They all watched her warily until she reached a less populated section of the market.

  “Fine now. Thanks.” She gave a jaunty wave to the twin walls of her Red Sea and continued along, ignoring the shocked stares and curses leveled at her back as her thoughts roamed freely, jumping from subject to subject, and she glanced in stall after stall.

  Better glares than daggers. Daggers can wound and kill. It would be odd if words and nasty looks could do that. People would die all the time.

  Freya found an opening in the crowd outside a jewelry vendor’s stall. She examined his wares, her gaze caressing the blue pearls. The vendor had to be an ocean farer, given the coral, shells, and other items. And an ocean farer she knew, Ulf the Broad Nose.

  “Any stories of Siegfried the Fox?” she asked, handing Ulf two gold coins for the pearl necklace.

  “Word is he’s burned Ostia as revenge for Rome coming to the barbarian lands,” the vendor said. “Yet some say he was nowhere near Ostia, that he disappeared, afraid of Rome.”

  She replayed the words in her head, trying to visualize Siegfried burning innocents or fleeing like some cowardly dog. Her stomach knotted as her brain struggled with the image.

  “He’s, ah, been burning a few things lately,” Ulf continued. “A Cimbri village, too. Almost had his ship sunk by Merrick the Black, the Pirate King. Said he got some nasty wounds in that battle. Knock to the head might’ve made him go a little craz—”

  The vendor clamped his mouth shut, and Freya followed his wary gaze to where a Roman watched him, mad as those Beasts in the readings assigned her by Chiron, her Greek tutor.

  “Ulf,” she whispered. “I have more coin if you have anything else of interest for me.”

  “Ah, Swan.” Ulf chuckled, calling her by the alias she used with him. He produced a mahogany box with gold scrollwork around the edges. She had numerous boxes like this from Ulf, hidden inside her down mattress. Her mattress was starting to have the consistency of bricks. There might still be a few feathers inside it, tucked among the boxes. She had to sleep on a heap of furs on the floor.

  “I saved this for you. What I wouldn’t give to see your face…” Ulf thought her a prostitute and knew her for a supporter of Siegfried. He traded with many merchants from exotic lands of which Freya could hardly conceive. Lands of risqué practices like harems and concubines. Siegfried himself was said to be fascinated by such tales, too. Ulf brought her some of the more intriguing items used in such bed sport. She never actually used them for more than inspiration for her tales.

  Access to such forbidden toys was one of the many benefits of wearing her peasant disguise. The only drawback to being Swan was that she loathed walking in crowds. It wasn’t as if she could ride her horse, Enbarr, into the market and still continue the disguise. But he was always nearby, never remaining in a stall or paddock. She was the only one he’d ever permitted to ride him. He was also the sire of the horses that the Romans so seemed to prize.

  Freya, or rather Swan, handed Ulf five gold coins and took the box, concealing it in the hidden pocket in her cloak. She’d sewn that pocket herself, as was evidenced by the uneven stitching and bloodstains from the numerous accidents she’d had with the needle and her fingertips. The pocket was exactly the size for the box if she removed what else she had there. She slipped out the parchment, hiding it under her hand.

  “Seems I underpaid.” She slid the parchment across to Ulf.

  “I’ll send this through my usual channels,” he said. “But can’t promise you anything, given what I just told you.”

  “Ulf, he’s got to come.” Her white fingers closed over his thick wrist. “The wedding is soon. Those are all the plans, everything, the entrances used for attendants, the flowers—”

  “Still wondering how you get all this information, Swan.”

  “I have my sources, too.” Hardly anyone knew the truth, except a small group of her father’s warriors. They knew she was the one who freed the alleged pirate’s supporters from the dungeons. Just to ensure her father’s warriors weren’t blamed, she’d written notes signed “Swan” with her left hand to disguise the penmanship.

  “One more thing,” Ulf said. “It’s green.”

  She now knew Siegfried’s favorite color, a bit of information she’d been having trouble uncovering. If there was something particular about him she wanted to know, to make the tales she wrote more realistic to her, she asked Ulf. He actually knew people who knew people who knew Siegfried.

  Freya gave him a smile before turning back into the crowd, and her nose hit a wall of bronze breastplate. She craned her neck up to see the angry visage of the Roman shoulder. He shoved her aside, small body hurled backwards to land on her already-injured knee. Her elbow started to bleed. The Roman didn’t have to shove anyone else aside, because the others scrambled from his path, obscuring her view of Ulf.

  She had no sooner levered herself to her feet, when she was shoved again—this time by a hooded youth, the curses of others who’d received the same treatment following in his wake, along with a strange click-clacking sound. Was that a knife in his hand? Could he be one of those who—

  The youth turned to shout over his shoulder at the grumbling crowd. “Could you not get so close? You reek of rotten, crabby squid that’s been sitting on a beach for a fortnight. Gods, I loathe people. Now, where is that princess? Shouldn’t she be wearing a crown or at least some jewelry?”

  The voice revealed the hooded speaker as a woman, not a youth. As much as Fre
ya agreed with her sentiments about the crowd, the woman was quite possibly an assassin. The assassin, meeting an immovable wall of people trying to see whatever it was the Roman was doing—Freya could see the red, horse-tail helmet bobbling above the tops of their heads—now turned back toward Freya, not knowing the valuable skill of feigning an upset stomach.

  Freya stuck out her foot, causing the woman to fly over the stones and land face first in a pile of goat dung. Before she could enjoy the sight, Freya was shoved out of the way—a third time—by what appeared to be a blur of cream gone bad. Very broad, boney cream, so quite a strange cream. However, it was not some poorly made food item out for revenge, but a woman. And not one of Freya’s favorites but Odilia, advisor to her parents and a very, very distant cousin of her mother’s. Of course, the bitch was here to see the Cimbri chieftain.

  “Nasty harpy,” Freya swore, lowering the pitch of her voice. She enjoyed disguising herself as a commoner. It allowed her to use colorful language.

  Odilia spun her about, knocking a few bystanders in the teeth with her elbows. Those sharp elbows had to hurt. Odilia had a wide frame, but not much meat on it, giving her a rather odd, angular appearance. “Peasant,” she spat.

  Freya tugged the headscarf lower over her face, lest she be recognized. Why could she never stop herself from goading the other nobles, especially when she was wearing the rough garb of a peasant? It was almost like a magic cloak that made her invisible or let her be someone else. It definitely had its benefits.

  Not the least of which is avoiding a knife in my back when I’m supposed to be safely inside the palace. What am I thinking? That woman Odilia is haggling with is hardly a threat. Just because she has a knife and a cloak doesn’t mean she’s one of those crazy assassins. She might have been looking for someone else wearing a crown, not me. Maybe lots of Romans wear crowns. It could be the new Roman fashion or something.

  The possible assassin wobbled to her feet. Freya reassessed the woman and decided she was probably no more than a common cutpurse.