He leaned against the wall, as if unable to stand. “All you…all you barbarian dogs.” He pointed at a torch instead of the prisoners and wobbled. “You’re…you’re going to…to…” He slid down the wall to land on his ass and let his head fall to the side.
“Barbarian dogs?” a prisoner at the end of the corridor snapped. The man’s voice was cultured, an accent Siegfried didn’t recognize, but it was slurred from drink. “I suggest you examine your reflection in a looking glass, you inane waste of breath. You are assuredly a mongrel of the worst—”
A guard tossed his wine goblet down the hall. “Shut up. Unless you want a beating.”
“Oh, please do attempt it,” the unseen man drawled. “I was inebriated before, but my senses return. I would gladly embrace the opportunity to generously give in kind for your crude, clumsy assault on my noble personage.”
“Too much to drink, Etainen?” a guard asked, examining a jeweled ring on his finger. “I like rubies. Can see my reflection in the stones. I think. Vision is blurry. Feel a little sick.” He grabbed at his head. “That man keeps giving me a headache. A very bad one.”
Siegfried didn’t answer, just fell onto his side. He watched the guards continue to mumble through his lowered lashes. There was a quick thud, then another, and the guards nearest him crumpled. He followed the curve of a black boot made of some material he’d never seen, up and up, over the muscular calves to above the knee. Swan wore something similar to a toga, slit up the sides to give her legs room to move and clinging to her ass. Black pearl combs held curling red tresses back from her face, which was covered below the eyes with a thin veil. Eyes painted in silver appraised the situation.
Quick footsteps along an adjoining corridor. Voices. A guard stepped around the corner. His hand immediately went to his blade, and Siegfried wanted to curse.
“Why are you sleeping? On your feet now,” the man barked, two more sober men coming to flank him on either side. Two drugged guards struggled to their feet, wiping drool from their mouths as they assisted each other.
Siegfried would have to intervene. He started to stir while her attention focused on her adversaries. They were much bigger than the small-framed woman. He’d just have to kill them all. There were four besides the two that remained unconscious, because Rome seemed to love six. But with him and Swan here, that made eight.
The end of her staff rammed a Roman in the gut then slammed into another’s kneecaps. A spinning back kick caught another in the jaw, sending his head against the wall. She landed in a crouch, brandishing the staff as she faced the last. The crouch also revealed an enticing view of white thighs. Aye, he’d been much too long without a woman. He bit his tongue to curb the thoughts of those pale thighs wrapped around his hips as she lay beneath him, her bloodstained staff resting against the wall of his cabin.
He forced his attention to the woman, content to watch until she needed assistance. She jumped, pushing herself from the crouch and tossing the staff aside as she delivered a punch to the Roman’s shoulder with her left fist, following it up with a blow on the back of the Roman’s exposed neck with her right.
At some point, Siegfried realized he had stopped breathing. He’d rarely seen men fight with that much speed and force. Who was this Swan? What sorts of positions would that body be able to handle?
She surveyed her work before giving her hair a toss then retrieved the staff and gave it a spin. She stopped over Siegfried before giving him a hard kick in the ribs. He should have expected as much if she’d heard him railing at the prisoners.
“Swan?” one of the prisoners asked.
She shook the key over her head. She was excited to be here. She was having fun. But how had she gotten the key? He’d thought Swan would be an expert at lock-picking.
When she’d unlocked the first cell, she held both hands up palms forward and shook her head.
“You want us to stay put?” someone asked. Swan pointed at the people, then the wall. “Can you not speak?”
She gave another shake of her head, knocking loose a few more of the curling red strands. She grabbed the man by the shoulders and steered him against a wall, then made the “stay” motion with her hands again. She tossed her hands in the air and proceeded to unlock more cells.
There was a long-suffering sigh from a far cell. “Swan, do finish what you’re doing and release me from this vile, stinksome hovel.”
“Volos, quit your whining,” Siegfried heard the poor man in the cell with the noble snap.
Swan cast a glance over her shoulder at the speaker, then opened every cell before that one.
“You, you did that on purpose, abandoned me to languish,” Volos said when the cell was unlocked. Siegfried tried not to chuckle.
“She just granted you a stay of execution,” snapped a man at this Volos character.
Volos did not look like the underweight noble Siegfried had expected. The man strode proudly from the cell, his knee-length silver hair floating behind him, the sheen somehow not dulled from the dungeon grime. His clothes had not fared so well. The black leather breeches were torn, as if from a battle, yet the visible skin was intact. His silver tunic, of some unknown material was streaked with red. “Yes, and I am grateful for that. Undoubtedly, of course.” He headed straight for the Romans, ignoring Swan’s frantic gestures. His movements were that of a skilled warrior—light on his feet, alert. Siegfried made ready to leap.
Volos knelt swiftly and picked up a guard with one hand. The Roman looked at him from above his busted mouth. “Next time you arrest someone, ensure he is a lawbreaker.” He tossed the Roman away with a sound of disgust before wiping his well-manicured hands on a commoner’s tunic. Then he looked at the commoner’s sweat-stained garb and sighed.
The thrown Roman’s head hit the stone with crack, blood flowing down the man’s nape in a thick river. Volos’ nostrils flared, but he turned his attention to Swan.
“Kind-hearted outlaw, where is it these mongrels keep the items they’ve confiscated?” he asked sweetly. “I have had my person subjected to all sorts of abuse, not the least of which was having my heirlooms pilfered.”
Swan strode toward a barred door. She unlocked it and let the long-haired man rummage until he found a long silver scepter with a large ruby adorning the end and a diamond-studded leather belt. Siegfried thought that whoever this Volos was, wherever he was from, he might make a fine match for a princess like Freya.
“On second thought, I shall take a Roman for my troubles.” Volos easily hefted the bleeding man over his shoulder, a smile playing on his lips. “Very well, I am ready. We may leave now. Here is a gold piece for you, Swan. Do not mention you ever saw me here.”
She silently accepted it, then proceeded to usher the people out with wild hand motions.
“Ah, wait,” Volos said, taking Swan’s shoulder. “I can do nothing for whatever these dogs may have done to you, fair savior, but I owe you more than a gold piece.”
Guilt hit Siegfried hard in the gut. The Romans must have cut out her tongue. He’d always heard she was talkative. Yet another woman suffering for her very real support of him, just like Julia. He should’ve sent someone to collect Swan before she endangered herself further. But what of the lives she’d saved? There were never many easy answers in his line of work, were there? It would also be a shame for the rebellion to lose such a skilled warrior.
Volos let his Roman captive tumble off his shoulder, onto the damp stone, then fell to one knee, his silver hair fanning about him to whisper against the stones. He struck the area over his heart with a fist. “I, Volos, of the noble and prestigious House of Jarilo, do hereby extend an invitation to the mysterious Swan to join me in a reprieve from this lawless life in repayment for the blood debt that I now do owe.”
Siegfried missed the quick motion, but somehow the man’s blood was trickling from his wrist onto the stones. Volos dipped a finger into the blood, then traced a crimson line across his heart, the flesh revealed by a long tear in the
tunic.
“He’s beautiful, Swan,” a woman with torn clothing said, staring at the silver-haired man.
Swan shook her head. Siegfried was filled with admiration. Most women would have jumped at such an offer. This Swan was strong in her convictions.
“So be it,” Volos said, rising. “You stay for your people. I can understand this. Perhaps it’s for the best, as I am a man of laws.” He took Swan’s shoulder in a familiar manner, leading her away from the others, nearer to Siegfried. “Yet, my debt is still unpaid to you.” He reached into his torn tunic and gave her some jewelry that had somehow been missed. With a sad sigh, he removed the diamond belt and handed it to Swan. “You keep my secret and I shall keep yours.”
Swan looked up at him in surprise.
Volos lowered his head to her neck, and Siegfried restrained himself from rising. He would if this Volos gave her any difficulty. Volos eyes half-closed as he inhaled. “You have a unique aroma, even under your perfume. I can already place who you are. Now, now, do not look so horrified. I will follow your instructions to lead these lawbreakers out of the cells to at least pay off some of this debt. More of the Romans mongrels are coming, so we must make haste.”
After he had lofted his Roman captive, Volos began directing the prisoners. Swan started to follow, then stopped.
She ran back, as if she’d forgotten. She scrawled a note with her left hand on a slip of parchment. This was left atop one of the five remaining Romans. Siegfried had heard she always left a note.
After they rounded the corner, Siegfried rose to trail them. He watched from behind each corner they passed.
She led them to the barracks and gave a nod to Faramund and Berengar. Faramund and Berengar? He hadn’t thought they’d betray their Roman-loving princess to help a rebel like Swan. But sometimes principles were stronger than friendship. He knew that well.
“Hartwin’s at the back of the grain cellar, ready to let them out,” Berengar said. “Hurry. All of you, get the hell out of here.”
So, all of Freya’s closest friends were working for Swan? They would chafe at Rome’s bit more than the princess, who was isolated from most of it, wouldn’t they? Their families would not be spared from Rome’s brutality. He was very grateful to these men.
“If any of you speak with Siegfried,” Berengar said, “ask him why he didn’t stop this farce of a wedding. If he’s planning on something, he’d best hurry.”
****
Siegfried straightened his fur cape, bound with a medallion of beaten gold in the shape of a Roman eagle. Then he straightened it again, even though he did not need to do so. But two was a nice, even number. He surveyed himself in the looking glass and decided he looked like a proper Cimbri chieftain.
All through the day, the Romans had been seeking the deserter who assisted Swan. Apparently, her note had been detailed. Why should he be surprised? Swan’s actions had also managed to postpone the wedding for another day. There would still be a feast this night, but Odilia and Pompey wanted to round up a new set of prisoners for wedding day executions, it seemed. To what gods would these people be sacrificed?
He grimaced and stepped away from the mirror. He thought of his beloved sea and the vessel that carried him to freedom. The people of this land who also believed in freedom needed him to continue his ruse as Chieftain Etainen. That was the thought that helped him to step from his chambers, pull on the door handle twice to make certain it was fully closed, and put one foot in front of the other until he reached the dining hall. He had already marked every exit of the palace, lest any discover more than he would like. Perhaps he should use one of those exits before he was saddled with Freya for the rest of his life.
The thought was tempting. But was it as tempting as having her lips on his, ass grinding against his cock?
****
“You’re going to be late,” Kirsa said as she pulled the brush through Freya’s hair.
“Look at her hair,” Hedwig said. “Etainen can wait until her hair isn’t sticking out like tentacles.” The Sea Witch was actually helping Freya with her hair. Granted, she was cursing the entire time, but it was more than Freya had expected.
Kirsa rolled her eyes and continued brushing. “It would have been done already if someone didn’t insist on it being brushed five hundred times.” She shook her own red hair out of her eyes. “Hedwig, you’ve said everything I’ve done to style her hair hasn’t looked right.”
“Because it hasn’t,” Hedwig said. “I’m not taking the blame if she looks like she just weathered a hurricane on her wedding night.”
“Then why don’t you do her hair?” Kirsa brandished the brush, as a warrior might wield an axe.
“That’s your job. You’ve been a lady’s maid for a long time. So, lady’s maid away.” Hedwig waved a hand at Kirsa.
Freya hardly cared. Siegfried had not shown up. Last night, despite the mercy Etainen had shown her when he thought she was a peasant of Folkvang, his actions had proven he was still as willing to obey Rome as Odilia was. Why was she so disappointed?
A body flew through the window, slamming Freya and Hedwig to the stone floor. A knife followed him, smashing the mirror, scattering shards across the wooden dresser among the wilted petals.
“Again? Really?” Freya pulled herself from beneath the man. Balder. How had he gotten this high? And… She sat up. “Why am I a target?”
“Are you well?” Balder helped her to her feet, blue gaze searching her for wounds. After perusing her, he assessed the wellbeing of his golden lyre, tucked tightly under his arm.
“As well as I can be when I can’t even get my hair done without having someone throw a blade at my head. Maybe they agreed with Hedwig.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Kirsa whirled on Freya. “You don’t jest when knives are being thrown at you.”
“Freya does. All the time,” Balder said. “It lightens the situation. I can appreciate that. Circumstances don’t change whether your heart is heavy or light.”
These fey knew far too much about her.
“Who are you, anyway?” Kirsa demanded, unable to hide the appreciative glance that made Balder blush. “How do you know Freya? Are you her lover?”
A hooded shape like those she’d seen hurling knives at her in the garden soundlessly flew through the smashed window, quickly followed by another. They landed lightly atop the bed, then grunted. Freya would have to ensure someone felled the pines outside her window.
“What’s in this mattress?” one man muttered. “The princess sleeps on rocks?”
If the situation hadn’t been dire, Freya might have laughed at a couple of assassins taken down by boxes of sex toys.
“Get out of here, all of you,” Balder yelled. He pushed Freya toward Hedwig. “I’ll handle these Druids. Somehow.” He moved the lyre before him, beginning to coax a melody from the shining strings.
Freya frowned. He was seriously going to sing? She didn’t know whether to laugh or flee. Her brain was torn between awaiting the reactions of the assassins to Balder’s “handling” of the situation or running to avoid possibly getting stabbed.
Hedwig yanked Freya against her. “You heard the man. Let’s get our asses out of here.”
Freya was nearly too surprised to move. Another knife flew from one of the man’s hands, embedding deep into Kirsa’s back.
Kirsa staggered a few steps, her eyes confused. Realization followed, then pain before she fell. Freya tried to run to Kirsa, but Hedwig dragged her toward the door.
“She’s dead, Freya. Unless you have your mother’s reanimation powers, there’s not much you’re going to do.”
“But Kirsa—” She couldn’t speak further because Hedwig poured potion down her throat as they ran. Delirious. Really? Was now the time?
“Was a bitch,” Hedwig finished, not even the slightest tinge of remorse. “Just drink the damned Delirious so you don’t think, and do as I say.”
Freya let Hedwig steer her along the corridors, still unable t
o shake the image of Kirsa’s shocked expression, the trickle of blood that had begun in the corner of her pink lips…
“Soldiers,” Hedwig shouted as they ran. “Come help us. We’re being attacked by men with knives.”
Unfortunately, those behind them were quicker, even with the hoods that covered their eyes. How could they do that? Not being able to see? The robes were long. Freya knew from experience that robes were difficult to run in. So were gowns. Hedwig must have read her mind and somehow used magic, because Freya’s gauzy purple toga was immediately shortened to the knees.
“Your mother is going to argue with me if you die,” Hedwig said. “You work on getting away. At least you figured out how to shorten your dress, but, uh, I’m going to stay here. Use your swan form. Fly.” She shoved Freya in the direction they were already running. “And do that Blood Call thing if it gets too rough. Man up, woman.”
“But my tri—” Then Freya was alone. Swan form. Swan form. She tried to focus, closing her eyes to assist and ran smack into a wall. She rubbed her bruised forehead and turned. Focus—but with eyes open. You’re obviously not as accomplished as the Druids at running around blind.
Her heart raced, but she could feel the beginning of feathers on her arms. Her arms were wings for a moment, but they flickered back to human arms. This is so not working. She tried not to think how goofy she looked when her arms became wings again. This allowed her to take a few huge leaps toward the staircase. At least that was an improvement. But why couldn’t she get the damned wings to grow from her back again?
“Freya,” Berengar cried, running up the stairs toward her, his sword drawn. “You have…wings?”
“Sort of.” Her arms were still flickering back and forth as the distance closed between them. She skidded to a halt in front of Berengar. Hopefully her arm-wing problem would not prevent him from assisting her. “Hedwig needs help. Druid assassins. Kirsa’s dead. No time to explain.” That thought sent pain lancing through her skull. Maybe if she tried to think positively. But what was so positive about sharp objects flying at one’s back?
Siren Slave Page 10
