Savage

by Lila Dubois

  Anleeh ducked beneath the blade, driving his own sword forward, opening up a vicious deep wound along the inside of the man’s knee. The man’s leg folded beneath him as he roared. Spinning out of reach, Anleeh moved to the man’s back, catching the handle of the battle axe as he tried an awkward rear swing. Jerking the axe away from him, Anleeh set his blade to the man’s neck, opening a shallow cut.

  When Anleeh stepped away, the blond man rose and limped away, defeated.

  From within the Hall a second man came, this one holding a sword, the lines around his eyes marking him as an older solider, and clearly a cunning and clever one if he had survived to this age.

  Anleeh corrected his grip on the battle axe, a blade in each hand, waiting calmly in the center of the circle. His beast rolled behind his eyes but remained contained.

  They circled for several moments before the other man moved in with a swing at Anleeh’s left side, but whirled at the last moment, turning so that the sword whistled through the air at Anleeh’s right. A quick underhanded swing of the axe deflected the blow.

  Rather then pull away, Anleeh stepped close, trapping the crossed sword and axe between their bodies. Hooking his foot behind the other man’s, he yanked, placing his sword tip against his opponent’s throat when he landed hard on the ground. The sharp tip of his blade nicked the throat of the man on the ground and Anleeh stepped back.

  His breathing was coming faster, the dark madness of battle whispered through his veins, but Anleeh fought to contain it, to contain his beast. He would not fall to the madness, would not become what he had been.

  As the second man left the clearing, Anleeh looked at the Hall. Though there were no windows in the structure he knew he was being watched, knew they judged him, spoke about him, behind those massive doors.

  This time two men emerged.

  Clearly they had judged him to be a threat, but whether this pair was sent to kill him or to test his skills was undetermined.

  The men separated, coming at him from opposite sides. Anleeh took out the man on his right with a backwards kick to the groin, his upper body bending forward to duck under the stab at his heart from the second man.

  The man on his left opened a shallow slice in Anleeh’s arm, the blow landing before Anleeh had a chance to raise his sword. Jerking his attention to the man in front of him, Anleeh lashed out with his sword, the vicious fast blows driving the man back. Just as he learned the rhythm of Anleeh’s strokes and began to counter them successfully, Anleeh stabbed the sword into the ground and tossed the battle axe in the air. Turning inside the man’s sword, Anleeh knocked him back a pace, snatched the handle of the falling battle axe, and with great precision swung it in a horizontal arc, opening a cut along the man’s collar bone.

  Using the same momentum, Anleeh turned to face the first man who had risen to his feet. Whirling the axe around him, passing it hand to hand, using it as a distraction, Anleeh drove the man toward his grounded sword.

  When Anleeh was within lunging distance of his blade, he once more threw the axe skyward. His opponent’s gaze followed it, and he started to backpedal, trying to get out of the heavy axe’s landing path. Anleeh snatched up his sword, sprinting around behind the distracted solider, wrapping his arm around the other man’s neck, holding him still as the axe dug its tip into the ground only an inch from the man’s foot. Taking his time Anleeh marked this man’s neck as he had the others.

  He stepped back once more, yanking the axe from the ground.

  As he turned to face the Hall he caught sight of Siara, seated atop her horse, the hood concealing her face. As he looked at her, despite the fact that he could not see her clearly, Anleeh felt her beast brush against his. It was she, her beast, her desire for him when he was like this, savage and wild, that stripped away the last of his control.

  Turning to the Hall he lifted his arms, the sword in one fist, the axe in the other, threw back his head and roared.

  Twenty men streamed out of the Hall, forming a loose circle around him, and, with his vision gone red with battle madness, he fought.

  In ones and twos they came at him, each retreating before he could land the killing blow. It was no longer a show of strength, but a true battle, for Anleeh’s beast wanted blood. On and on he fought, the dual blades whirling in the dying light, the blows they had landed, the blood that flowed from his flesh, unnoticed and unfelt.

  When two men pulled a third out of the way, denying Anleeh the kill, he snarled in frustration. Feeling a presence at his back, Anleeh lifted his sword to shoulder height and turned, the blade moving with the force and skill to sever the man’s head.

  Anleeh’s gaze met that of the man he was about to kill, and, for the first time, his heart stuttered. With lightning fast reflexes, Anleeh checked the blow, the blade skittering to a halt, resting along the man’s shoulder.

  “Finish it, Anleeh Sedrickson. Today is a good day to die.”

  “It is a good day to die,” Anleeh panted, his beast falling quiet under the gaze of this man, “Sedrick Erickson, but Mother would never forgive me.”

  “She would not.”

  Anleeh pulled the blade back, driving the tip into the dirt, and then stretched out his hand.

  “Welcome back,” the old warrior grasped Anleeh’s wrist, “son.”

  Anleeh grinned, his heart welling with emotion. He was still panting from the battle, but the madness had retreated, his beast withdrawing when faced with an alpha.

  “Thanks to you, Father.”

  Around them the panting men, even those who held wounds Anleeh had inflicted, cheered.

  “Come into the Hall, son, your uncle has much to say to you.”

  “I have much to say to Uncle, and to you.”

  Anleeh turned, heading for the horses. “Leave that, Anleeh; we will tend to the horses.”

  “There is a prize too precious to be left, atop that horse.”

  “She is of value to you?”

  “Great value.”

  Sedrick looked to the horses, and most of the men followed suit.

  Seated atop her horse, perfectly motionless, Siara sat tall, the smooth curve of her legs and the way the cloak lay over her breasts marking her as female, but the hood keeping her identity a mystery.

  Anleeh handed the weapons to his father and pushed through the ring of soldiers, heading for Siara.

  Aware that they were being watched, Anleeh didn’t touch her, though he wanted to reach out and stroke her skin.

  “Are you ready?”

  “You—you’re bleeding.” Her voice wavered, thick with tears. Anleeh peered up into the hood and was stunned to see tears coursing down her cheeks.

  “Siara, lover, it’s okay.”

  “You’re bleeding. They, they tried to kill you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You were beautiful, the way you fight, they way you are, but there were so many of them, and they-they…”

  “Shhh. I know, but I need you to be strong. We must go inside now.”

  Her head bent and Anleeh heard her take several deep breaths.

  “I’m ready.” Siara stood in her stirrups and swung one leg over. Anleeh grasped her waist and helped her down.

  “Walk beside me, keep your chin up, don’t look at anyone.”

  “That older man, who is he?”

  “My father.”

  With Siara at his side they made their way back to Anleeh’s father. Sedrick motioned for a few men to take care of the horses and then turned his attention to Siara. He gave her a quick once over, taking in her attire, and then nodded at Anleeh. His father’s preliminary approval was a good sign.

  “Come, your uncle is anxious to see you. There is much to tell.”

  “There is.” Anleeh and Siara followed Sedrick to the doors of the Hall.

  The Hall had not changed, but it was the smell that made him realize he was home. The dusky smell of burning fir and oak, the rich scent of meat and the tang of mead seeped into his nostrils. A thousa
nd memories, each more vivid than the last, swam to the surface. For a moment he was overwhelmed, but fingertips brushed against the back of his hand, grounding him. Anleeh glanced at Siara but she stared straight ahead; perhaps he had imagined the fleeting touch.

  The Hall was a single large building, divided into smaller spaces, but the majority of the building was one great room. It was both the central meeting room of his uncle’s people and the social heart of the Clan. Dominating the center of the hall was a large round fire pit, lined with stones etched with runes and symbols. The fire was never allowed to die, even in the heat of summer, and when the witches were called in to work their magic, it was into the heat of the Hall Fire that they cast their potions. On the far side of the fire, opposite the doors, was his uncle’s throne. It was a powerful and richly decorated symbol, though it would have been laughable compared to the throne of the King and Queen in the Palace. Situated on a dais, the actual chair of the throne was not visible, for every inch had been draped with white wolf furs. The white wolf was rare, and to kill one dangerous, for it could only be done with purity of heart. The white wolf was protected by the Gods.

  The high roof of the Hall was supported by thick circular pillars, which ran in two rows down the edges of the Hall. Between the left row of pillars and the wall were aisles of tables and benches, used to feed those soldiers who had been honored with the right to eat in the Hall. On the opposite side were fur draped benches and floor mats for lounging and other, more adult, activities.

  “Anleeh Sedrickson!”

  A massive man rose from the throne, his hair either white or the pale, pale blond of his people, none knew for sure. The lines on his face marked him as an old man but his body was still fit, his shoulders unbowed.

  “Uncle.” Anleeh moved toward the throne, skirting the Hall Fire.

  Jahrl, leader of the Clan, blood of his blood, stepped down from the throne. Anleeh stopped before him, allowing himself to be inspected, but showing no sign of weakness. The soldiers Anleeh had fought filed into the Hall, intently watching the reunion between the leader and the man who had once been the most prized fighter in their Clan.

  “You have been gone a long time.”

  “I have.”

  “When you left you said you would return.”

  “I have.”

  Jahrl grunted in acknowledgement of that truth, but then added, “The witches tell me you will not stay.”

  Damn it to the North Wind. Anleeh had not wanted to start the conversation this way.

  “Much change has occurred in the Great City.” Anleeh said, non-committal.

  “Throlock is dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it a good death?”

  “Nay, he died alone in his room, throat slit by an assassin.”

  “Then he will never feast in the warrior’s hall. It is just.” There were grunts of agreement from around the Hall.

  “The King’s death, and the rise of the new King and Queen, has brought many changes. I am a part of these changes. That is why, once I have spoken with you, I will return to the Great City.”

  “The concerns of the City have never been ours. You would place them before your Clan?”

  Tread carefully. “I left to learn to fight in the ways of the Temple army, increase my skills until I would be a warrior unequalled.”

  “You fight well.” It was a massive understatement and again rude noises of agreement echoed from the audience.

  “Thank you, Uncle. When I arrived in the Great City I was chosen to be both warrior and guard, to be Zinah, one of the Queen’s chosen few.”

  “We heard rumors that a man of Den had been chosen, but then we heard this man was pretty, a lover of fashion and fine fabrics, a thinker, not a fighter. No man of Den would be such.”

  With a single sentence his Uncle reduced all that he had worked for and become to something pitiful and low. Anleeh fought the swell of embarrassment and anger. The people of Den would never understand who he’d become.

  “I thought it was beneath a chief of Den to listen to the tales of serving girls.”

  His Uncle grunted. “Your skill cannot be denied. You will teach us what you learned.”

  “Yes.” Fighting knowledge was his greatest bargaining chip.

  “And then you will leave.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what of the woman?”

  Without turning to look at her, Anleeh spoke to Siara. “Remove your cloak.”

  He knew she had obeyed when low muttering ran through the assembled men. In his mind he called up the image of her, curved pale flesh, wrapped, bound, and barely concealed by the dark furs.

  “She is mine,” he announced, powerful words, spoken in a clear strong voice.

  The air in Hall changed. Those who’d decided they wanted her either backed down or began plotting to take her from him.

  “She is Siara, a woman of great worth and importance in the Great City, a scholar and scribe. Though she is not of Den, I have called and felt her beast, and she is wild.”

  “You called her beast?” His Uncle questioned sharply, the old man’s gaze returning to Siara.

  “And her beast called mine.”

  “Yet she is not of Den.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “You are mistaken, Anleeh. If you called her beast then she is of Den, no matter where she was born.” This was truth. The beast within was a thing of Den, and none other would ever know it.

  “How much does she mean to you?” The question came from one of the hovering men. Anleeh turned to look for the speaker, but he was lost in the crowd.

  “She is mine,” he reiterated, letting venom drip into his voice.

  Out of the corner of his eye Anleeh could see her, standing tall and proud, chin up, hair spilling around her, eyes dark and mysterious. Her coloring among the fair-haired people of Den only added to her appeal.

  From the back of the crowd a young man strutted forward. He was bare-chested and his lack of scars marked him as young, and his swagger as cocky.

  The young soldier slid his hands around Siara’s bare waist, jerking her back against his body.

  Anleeh’s beast snarled to life, but before he could move, Siara spun, raking her fingers across the man’s face, and when he yelped and reeled back, she slammed her fist into his groin, snarling in satisfaction when he dropped at her feet.

  Anleeh’s beast settled, satisfied that Siara’s had handled the situation.

  “Siara,” he barked.

  With a last snarl at the withering man on the ground, Siara swept her glance over the others and then made her way to Anleeh. Though he wanted to scoop her up, cradle her face and ask if she was okay, he kept his expression stern.

  He held out one arm and, like a falcon come to her master’s call, Siara went to him, allowing Anleeh to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her to his side.

  Jahrl watched all, his clever eyes taking in every nuance. “She is indeed a prize; you will need to guard her well. Many would like to pit themselves against your skill again, and the possibility of possessing your woman only sweetens the desire for battle.”

  “The Gods blessed me with her, and I will do all I can to protect her, but I want her to move with safety among the Clan. I told you she is a scribe, a woman of great learning, and she will chronicle Den, immortalize its glory within the hallowed walls of the Temple Library.”

  “We do not need to curry favor with the Temple. Never before have we opened our doors to study.”

  “Den is a place and people of great strength; the world should know of it.”

  His uncle wavered, the traditional dismissal of the opinion of the outside world warring with pride.

  “Very well. The woman will be allowed to move among us, but none will be forced to speak with her, and she will abide by our laws.”

  “Thank you, Uncle.”

  “Are you weary from your journey?”

  “Not so weary that I could not lift a tankard.”
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  “Ha! Good to see that you remember what is important. Sedrick!”

  “Yes, brother?”

  “Your son has returned. Invite the Clan. Tonight we feast.”

  Men cheered, the Hall doors were thrown open, and though Anleeh grinned to match the expression of his Clan mates, his concentration was on the woman he held close, and the way she trembled.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  Of course she could breathe, air moved in and out of her lungs, but Siara felt that she was suffocating. She’d never been so frightened before.

  It had taken everything she was to sit calmly atop the horse and watch them try to kill him. As he’d spoken with the man he called Uncle she’d been forced to stand, naked and exposed, as the very men who’d tried to kill her lover fondled her with their eyes.

  Then hands had grabbed her, and for an instant she’d been sure it was a trap, they would kill Anleeh and rape her as she watched his life blood drain into the stones. In her fear and anger—how dare he touch her—Siara‘s beast had risen, taking control long enough to effectively deal with the intruder.

  She’d wanted to run to Anleeh, hide behind him, but she was mindful of the fact that she was in a situation she knew almost nothing about.

  In truth, Siara was terribly worried about the repercussions of her behavior. Anleeh said they liked their women submissive, and her actions had been decidedly not. Did she have a right to defend herself?

  Thoughts and worries tumbled in her mind, and try as she might, she was unable to find her calm center. The beast, which paced back and forth, restless and alert for a second attack, kept her from retreating behind the calm mask that was her shield.

  The doors of the Hall were thrown open and people poured in.

  Blonde people.

  A second survey of the room revealed that almost every head was topped with pale blond hair. The pale skin and hair was like the moonlight compared to the sun-kissed golden blond and tan people of the Great City.

  The women’s hair hung long and wild to their waists covering their…

  Siara made a little noise of shock when she saw how the other women were garbed. All wore furs, and only fur, but the garments were beautiful. From red fox and silver wolf fur, shoulders draped with fluffy mink tails and even breasts elegantly cupped by bear claws, the women looked like the forest come to life. Many had bellies exposed, but the fine tailoring of the furs they wore said it was a choice, not a necessity.