Barbarian Gladiator (Princesses of the Ironbound Book 4)

by Aaron Crash

  “Cunt,” Gatha finished. “I was called war’s wet cunt when I fought. I’m not ashamed.”

  Ymir laughed at the she-orc’s fierceness. She was a worthy mate all right.

  Valarenza’s eyes sparkled as he took in the savage beauty of the Gruul woman.

  Gatha stepped forward, took Ymir’s shirt in her fist, and kissed him. Hard. It was to show the newcomer that she was spoken for so there would be no misunderstandings. By the Axman, Ymir would pity anyone who went for Gatha if she didn’t want them to.

  Della motioned to the rack. “I had Brodor fashion us some prokta blades. They look like wood, but I assure you, when you pick one up, you will feel the difference. Use a Form cantrip to trigger the magic.” She lifted a prokta sword and said, “Lutum lutarum.” Immediately, the wood changed into what looked like metal surrounded by a black mist. It was as if she held a blade made of black smoke. “The prokta swords will have the weight of steel, and they will pierce armor in the same way, but when they hit flesh? They will do damage, not to your skin, but to your dusza. A killing blow will drop you. I figured we’d start today with a tournament of our own. Sturm and Gatha will fight. Ymir and Gharam will fight. The winners will fight. Then they will fight me.”

  “Is that how the Kurzig Durgha will work?” Ymir asked.

  “The death tournament is far more complicated than that,” Gharam growled. “Didn’t you listen to a word I said on Saturday night?”

  “You were far too drunk to make much sense.”

  Della hushed them. Then she went through the sacred litany of the pits in a harsh Gruul dialect. She ended with, “Our lives are short, but the war is forever! Fight and die!”

  Gharam, Gatha, and Valarenza knew to echo her. “Fight and die!” Their shouts echoed across the field.

  It was interesting it wasn’t fight or die. Ymir would have to study up on the sacred litany.

  Gatha and Valarenza faced off first, holding their spectral swords. When each grabbed the strange weapons, they murmured, “Lutum lutarum,” and wood turned into metal covered in smoky magic.

  Gatha cast magic to add fire to her armor, while Sturm used Moons to make lightning spark off his cuirass. It looked similar to the electricity on the Coruscation Shelves. You had to wait to strike when his armor wasn’t sparking. When they cast their magic, their Focus rings glowed, and the spells swept up their left arms.

  Gatha smiled grimly. She liked the game.

  The pair fought, striking, and dancing on the field, almost lost in the thick fog covering the grass.

  Gharam stood with his arms crossed. “Look there, how she doesn’t commit her weight but is always feinting. Only when he commits does she move.” The Gruul professor nodded. “She is the best of the best.”

  Valarenza’s sword came within inches of Gatha’s fiery armor, but she was already getting behind him. She would’ve struck, but the electricity arced up his back. He spun and caught her blade, flinging out a hand and shouting, “Caelum prolium!” Lightning crackled through the air.

  Gatha snarled, “Ignis inanis!” and dispelled the Moons attack.

  She had Moons magic of her own. Casting a spell, not shouting but murmuring, her Focus ring blazed with a fiery light that swept down to her legs, speeding up her movements. She moved so fast her fire armor nearly went out. With a flourish, she cut into the mercenary’s legs, and brought her sword sweeping around into his neck. If this had been a real fight, she would’ve beheaded the man.

  As it was, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell. Gatha was fast enough to catch him. She laid him onto the grass. She then stood, raised her sword and her arm, and dropped the sword, shouting in Gruul, “Izag kruda ignakash utzuge!”

  Saying those words brought tears to her face.

  “What do those words mean?” Ymir asked.

  Della went to speak but then gestured to Gharam. The orc’s voice was gruff. “It means ‘I have won this fight, but death will be victorious in the end.’ For all of us. It is special for the Kurzig Durgha. You better get used to saying it.”

  Ymir didn’t like the sentiment. It seemed to cheapen the fight.

  Della moved forward, bent, and murmured, “Jelu cura.” It was Flow magic, a healing spell, a derivation of devocho magic, the fifth magic of the Categoria Magica.

  Valarenza opened his eyes and climbed to his feet. “And so, I have been laid low by the princess of the pits. I saw the attack. I just wasn’t fast enough to defend it.”

  “Because of Moons speed,” Gatha grumbled.

  The mercenary shrugged. “No, even before that. I knew you were casting the spell, and you telegraphed the attack, but I wasn’t quick enough to stop you.”

  “Because I am war’s wet cunt.” Gatha nodded at Ymir and Gharam. “Now it’s you two. And, Gharam, when Ymir beats you, you can’t pout.”

  The professor boomed thunderous laughter. “You have too much faith in your ptoorig, Gatha of Ssunash. He bested me in the Sunfire Tower that blasted night, and I’ve waited to give him a beating again.”

  “Ptoorig.” Ymir recognized the word. “Yes, indeed. The man of the ptoor. I am that, if I’m nothing else.”

  “And Gatha is your ptari.” Gharam grabbed his prokta blade, as did Ymir. “You’d best study up on your Gruul. It is a lovely language.”

  Ymir wasn’t about to argue. He held the prokta and felt the magic connect to his dusza. Chill fingers raced up his spine. He then concentrated on his Focus ring and spoke the Form cantrip, “Lutum lutarum.” The weapon went from wood to well-crafted steel, the same weight, the same feel as a normal sword.

  Della shouted the sacred litany. “Our lives are short, but the war is forever! Fight and die!”

  Both Ymir and Gharam shouted the three final words. “Fight and die!”

  “Jelu armatus!” Ymir’s ring froze to his finger as white mist raced up his left arm to cover him in ice armor, each plate moving in perfect unison, though he liked Valarenza’s lightning armor a bit better. Maybe he’d practice that spell.

  Gharam went with Sunfire, and Ymir felt the heat hit him in a wave. The Gruul professor hurled a fistful of fire, howling, “Ignis ignarum!” Then Gharam rushed him, the curved sword sweeping down to cut him in two. Ymir deflected the attack, then threw ice spikes, which Gharam caught on a swirling shield of flame.

  The orc waded forward, and Ymir danced back, letting the big orc stay on the offensive because Gharam clearly wanted to win. They exchanged blows and some spells, but Ymir kept himself alive and well.

  Gharam stopped, winded, and grinned at Ymir through his fire armor. “You trying to tire me out? I see what you’re doing. Perhaps it’s time you attacked.”

  Ymir wished he could put on the Winter Flame Ring or the Yellow Scorch Ring, and he could do all sorts of things to the Sunfire professor. Yet there was a good chance Della would recognize them. He didn’t want to expose himself like that just yet.

  Ymir flung ice and followed it up with a charge. He cast a spell to fill his left hand with an ice dagger, figuring he could stab Gharam and hit him with the prokta blade. Gharam saw the knife, and he brought up a wall of flame.

  Ymir barreled through the wall, his armor dripping off him as it melted. He ducked one blow and parried another, but Gharam was fast and cagey. The big orc stabbed him in the shoulder, but Ymir didn’t feel the steel cut his flesh. No, he felt the attack in his dusza, and then pain reverberated out to his shoulder. He dropped the ice blade. His left arm was useless, and he was slowed.

  The prokta blade certainly was powerful magic. Ymir went all in, bringing himself into striking distance. Gharam reached for him. Ymir fell back and brought his sword down on the orc’s arm. With a real sword, he would have chopped it off at the elbow. In this case, Gharam simply couldn’t use his left arm.

  Now they were both wounded. Their blades rang like bells, striking and sparking, and Ymir lunged forward, only slightly faster than the orc. The heat of the fire armor struck his face, but he gritted his teeth
to withstand the pain. If not for his half-melted ice armor, he would’ve been burned badly. Even so, Ymir stabbed the sword upward, angling it so he could get the tip through the orc’s armor and into Gharam’s heart.

  The orc’s eyelids fluttered, and he fell onto his face. The fire faded away.

  Ymir wiped water over his smoldering hair and soothed his face with a handful of ice. Then he rubbed at his wounded shoulder. “Fucking magic. I’m assuming you’ll fix me, Della, so I can fight Gatha.”

  The Princept scowled at him. “It’s Princept, clansman. And, yes, I’ll heal you. But first, let’s bring Gharam back.” She knelt and healed him.

  The Gruul professor woke up yelling. “Fucking barbarian asshole! That’s twice now! It was a good blow. I expected a slash, not a thrust. Damn you and your Axman, barbarian!” Gharam rose and was soon laughing. “You’re a fine warrior. The Black Wolf Clan did well with you.”

  Ymir nodded. His people were strong, powerful, fast. Yet Ymir had known defeat before. The hunt for the night bear had been disastrous indeed. He winced when Della healed him, not from the magic, but the memories.

  Gatha put her prokta blade on the rack. “I forfeit. If this were the Kurzig Durgha, I would be executed. But it’s not the tournament of death.”

  Gharam tsked her. “Come now, Gatha. I know Ymir is your ptoorig, but if I can be humble enough to take a beating, you can too.”

  Ymir saw the doubt and pain in the she-orc’s eyes.

  Della saw it too. “No, Gatha, I understand.”

  Ymir did as well. For Gatha, each defeat broke something in her. She truly was the finest warrior Ymir had ever fought. She was so strong, but she was brittle. For her to defeat Ymir? She might lose respect for him. Even a single victory. The opposite hurt her as well. Better not to fight her ptoorig at all than to risk such torture.

  Ymir turned and grinned at the Princept. “This is our first time, Honored Princept. I would imagine you are very nervous.”

  Della didn’t hide her annoyance. “I hope your woman doesn’t mind if I defeat you, Ymir, son of Ymok. I’ve wanted to beat your ass since you first walked into my school.”

  Ymir grinned. “I’ve thought of your ass as well, Honored Princept.”

  Ymir eyed the older woman, her white hair, the stormy gray eyes, and her muscled arms. She would be fast, she’d be sneaky. She’d trained not to fight in arenas or battlefields but in back alleys, where the only honor that mattered was another day alive. She wasn’t a warrior but an assassin—he’d caught a glimpse of her past through his various visions.

  Take a master assassin, give them centuries of studying magic, and you had a diabolical force of savage destruction.

  It was Gatha that called the match, raising her voice across the Sunfire Field. The mist swirled around them, the sun fighting to reach the dew-heavy grass.

  “Fight and die!” the orc shouted.

  “Fight and die!” was the answer.

  Ymir and the Princept faced off against each other, circling around and around. Ymir wasn’t at full strength, but he’d resummoned his ice armor.

  “Afraid to strike at me first?” she asked. “You have the reach. You are fast, even encumbered with your armor, which, I’m afraid, isn’t going to protect you as much as you think.”

  Ymir grinned at the woman, still pretty after her many centuries. Or was she pretty because of them? She had the confidence of experience, and that was always attractive.

  She struck like a viper, and he was sent back, deflecting the blade away from him by sheer luck alone. She lunged, he parried, and when he thought that she’d opened herself up to an attack, she was there to defend that opening. And always, she slashed back at him with a faster counter maneuver. That was the wizarding riposte—Ymir had learned it earlier that year.

  She liked the attack. Finding your enemy’s preferences was just one more tool you could use against them. Ymir wouldn’t be able to strike her very well if he didn’t adjust his own strategy.

  She attacked again with that deadly speed.

  He managed to stop her blade. The Black Ice Ring on his finger turned cold as Ymir shouted, “Jelu inanis,” dispelling both the Moons cantrip that was giving her the magical quickness as well as his own ice armor. Frozen chunks fell to the field.

  “Caelum caelarum.” Della flew off the ground and soared above him. Ymir threw ice spikes at her, and she smacked them away with her blade. Flipping over, she came down behind him, and he spun just in time to catch her blade.

  Ymir cast Moons magic of his own, increasing his speed. She flew over him again, and he slashed at her belly, but she hammered the blow away, coming down and throwing lightning. Ymir fell backward onto his ass, barely avoiding the crackling blue arcs. He was on the ground, and if he didn’t get back up, he’d lose.

  He didn’t want the Princept to be able to hold that over him. She was on the ground at least.

  Ymir slammed his palm onto the grass. “Jelu jelarum!” There was enough moisture for him to freeze the grass and Della along with it. She was stuck just long enough for him to get to his feet.

  Fire armor burst around her. Ymir froze the air in front of him, trying to wall her off, but she dashed through it.

  She called out, “Lutum lutarum,” and opened a pit under Ymir—that was Form magic, manipulating the earth itself. He leapt backward instead of falling in, but it was a close thing.

  Della had mastered all four schools of the Studiae Magica, while maintaining her perfect fencing skills. She was a woman to be feared and respected.

  Ymir wasn’t going to beat her in a straight-up fight. Gatha wouldn’t be able to beat her either. There was a good chance Della Pennez would be the best warrior taking the field for the Kurzig Durgha. If anyone would be slaying Gulnash the Betrayer, it very well might be the Honored Princept.

  Ymir did have an idea, which would be stretching the rules of the engagement. He took a couple of steps back and then leapt over the pit and landed on solid ground. He didn’t pause because it was clear that she hadn’t thought he’d make the jump. Good thing he did. If he’d wound up in the bottom on his back, she could’ve flown down and impaled him on her spectral sword.

  Ymir dove forward, knowing she’d end the fight by ramming her sword into his heart. Stabbing with the curved sword wasn’t ideal—they were meant to slash—but with the right technique, the points were certainly sharp enough. He’d proven that in his fight against Gharam.

  All Ymir had to do was move her blade a few inches to keep her from piercing his vitals. Their swords sparked off one another as she slid her shadow sword into Ymir’s chest.

  It felt like a real sword slipped between his ribs. For an instant between fluttering heartbeats, Ymir thought he heard the Wolf laughing at him.

  But now he was closer to her than she’d ever intended. The pain was exquisite. It brought everything into sharp focus. Her dilating pupils, the fear on her face, the pain, her smell from the exertion, the sweat and salt on her temple and jaw. The wrinkles around her eyes, the lines on her mouth, that mouth...

  He felt his cock harden. He felt the need to kiss her. But he was already in motion. He wrapped his left arm around her sword arm and lifted, making her elbow crack, then he punched the hilt of the sword into her delicate face. She didn’t bleed, and there would be no bruise, because the magic in prokta swords extended to the hilt itself. Her dusza, however, had taken a pummeling.

  Della stumbled back without a visible weapon. However, he couldn’t forget that she had a vast array of spells to use against him. She went to speak, to cast a high-powered Moons spell, but Ymir slashed at her face, making her trip backward and spoiling the spell.

  He was weakening, though, because her sword thrust had been a mortal wound. His body might not know it, but his dusza did. She lashed out with gouts of flame and kicked missiles of stone at him, ripping divots out of the field, which he dodged, deflected, or wove through. His heartbeat was slowing, hollow in his ears, while his body moved
faster than ever before, as if he were in a trance. She sent sheets of lightning his way, and Ymir caught the magic with his sword, slinging it out to the side like blood from a real blade and ramming his shoulder into the Princept. For the first time in the fight, Della was knocked off-balance. He had one chance. He leapt on her, knocking her down and driving his sword into her belly.

  Even as she pressed an ice dagger to his throat. She’d summoned it during the fight. It was more than sharp enough to pierce his windpipe. He’d die gurgling in his own blood.

  She smiled up at him, despite the pain she’d be feeling. She had a fucking sword in her guts, and yet she could shrug off that pain to gaze into his eyes. Again, Ymir felt his cock stiffen. This woman, even trying to kill him, was sexy beyond belief.

  She must’ve felt his hard sex pressing against her. “Some men would fuck even on the eve of their own death.”

  “As would some women,” Ymir said thickly.

  She relaxed, closed her eyes, and lost consciousness.

  Ymir collapsed onto the grass next to her. Parts of the field were frozen, others scorched, and there was the pit that Della had summoned in the middle. They’d certainly left their mark.

  Ymir rolled onto his back, the wound in his chest throbbing. He too shut his eyes.

  Gharam was cursing. Valarenza was laughing, caught up in the spectacle of the battle.

  It was Gatha who growled, “By the bloody roots of the Tree of Life, that man, he refuses to lose and doesn’t mind dying to win.”

  Ymir knew that was the truth of it. Yes, he’d managed to defeat Della, but in a real fight, he would’ve died as well. Would he sacrifice himself to save a land he hardly cared for? No, but he would lay down his life for his family, for Gatha, his beloved ptari, his wife.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THAT FRIDAY, CHARIBDA Delphino watched as Tori hefted a big table up the stairs. She was going to be moving into one of the rooms off the kitchen, one that was smaller than the main room, which, much to Charibda’s annoyance and discomfort, was going to be used by the barbarian.