Barbarian Assassin (Princesses of the Ironbound Book 2)

by Aaron Crash

  Table of Contents

  Summary

  Black Forge Books Mailing List

  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

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

  Patreon

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Books by Black Forge

  Books by Shadow Alley Press

  GameLit, Harem, and Cultivation on Facebook

  LitRPG on Facebook

  Even More LitRPG on Facebook

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Summary

  There’s something new, dark, and sweet at Old Ironbound

  YMIR MADE A VOW TO master magic and to take care of his women. To do that, he'll stay at the Majestrial Collegium Universitas, but he'll stay on his own terms. He has a new business idea that will make life at the college sweeter and keep all the scholars randy. Ymir’s new business scheme requires a kitchen girl: the flirty dwarf named Toriah Welldeep, whose cheerful smile hides a broken heart.

  It's not all work, though, and he finds love, laughter, and passion with Jennybelle Josen and Lillee Nehenna, though the elf maiden is struggling to come to terms with the short lifespan of her new family, and something is giving Jenny nightmares.

  Could it be one of the new professors working at Old Ironbound? The incoming teachers are not what they seem. Is the Midnight Guild coming to finish what they started?

  Barbarians don’t wait for assassins to murder them in their beds. Barbarians murder first.

  Disclaimer: Barbarian Assassin is a steamy slice-of-life harem adventure in a magic university on another world. The story burns slow and hot, as hot as the depraved women in Ymir’s life. The sex scenes are explicit. You’ve been warned. Enter a brand-new world from Aaron Crash, the bestselling author of the American Dragon series.

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  Chapter One

  YMIR, SON OF YMOK, formerly of the Black Wolf Clan, growled at the rain coming down in sheets on the Sea Stair Market. The Weeping Sea was a froth of waves and rage. It matched his own ill temper.

  By the Ax, this place has rains and cold. He’d have to soak his bones in Jennybelle Josen’s hot shower. Of course she had hot water. She was rich, well-connected, a swamp princess who grew up dodging watertooth terrors and the poison of assassins. So far, her supposed friend and treacherous minder, Nellybelle Tucker, didn’t have any firm proof that Jenny had betrayed her people. Ymir and the Josentown princess had kept their relationship secret for weeks now, ever since that fateful night they’d had sex before crafting the Black Ice Ring.

  However, Nelly would learn the truth eventually. Then everything would change.

  Foul weather brought foul thoughts. It was the afternoon before Solstice Day, and Old Ironbound was empty of most people. Many had gone home for the holidays, especially those who lived relatively close, in the Sorrow Coast Kingdom or the Farmington Collective.

  Ymir had spent the day cleaning for Gurla, the Janistra Dux. The ill-tempered she-orc had him washing the outside windows of the Librarium Citadel. Dangling on ropes, clinging to ledges, he felt like a spider under the watchful eye of a hungry bird.

  By the Axman’s beard, the Solstice break seemed interminable—far longer than six weeks. He wasn’t at the damn school to clean. He was there to perfect his power, learn control, and study up on the lives of these southerners. He had other reasons for staying as well—two of them: Jenny and Lillee.

  Now, his belongings in hand and rain dripping from his storm cloak, he hurried up the Sea Stair. Most of the places were closed because of the holiday. However, lights, bright in the gray day, twinkled in a new shop on his right. Inside, he could find some respite from the torrential water. He stomped through puddles and stopped for a second at the door, water streaming off the hood of his cloak. Etched in the glass on the door was the name of this new place in Pidgin: The Paradise Tree – Fine Xocalati and Quality Confections.

  It was obviously a sweet shop, selling candy.

  He pushed through the door. A bell tinkled merrily. Inside, Sunfire candles flickered. A real fire burned in a happy little stove built into the wall. Around it were shelves. Ribboned packages, each containing a pastry or intricate sculpture, sat on the polished wood in a vast array of colors. The right side of the shop had rock shelves holding more candy figures fashioned from a dark, waxy-looking substance.

  Rainwater dripped from his cloak as he drew the hood back to reveal his long dark-blond hair, tied back in a queue down his back. He sniffed, and delicious smells made his stomach growl. The wooden floorboards creaked under his boots as he stepped over to the stone shelves. He put out a hand and felt the supernatural cold. It made him queasy. Fucking magic.

  He squinted. What was this xocalati? And why did they need to keep it cold? While the prices of the candies were low—a few coppers could get you an orange droplet—the xocalati was priced in gold and platinum.

  Ymir couldn’t imagine what kind of delicacy you could charge platinum for.

  The counter was a stone slab with more shelves carefully cut into the front, full of the xocalati figures—a unicorn, a rabbit, and a happy little cherub. A cash box sat on the left corner. On the right sat a bronze pedestal with a bronze pole running down the center. A little colorful carpet circled the pole, holding a little office complete with a desk and a cushioned chair behind it. Tiny pieces of paper, a minute pen, and a little inkwell sat on the desktop.

  The pedestal was strange. Behind the counter, things were stranger. A gauzy curtain separated the front from the back. Behind the gossamer fabric, someone rocked in a chair, silhouetted by more of the magical Sunfire candles. The figure’s hands moved, assembling another candy sculpture, tying a ribbon around it, and then setting it on a nearby table.

  Ymir felt icy fingers flicker up his spine, and his hand immediately went to the Black Ice Ring he kept in its own pouch on his belt.

  Would his feet float off the ground? That still happened, as did the visions he couldn’t control, showing him things he couldn’t comprehend.

  Ymir growled, “Jelu inanis.” Most of the time, that shook away the magic. It was a simple Flow negation spell, enough to stop the sorcery from taking over.

  Something giggled in a corner, then fluttered by him and giggled some more. He didn’t have his hatchet, nor his battle ax, but he had taken to carrying a dagger at his side. The knife was eight inches of silver-colored ste
el—a gift from Jenny along with the waterproof cloak. He’d accepted the gifts, had kissed her, but he didn’t like them. They felt like charity.

  He had his own bag of shecks from his river deck winnings, but it was shrinking. Word had gotten out in StormCry, the village below Vempor’s Cape, that only a fool gambled with the clansman from the university. He needed a new way to make money. If he could pay the tuition, he wouldn’t need to do the work study, and he’d be free of Gurla and her prickly ways.

  The room went silent except for the someone rocking in her chair, humming to herself. It was a her, and she sounded old.

  He lifted his voice, “Greetings to the shopkeeper! You have a potential customer. I want to know what xocalati might be.”

  The figure stopped rocking. “Ziziva?” the crone called out.

  More giggles. Something yanked on his hair. He reached for it only to get his ear tweaked. In a flash of whirring wings, a slender body flew away from him. She was about twelve inches tall, with a gossamer-thin gown that caught every bit of light in the room and glowed in a rainbow of radiance.

  With her curves, it was a definite lady thing. She landed on the counter, her bare feet on the stone. She let out a little gasp, then leapt up onto the pedestal, swinging around the central bronze pole.

  “Oh, he’s a big one, Nan, the big bully of a barbarian, a clansman from the north, Ymir, son of my thumb.” She held out her little hand and popped up her thumb. This tiny woman was silly, only she wasn’t a woman. She was a fairy. Her dress continued to glimmer, like dew on grass in a dream. Her little ears, slightly pointed, stuck out of short hair the color of spun gold. She had bright blue eyes, full of sneak and thievery. An upturned nose and wide, full lips made her look like she’d kiss you, laugh like she’d love you forever, and then cut your throat.

  She continued to spin around the pole. “I’m talking with the customer, Nan, so you can make the candy, candy, candy.”

  Ymir had seen other fairies at Old Ironbound. However, this was the first time he’d ever talked with one. There were no fairies in his classes.

  He grinned. The day had turned interesting. “So, your name is Ziziva.”

  She stopped, shrugged, and grinned dreamily. “And you’re Ymir. You play the river deck well. You’re smart. And dangerous. And you have the magic.” She giggled. “As much as you big things can have the magic. You don’t know. You pretend. We of the Fayee know.” She flung herself off the pedestal, flew low, and cried out in a squeak of a voice, “Jelu inanis!” The rainwater he’d traipsed in vanished from the floor.

  She flickered through the air and stopped to float in front of him. “You had a question. Open your palm. Let me land and stand on your big, big hand. And I will answer your question.”

  Ymir sincerely didn’t know if he wanted this strange womanly thing to touch him. Out of all the races of the south, the fairies were by far the most dangerous—not physically, but they could cast spells that drove a person insane.

  Yet, however strange, the fairy was beautiful. His eyes went to the line of her cleavage in her gown. For being only an inch of tit, the sight certainly was alluring.

  She saw it. “Oh, Ymir wants to look at me, little Ziziva.” She drew a hand down her dress and touched her tiny breast. She popped a single pink-nippled breast out of her gown.

  If only he was far smaller, he’d have so much fun with her chest.

  She giggled again. “The heat in your eyes. The rise of your uht. But you and I could never, ever be together. Could be together never.” Buzzing this way and that, she then spun around three times and put her hands together as if to plead with him. “Silly Ymir, let me land calmly on your sweaty palm, on you, and we can chat about the candy and the cookies and your cock.”

  He opened his palm, a wry smile on his face. He was being foolish, but he liked this little thing and her brazen ways. He sent a prayer to the Shieldmaiden, who might have mercy on him, though the Axman never would. It was said the Shieldmaiden found mercy for horny men. How else could any clansman find heaven?

  The fairy landed on his open palm.

  Her pleasant perfume touched his nose. She barely weighed a thing, and yet, he could feel her tiny feet on his skin. She walked over, pulled up his thumb, and leaned casually against it. “And so, you have questions about our xocalati? It is a sweet, made from cream and a new kind of sweet called sugar, which is sweeter than your bad ol’ beet sprinkles, and a bean from far to the south, where the Wingkin ride the clouds over jungles and mountains and monsters and dragons.” She giggled again. “Oh, no, silly Ymir, there are no dragons anymore. Bless my wings and bless your heart. Would you like to try a little xocalati?”

  Ymir glanced at the woman rocking on the other side of the curtain. “Hey, Nan, is your candy safe? It won’t kill me, will it? I am not sure I trust your shopgirl.”

  The crone laughed. “No, child, no. It will make you return, however. You will tell all your friends because it is delicious. You shouldn’t trust Ziziva. She’s a Fayee salesgirl!”

  The fairy fluttered up, kissed his cheek, and then spun around, flying back to the counter. She floated over the rock, then happily called out, “Caelum caelarum!” A wooden tray drifted up from behind the counter. On it was a tree of xocalati and a small knife, a veritable sword for the fairy girl.

  She took it in both hands, arms straining, and then hacked off a limb of the tree. It would be an entire meal for her. It would only be a little mouthful for Ymir.

  She set the two-handed sword on her shoulder. “Okay, silly barbarian, you take that and put it in your mouth, on your tongue, and let it melt. It’s sweet. I’d be sweeter if a little tangier, and maybe someday you’ll lick me from my dirt box to the tippy clitty of my honeypot. You are a handsome one. The stories didn’t lie.”

  The fairy was a saucy one. For her to be so vulgar after just meeting him meant she might be playing games. He approached the counter cautiously. “I could lick you now.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You’re much too big! Silly! And I’m much too small. Eat the xocalati! But slow, slow to enjoy, enjoy.”

  He stood at the counter. “So fairies aren’t related to elves, are they?”

  She stuck out her tongue. “Ew. The Fayee are the Fayee, and the Ohlyrra are the Ohlyrra, and no, but you see us all as Fallen Fruit people. But who planted the trees? And who profited?” A glint of greed filled the fairy’s blue eyes. For a second, he wondered if her entire persona wasn’t a performance. Was she acting like how he thought a fairy should act?

  “I imagine there are books in the Librarium on the Fayee,” he said.

  “There are,” she replied. “And maybe some are right, but most are wronger. But you tarry, terribly, Ymir, and your poor tummy hasn’t found a yummy like this. Your tongue will thank me.”

  Ymir took the little candy tree branch. He set it on his tongue. Immediately, the richness made him salivate. At first, he thought it was only sweet, just another piece of candy, and then he tasted the bitterness. Creamy, sweet, and bitter, and before he knew it, the xocalati had melted away.

  He immediately wanted more. “I see the appeal. I don’t understand why you just now opened your shop before Solstice Day. Why not wait until after the scholars return?”

  “So much curious and in such a comely package. Here I thought we’d only be talking about your uht.” Ziziva laughed. “Nan had to rent the space quick, and I needed a job quick, and yes, she should’ve come earlier, or come later, but now she has her shop. And you’ll buy several pounds worth of xocalati. She’ll make her rent easily. You can eat our sculptures, or you can eat our squares, you can even drink the xocalati hot. Or in kaif, and yes, we’ll be fine. Happy Solstice to you! We long for the light.”

  “We long for the light,” he agreed. “On the Ax Tundra, there is only darkness now, and the sun might shine for an hour, if we are lucky, and it will be gone forever if we’re not.”

  “A dry place is your tundra,” the fairy said softly. “We of
the Fayee live among the rivers and lakes of Thera here and there, mostly here, but a few journeyed there, to Reytah to the south, and that is where we first found the xocalati. At long last the Wingkin are ready to share their wonders with the world.”

  Ymir barely heard her. He was thinking of his clan, and while they knew about Solstice Day, it wasn’t anything to celebrate. They didn’t have light. They endured and waited for the true holiday, the Long Light, in the summer, where the darkness barely kissed their lands. In the warmth of those interminable days there was water, and marshes, and life.

  “A hard, cold life to the hard, cold north.” Ziziva went around her pedestal pole again. She laughed. “But you do well with the contracts. It’s how you know Pidgin so well. Because of those Summertown merchants and the pelts they bought, the pelts, the elk leather, and the salt. That good clan salt. Yes, yes, very fine, and thank you very much.”

  The little fairy caught herself being too serious. “Would you like to see my ass? It’s small but shapely. I bet you would love a peek. But you have to ask me nicely.”

  Nan, from the back room, was suspiciously silent. She rocked, she wove ribbons around her candies, and she hummed and murmured every now and again.

  Ymir thought maybe Nan and this fairy were selling more than just sweets. The fairy couldn’t be so flirty and bold with all her customers, could she?

  Ymir dug into the pocket of his robes. He came out with a leather bag, bulging with his shecks. He took out a gold coin, trying hard to justify the expense. “Maybe another time, little one.”

  That Ziziva harrumphed and crossed her pale arms over her little chest. “Little one? I might be small, but I’m no child. I’ve seen sixty-six summers, have I. How many have you seen?”

  “Twenty-five.” An idea struck him bitterly—he’d likely seen his last tundra summer. No more long days with the midnight sun streaming down on Lost Herot, the meeting hall of all the clans, where they would feast and drink and fight. His twenty-fifth summer he’d spent walking from Winterhome to Old Ironbound—floating in his sleep and seeing visions and trying not to go mad.