Breaking the Barbarian Ch. 05

Grinning, I hopped down from the boulder, brushing through the ranks of rebels and Kovgaardians, greeting their praise with deflections and jokes. After patting Ivor on the back, I made my way over to Miriam.

"Sorunna wasn't lying," Miriam said, smiling. "You can give a damned fine speech. No duke of Etmorra has ever rallied his people like that during my time here."

"Just words," I said with a shrug as my smile faded. "What matters is their hearts and their steel."

**

Dust rose in the wake of Grozdan's army. The gleaming sun glinted off of their armor and weapons. The vanguard consisted of a company of mounted mercenaries who kept to a much tighter formation than the rest of Grozdan's sweaty, weary host.

Behind them marched the men-at-arms and peasants who had thrown their lot in with Grozdan. Their ranks were ragged and scattered, barely able to keep formation despite the best efforts of drummers and flagbearers.

Right behind them came Grozdan's knights: well-armored upon fierce destriers, they would be our fiercest foe. If Miriam's plan to spook the horses with alchemical arrows didn't work, a savage charge by those knights could shatter our little army.

Bringing up the rear was a ragged mob of mercenaries, marching under tattered banners, and wearing a motley assortment of arms and armor. I suspected they would break at the first sign of trouble.

Our own forces were already in position on the two rocky, forested hills overlooking the road. The best of the archers had hunkered down at the summits of the hills, half-buried under leafy nets or ducking down behind boulders.

A short distance behind them, covered by the underbrush and the shade of the trees, were the ragged militia, Baron Rikard's knights, and a handful of Kovgaardian warriors. Alongside them were some of Baron Selwyn's men: warriors who had been shamed by their liege's betrayal and who had sworn to redeem the name of their barony. Hidden on the other side of the hill behind me were our only cavalry to speak of: a small but determined group of Rikard's knights and mounted militiamen. Once battle was joined, they would swing round to protect the flanks of the infantry deployed on the hills.

Without the element of surprise and Miriam's alchemical weapons, our meager force would have had no hope against Grozdan's numbers.

Miriam crouched at my side, crossbow in hand. Orgumir murmured a prayer under his breath, while Sorunna rolled her shoulders and ran her fingers along her spear's tip.

"We let the scouts pass," I murmured, glaring at the enemy vanguard.

If we sprung the trap too soon, the enemy would have a chance to rally. We'd have to wait until the perfect moment, when Grozdan's forces were bunched up and most vulnerable.

The mercenary scouts trotted past, focused more on the road ahead than potential danger lurking on the nearby hills.

I took a deep breath.

"Gods of blood and iron," I murmured. "Bless my heart and my steel. Allow my strength to claim the souls of my foes. And if I die...may I die in glory."

Other Kovgaardians muttered the same prayer. I brought a horn to my lips.

Two sharp blasts unleashed hell upon the tyrant's forces.

Several barrels rolled down the hills towards the enemy infantry. Shouts rose and trumpets bleated. Our best marksmen unleashed arrows wreathed in alchemical fire that had been crafted by the nuns. The flaming arrows hit the barrels right as they reached the road.

Both erupted in massive columns of purple smoke. The tide of alchemical smoke wafted through the massed ranks of confused infantry. Even at that distance, I could hear the chorus of coughs, cries, and retches. While the concoction would not kill a single one of them, it would render them stunned, half-blind, and convulsing.

The skilled scouts and hunters among our ranks unleashed a volley, focusing on the knights and officers. The next cloud of arrows shredded the reeling, coughing enemy archers.

Caught between two storms of withering arrows, the enemy's discipline disintegrated. The levies and mercenary infantry scattered, stumbling and sprinting through the smoke.

The next volley into the enemy cavalry contained the alchemical brew designed to spook the horses. Only a handful of arrows struck the armored knights, but scores of horses reared. Armored men tumbled from their saddles as panicking horses scattered, fooled into thinking a horde of wolves was bearing down upon them.

"Bloody brilliant," Orgumir said, grinning as we watched the carnage.

Our work was far from finished, however. Amidst the chaos unleashed by the ambush, a cluster of mercenaries and knights had rallied around the ducal banners. Grozdan was holding his ground and trying to restore a semblance of order to his battered force.

With the alchemical smoke fading, the enemy ranks would soon rally and recover.

We had to seize our moment.

I blew the horn thrice more, signaling the next bloody phase of our plan. Readying my shield and axe, I trotted down the hill, hoping that Baron Rikard's knights were ready to wheel around to protect our flank.

A throng of rebels burst from the other tree-line, flowing down the hill and around our archers. More volleys fell into the reeling enemy ranks.

A horrific, sulfurous stench assailed my nostrils; even though the alchemical smoke had faded, the scent on the wind was nearly enough to make me gag.

Howling a war cry, my adrenaline burned through the nausea inflicted by the stench, and I collided with the enemy ranks.

My shield bashed and my axe cleaved. Orgumir and Sorunna were not far from my side, their spears claiming life after life. Around us, howling rebels lunged with spears and hacked with blades.

The intensity of our wild charge broke the remaining enemy infantry within moments. Exhausted by the march, half-blinded by the alchemical smoke, shredded by arrows, and now faced with hundreds of howling rebels...

I did not blame them in the slightest for running. I'd have likely done the same had I been in their boots.

A furious haze took over my senses and limbs. Guided by the same ancient wrath that had fueled my ancestors' conquests, I hacked and reaved with my axe against those fools who stood their ground. My shield cracked under repeated blows, eventually splintering as I used it to shatter a mercenary's face.

Blood and chaos ruled the day. Arrows sliced through the air, carving into the flanks of the enemy knights. Panicking horses scattered in all directions, trampling soldiers from both sides.

I plunged further and further into the midst of the enemy, covered in blood and glory. Ancient fury guided my limbs. The gods of blood and iron took hold, turning me into a living avatar of their hunger.

The sound of trumpets broke through the wild frenzy gripping my senses. Most of the enemy turned to run. Others tossed down their weapons, falling to their knees and pleading for mercy. Some of the soldiers simply collapsed from exhaustion, too broken to even beg for their lives.

The enemy scouts that had been spared the initial ambush simply fled off to the north rather than make a valiant charge into our ranks. Rikard's cavalry, having been hidden behind the hill, lunged forth to intercept the handful of enemy knights fleeing the field.

I lowered my bloody axe.

Cheers rose from the hilltop as Ivor and the other archers came swarming down to help secure the prisoners.

I ignored the pats on the back from my comrades. As Orgumir offered prayers to honor the glorious dead from both sides, I stalked through the piles of corpses, looking for Grozdan.

Though I'd not lain eyes upon him before, surely he would have been near the grand ducal banners carried by the knights. Rikard and Isidora had told me enough of the man's description that I should have been able to pick out his corpse: he was said to be short and brawny, with a rash-covered bald head and an impressive, bushy beard.

I yanked away the helmets of the fallen knights clad in the most elaborate armor.

None of them matched Grozdan's description. I grabbed Ivor and the other locals, recruiting them to help me sift through the dead.

Nothing.

As the nuns tended to the wounded and Sorunna organized units to corral the prisoners, I continued to stalk among the fallen.

Nothing.

Hours passed. The cries of the wounded reached high into the sunny sky. Music wafted from the camp of the victors.

And still no sign of Grozdan.

"He's not here," Ivor said with a shake of his head. "Some of the mercenaries broke as soon as we launched our ambush, after all. Perhaps he scurried off with them."

"Or he was never with the army at all," said one of Rikard's knights. "Perhaps the coward still lurks within Saerkell and he sent his men to die without him."

Snarling, I kicked a bloody helmet across the road, then stormed back up the hill to find the nuns.

Isidora and Catriona were among a dozen nuns tending to the wounded. They bound bloody gashes, reset broken limbs, poured healing herbs into grievous wounds, and comforted the dying as they took their last, bloody breaths.

As I absorbed the horrific sights and sounds, I realized that most of their patients had been Grozdan's men. The Sisterhood's mercy extended even to our vanquished foes. Their grace encompassed all: rebels, mercenaries, and Grozdan's loyalists alike.

Catriona, with her vestments covered in blood, held the hand of a man who was missing his leg. Without glancing up, she bade me to fetch a bandage for her. I sprinted off to obey. When I returned, she tore the bandage from my hands, using it to replace the blood-soaked cloth upon the wounded man's stump.

"I am glad you made it through, Anvarr," she said softly, before cupping the wounded man's cheek and murmuring a reassuring prayer.

"As am I," I muttered, looking over the rows of wounded. "And yet this still feels like a defeat."

"Every battle is," she said softly. "For every battle is a wound upon the soul, for both victor and vanquished."

My father had said nearly the same thing once. As a man who had known great victories under King Ulrik before the disastrous defeat at Fellhaven, he had experienced triumph and tragedy in equal measure. Both victories and defeats could haunt a man.

Leaving Catriona to her work, I sought out Isidora, who wandered among the wounded administering cups of herbal tea to dull the pain. On several occasions I helped her restrain men whose pain made it difficult for them to drink, then helped her hold another man down while the nuns set his broken forearm so that it could heal properly.

After an hour of that grim work, Isidora took a break, sipping on wine we'd looted from the enemy column. The wind fluttered over her bloody, sweaty vestments, though her face still remained as poised and calm as usual.

"As soon as the horses are rested, I need to ride for Surta's Gate," I said, scowling towards the road. "If Grozdan reaches a ship..."

"That path is cut off for him. We received word two hours ago that the Baron of Surta's Gate has risen up. The port is in rebel hands."

"So Grozdan only holds the fortress at Saerkell."

"Yes." She sighed, closed her eyes, and leaned against a fallen tree. "Which presents its own complications. We won't have the numbers to assault a fortress that large. Not after the losses we sustained today."

"But we will have the numbers to encircle him and starve him out."

"That could take years. Years we do not have. The vultures will circle, Anvarr. Other duchies or even Kovgaardian raiders will see Etmorra as a tempting target if this war persists for too much longer. Someone might even invade to relieve Grozdan, to put him back on the ducal throne as their puppet."

"I will see him dead, your holiness. I swore an oath of blood and iron. One way or another, I will find a way into that fortress."

"You're still bruised from today's battle and already you're careening towards the next fight."

"The way of Kovgaard," I said, sinking down onto the fallen tree beside her.

Together we gazed out over the fields of wounded, the piles of corpses, and the great cookfires from the victors' camp. Many of those soldiers likely suspected Grozdan had died in the chaos and didn't yet know that their war was far from over.

I had no desire to disabuse them of that notion just yet. The truth could come with the dawn.

**

Over the next few days our battered army licked its wounds. Catriona stayed behind to lead the other nuns in the relief efforts, while I rode off with Isidora, Miriam, Rikard, and the bulk of the army. First we headed for Surta's Gate, where we united with the newly-rebellious Baron and helped secure the port. With the largest port in rebel hands, we could now ensure the flow of supplies to the island and could keep Grozdan isolated.

After Isidora and I helped oversee the unloading of supplies from a confiscated ship, we walked down the moonlit pier back towards the bustling town. Celebratory songs burst from taverns; drunks wandered through the streets, toasting to Grozdan's downfall.

As we slipped past a crowd of drunken sailors, Isidora brushed her fingers over my wrist.

"Though we still have work to do and a siege to prepare, I think we've both earned a bit of a reprieve," she murmured. "In Saint Morwenna's name, of course."

Her eyes twinkled beneath the veil. Having been so focused on the fighting and the hunt for Grozdan, I'd let my lusts go unsated for the past few days. The fires of desire returned with a vengeance.

I accepted the offer by taking her hand and bringing it to my lips for a soft kiss.

**

Out of convenience for ourselves and out of spite for the cowardly Duke, we used his manor in the city as our den of lust and wickedness. Within a bedroom overlooking the bay, Isidora tied my wrists and ankles to the bedposts, and proceeded to ride me for all she was worth.

As an additional cruelty, she had mounted me so that her back was turned to me, denying me the sight of her beautiful gaze or the chance to kiss her as she worked.

The sight of her soft, rippling backside was more than enough consolation.

Since Isidora had given me no commands to hold back my climax or to lie still, I allowed myself to give in. As I rocked beneath her, that sacred ache rippled through my body. My arms strained against the bonds, my fingers digging into my palms.

After tossing her dark curls over one shoulder, Isidora glanced back at me, her eyes ablaze.

"Hold fast," she muttered, even though her wicked hips continued to rock down upon me.

Biting down on my tongue proved to be useless against the surge of bliss. Not even that burst of pain could defeat the sensations brought about by her skilled body and warm sex.

"Wait," I sobbed. "Please, I cannot-"

The words shattered into a whimper. Unable to help myself, I bounced off the bed, plowing firmly against her as best as I could within the bonds. Growling with irritation, she nonetheless continued to rock back down against me, her backside tensing as my aching cock spurted deep within her.

My head flopped back against the bed, my wild blonde hair splaying across the sheets. Still growling and rocking, Isidora worked for a few more moments until the last drops had leaked from my trembling shaft.

"Disappointing," she murmured. "Such a failure demands punishment."

My heart soared at the prospect.

Isidora raised herself from my cock, my seed leaking down her trembling thighs. Her hips swayed as she crossed the room to open up her satchel, withdrawing a flogger with silken strands just like the one Catriona had used upon me.

I shivered, knowing that the Mother Superior would be far more skilled with that toy than the junior nun had been.

As she ran her fingers over the silken weapon, she slowly crossed back over to me. Looming at the foot of the bed like a hungry beast, she glared down at me and raked her fingers over my thighs.

A trembling whimper left my lips as she took hold of the base of my half-hard cock. With one hand gripping my shaft, the other teased the silken strands against my chest. Despite my dread and lingering pleasure, I couldn't help but chuckle at the faint ticklish sensation.

My amusement brought a fierce glare to her gray gaze and she slashed the flogger against my chest. I grunted at the impact, finding it to be far fiercer than any of Catriona's strikes.

After five more lashes to my chest, Isidora's cruel laugh filled the room.

"The agony hardens you, doesn't it?" she hissed, her fingers tightening around my stiffening shaft.

"No," I muttered in between heavy pants. "Not agony on its own. Only...only holy agony."

"Good answer."

She beamed, then rewarded my words with another fierce impact of the flogger against my chest.

Displaying impressive coordination, she stroked gently between my legs in between those savage attacks of the lash. I grunted at the pain and whimpered at the pleasure, both sensations joining together to create a storm I'd never felt before. My mind reeled at the conflicting stimuli, my eyes rolling back into my head, my mouth gaping open.

Soon the grunts and whimpers merged together, forming a long string of incoherent little pleas and broken moans. I bucked off the bed, greeting each stroke and strike with the same desperate joy.

"You see it now, don't you?" Isidora purred, her breath shuddering with the effort of inflicting that wondrous torture. "The cruelty and the beauty. Pain and pleasure entwined. A fragment of the divine."

My reply came in the form of a long, shuddering moan.

By the gods, I did see it. A storm of sensations unlike any other: a fire fueled by agony and delight. Every nerve roared, my vision blurred, and my cock twitched with wild need beneath her cruel fingers.

"Tell me," she growled.

"I see it," I said, my eyes watering.

Upon her next strike of the lash, I didn't even flinch. The pain rippled down through my torso, entwining with the delicious sensations unleashed by her fingers.

"Praise be to Saint Morwenna," Isidora purred.

With that, she dropped the flogger upon my chest. I sobbed with wild, painful need as she released my cock, only to let out a cry of joyful relief as she rose to straddle me once more.

My cry rose higher as she sank down upon me. Both of her hands gripped my cheeks, her nails biting into my skin.

Growling out prayers to her wicked saint, she pounded her hips down against mine.

I lasted mere moments. With my body still ablaze from the divine pain, the warm embrace of her sex was simply too much to take. My eyes twitched, my vision turned hazy, and my abused body rocked firmly up against her.

"Isidora," I said with a weak, broken little moan as my cock surged. With each pulse of my shaft I whimpered and sobbed, the firm bucking of my hips slowing to weak little twitches.

"You commit blasphemy by speaking my name," Isidora purred, even as she continued to rock against me and clench around my shaft.

Her nails bit deeper into my cheeks.

"Remember who you have to thank for this bliss."

"Praise be to Saint Morwenna," I said, barely able to form the words.

"Good."

With that, her hips went still and her harsh hands released my face. She leaned down and gave me a gentle, almost reverent kiss upon the forehead.

She lingered there for nearly a minute, muttering other prayers to her Saint. Eventually she rose and cupped my cheek.

"Are you all right? Was that too much?"

"It was overwhelming," I said with a weak grin. "But that was why it was so beautiful."

After another kiss to my forehead, she laughed and released the bonds. My aching arms rose to wrap around her, cradling her close as we both panted and recovered.

Only once she had muttered another prayer did she break away from me.