Bloodlust (3 page)

A troll.

Ivy faced the stream again and cupped some of the warm water, bringing it to her face.

"Stand," the troll barked.

"Don't move. Stand. Make up your mind."

She watched his arms muscles flex. He was going to strike.

Ivy stepped to the side and brought the flat of her hand to his neck. He dropped, releasing his short sword.

All too easy.

The green hilt was majestic, and she longed to touch it, but only trolls could handle their weapons. All other races became gravely ill, or even met death, if they tried to wield it.

"He's not dead, you know."

Ivy closed her eyes and counted ways she would kill Angar if given the chance. Once she reached twenty, she realized he was waiting for a response. He stood in the shade of several trees, looking more like a shadow than a barbarian.

"He's alive because I am allowing him to be." Ivy's tone suggested she was speaking about the guard, and not the troll.

Angar moved closer. "You court trouble."

"As do you."

Now that the trees' flourishing branches no longer covered him, she spied his wide smile. "Aye, I do."

Flirting with her. How quaint. As if that would throw her off. He might have her father fooled, but she trusted no one.

"Be a good guard and fetch a dragon's hide." She waved him away. Only an animal's hide could potentially allow them to touch a trollish weapon. A dragon's was tougher than most, and harder to acquire, so she'd have more time to herself without Angar's irritating presence. For months, he had been a plague. She was ready to turn on him. Only once had she allowed herself to go berserker on a fellow barbarian. The lone barbarian she'd ever killed.

As always, the vexatious guard made no move to follow her command. "He could awaken at any moment."

"And I am quite capable of handling him myself. Go or else I will pick you up and throw you."

It was not an idle threat, but Angar chuckled. "As you command." He bowed his head and finally, mercifully, left.

Ivy wasted no time rifling through the troll's clothes. His too-long arms, covered in coarse hair, dangled by his side. Upon lifting his arm, she gagged on his stench — a combination of body odor, rotten fruit, and decayed animal carcass. She was tempted to roll him into the water, even started to, when she located his coin purse. Smaller than her hand, the purse was made from troll hair. Disgusting. Inside, she located a scroll. She tucked it beneath her shirt when footsteps sounded. Angar had returned, with both a hide and another guard.

She had no qualms allowing them to take the prisoner down to the dungeon and returned to her room. Ivy had no sooner sat on her rock bed than the door burst open, shards of rock and wood flying everywhere. Her father had never been one to knock, nor let a locked door stop him. Her bedroom door had been replaced many times over the years. Honestly, why he still allowed there to be a lock on it, she didn't understand.

"You left your room."

Since he asked not a question, Ivy remained silent.

"Once again, you defy me."

Her nerves tingled. Deep breaths would soon not be enough to calm her, and it appeared Father needed to take a step back or else he'd go all berserker on her.

Strange. She feared him not. Never had. Never would. He did not love her. In truth, she did not know if she loved him. Love was one emotion she had never felt.

"Angar is a sheep," she muttered the insult.

"Angar is no sheep." Her father took one giant step toward her, filling her large room with his larger presence. "I have given him an assignment."

Despite herself, Ivy gasped. Angar was her shadow on her father's orders?

"No more patrols for you. Nor tower duty. Once the sun rises, you will..." Her father scratched his goatee. "You will make shields."

"But..."

He had already stomped out of the gaping hole that had been her door.

Shields. Not even a weapon. At least there laid some honor with that. Her father not only did not think her capable of true work, he wished to berate and belittle her. As always. No barbarian worth his Bloodlust ever carried a shield.

Kite shields. Heater shields. Who knew there would different types and sizes? Old Redforth was a grizzly barbarian with a gruff temperament and an even gruffer attitude. As much as Ivy hated being forced to work with him, he resented having the barbarian-princess as his apprentice.

"Ya better be listenin' to me carefully." He eyed her as best he could given a scar sealed shut one eye. "Don't want ya father to rip me flesh off because ya burned yaself."

She snorted. As if her father would care.

Other than that warning, he treated her purely as an apprentice. For which she normally would have been grateful, but — shield making? Why on earth had Redforth ever taken up such a lackluster profession?

He droned on and on about fire and temperatures and other such nonsense. Ivy nodded whenever he paused to catch his breath.

Not listening a whit. Instead, she planned her escape.

Hundreds of shields in various shapes, sizes, and materials lined the walls. That so many remained here, instead of on barbarians' arms or back, did not surprise her. Precious few weapons speckled the remaining gaps on the walls.

One two-handed blade caught her eye, but it was too far out of reach. A good leap, and she could touch it, but the risk of knocking other items off their perches made it an impossibility. When the moment was right, she had to leave without hesitation. Leaps required a tremendous amount of leg muscle and timing to perfect it.

She'd have to settle for a longsword. A griffin head formed the handle, its body the hilt, its tail curling up the blade. A fine looking blade. Hopefully, it was tempered to perfection as well.

"Go on then. Hammer out the dent." Redforth shoved a worn hammer, the shaft held together by a cloth, into her hand.

Ding. Ding. Ding!

She bashed the hammer against the dented shield on the bench. The flames of the nearby fire threatened her, spitting out sparks every few seconds. Sweat beaded down her face.

But Redforth did not leave. He watched her work, reminding her of the vulture's careful gaze. Damned bird.

She'd had the chance to glance at the note last night, but the marking had meant nothing to her. A code. Without the key, she had no hope of breaking it, considering she recognized none of the marking. It wasn't common speak or trollian. Nor goliathic, or any of the other dialects spoken in all of Highlanthia.

"Too hard." Redforth shook his head. "You're creating more dents."

To spite him, she slammed the hammer even harder onto the shield. It snapped in half.

Redforth chortled. "'Tis known to happen." He glanced at the fire. "Needa more Fire Stones. I be back."

Ivy waited until he was out of sight to grab the longsword. A perfectly symmetrically shield with a huge spike in the middle caught her eye, looking almost formidable enough to belong to a barbarian. After wasting a few seconds to secure it onto her back, she fled the smithery and didn't stop running, despite the heavy weight of the shield, until she had nearly left the kingdom.

A group of relatively small barbarian children played with each other, using branches as swords. They hadn't noticed Ivy and fought as fierce as true barbarian warriors. Despite their youth, they fought with skill and grace. They must have been attentive learns during their training. Good. With all the unrest their world faced, they needed every barbarian, young and old, to be at the ready.

One of the girls stabbed a boy hard enough to knock him to the ground.
He's weak.
Ivy shook her head, unimpressed.

To her shock, none of the children laughed or belittled him. All of them, spearheaded by the girl, helped him to his feet, and the fight resumed.

The act of compassion, in the midst of violence, gave Ivy pause. Her people weren't completely brutal — were they?

Compassion. Love.
They're all weak.
No strength could ever come from such emotions.

And yet the idea that the barbarian race was more than just brutal killers with their formidable Bloodlust made her care for her people all the more, as baffling as that seemed.

The children fought on, but Ivy could linger no longer. Not wishing to get caught, she continued on, racing away, soon bypassing the Forest of Gildersnatch entirely. She stood at the base of the shortest mountain in the Mountains of Flyerdales. A dragon lazily circled the crest of the next mount over. Usually nocturnal creatures, it was a rare sight. Indeed, the great winged race was nearing extinction.

As were the barbarians.

Her chest tightened. That her interrogation with the goliatha had been cut so short, that it hadn't even been a true battle fueled her body with enough pent-up energy she needed a release. She practiced a few stances with her newly acquired longsword, but even so, she longed to have a foe, a challenger, one worthy of an opponent like herself. If she did not have a real battle, and soon, her rage would build too much for her to contain.

Relatively speaking, the barbarian race was a new one, having only existed for a hundred years. A combination of elves and humans. Humans still thrived in the world, but the elven numbers had dwindled to only a hundred or so. The chances of the barbarian race starting anew were slim, especially since elves hid away in an attempt to preserve the last of their bloodline.

Barbarians looked like humans, although far more muscular and normally taller. Like elves, they were beautiful. Who knew? Perhaps they also had longevity, but barbarians, as a whole, did not live until old age. Even old Redforth was only in his forties.

While elves were normally docile, so long as they were not bothered, barbarians encompassed and enveloped their emotions completely, giving over to them — rage and anger in particular. The worst of humans. Or the best, depending on the point of view.

Her arms burned from the constant movement, but she did not stop. Up and down, the sword spun and fended off an imaginary foe. Gravel crunched beneath her boots as she pivoted on her heel. Since the age of two, she had been handling daggers and short swords. Weapons were a part of her being, fighting in her soul.

Sweat soaked her body. Normally she did not mind the stickiness but today, she longed for a fresh start. A new beginning. The children's compassion had stirred something within her. What exactly, she would have to figure out.

The sound of water and of tiny fishes' heartbeats drew her to a small pond. She kept the sword hilt pointed toward her for ease of access should she have need of it and stripped her clothes.

The coolness of the water did little to sooth her soul, but she relished washing all the same. After dunking her head beneath the water, she flipped her hair back.

Another heart beat. She slid closer to her sword, hidden beneath her clothes as she scanned the mountainside. No one.

A form stepped out from behind a tree. Another few paces and he almost left the shadows behind. Her breathing became slower as she took in his garb. A barbarian. One she did not immediately recognize. He stood tall, impossibly so, his muscles bulging against his tunic.

Whoever he was, he did not belong here. Watching her bathe. She who was to be their barbaroness.

A rush of adrenaline coursed through her, and she was dressed and armed faster than one could blink twice. The shield rested lightly on her back, its weight felt unfamiliar.

"Who are you?" she demanded, pointing the tip of her blade toward him.

Calmly, coolly, as if he had no reason to fear — how she would relish correcting his thinking on that point — he advanced, face still hidden by shadows, his hands in a defenseless manner. As if she could believe he did not have a weapon or five on his person.

"I am merely thirsty." His voice was smooth, but there was an undercurrent to it that piqued her curiosity. There were few barbarians she did not know. Who was he?

But now was not the time for introductions, handsome as he was. "Find another source of water."

Still he advanced, and so she rushed toward him. Too many people had defied her as of late. The arc of her sword swooshed by and clanged against a sword he removed from his back. They fought on level with each other, neither having the clear advantage. That he held his own against her both unnerved and enthralled her. For years she had trained and honed her skill, perfecting every weapon, until no other barbarian could best her. Even her kicks and punches were lethal. A long time had passed since she last faced a worthy opponent.

And worthy he was. He used his height on her to swing wide arcs, which she had to dance away from. His smoothness with his weapon, the grace he exhibited...
Perhaps I have met my match.

Match. The term her mother had often used when describing those she thought Ivy should consider to be her barbaron, when her time to rule claim. The notion of marriage was one she never considered seriously, but this barbarian had her on her toes, fighting for her life, and she loved it, embraced it. How odd this felt, especially considering she did not even know his name.