Текст книги "Bound to the battle god"

Автор книги: Ruby Dixon

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 40 страниц)

4

In the antechamber, it’s immediately obvious who the other “offerings” are.

The room is filled with women of every shape and size, all attractive. Some have huge breasts, some are waif thin. Some are older than me, and some look barely old enough to be in high school. They’re all dressed in the long white loincloth and belt that I’m in.

They all have blonde hair.

The other slaves barely spare me a glance. Most gossip in low voices, oiling their skin and smoothing their hair. Some frolic near a fountain in the tiled courtyard, giggling. It’s almost like I’m backstage at a beauty pageant, waiting for my turn to go on.

“Got any mascara?” I ask the girl nearest me.

“What?” She frowns in my direction and moves away.

“Never mind. It was a bad joke.” I sigh to myself, looking for a friendly face in the room. “I guess I’m just talking for the sake of talking.”

Another woman stares at me as she walks past.

The antechamber tiles of the floor are cool beneath my dirty feet as I walk around. There’s a colonnade along each wall with more of the sword-shaped pillars, and I study the others. There must be at least thirty or forty blondes. Cleaver brides, I wonder?

Now if I just knew what those were…

A young girl sits by the wall, her legs tucked under her, tits out, her blonde curls pulled into an artful knot atop her head. She looks way too young to be here, but I’m guessing no one asked for ID at the slave pens. Still, she seems approachable, so I make a beeline toward her, smiling. No pageant jokes this time, Faith, I remind myself. You’re totally from this place, remember?

When she casts a timid smile in my direction, I smile back and thump down on the ground to sit next to her. “Hi there! I’m Faith.” I offer her my hand. “I’m new here.”

Her brows draw together and she tilts her head charmingly. “An unusual name. Where are you from?”

“Oh, here and there.” I wave a hand airily, because I know trying to explain that I’m from the US and from Earth will just be a mistake. “You?”

“Avalla. From Glistentide.”

“Totally one of my favorite places,” I lie, keeping my tone friendly. I sit down next to her and fold my legs under me in the same prim stance, my hands on my lap. “You’re far from home, I think. How’d you end up here?”

“In Aventine?” She bites her lip and ducks her head, looking so shy and awkward it hurts me to think of her in the same situation I’m in. “My parents sold me to a traveling merchant. He was very kind but I did not enjoy his advances much. He was very old and I admit I had foolish dreams like any young maiden.” She shrugs and her smile grows wider. “So he brought me here and then gave me as an offering to the temple, to be a cleaver bride. It is a great honor.”

Avalla says the words, but her smile is a little forced, the look in her eyes a little too blank.

Yikes.

I lean in close. “Like I said, I’m new here. Is it really an honor or are we screwed? Be honest.”

She looks startled at my words, and then her lip trembles. Her eyes become glassy with unshed tears and she blinks rapidly, wiping at the corners of her eyes with her fingers. “You will make me weep and then I will be blotchy.”

Yeah, I’m pretty sure if this was an honor, she wouldn’t be crying. Not crying like that, anyhow. That tells me everything I need to know. Cleaver bride is not a good thing to be. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right. I just want to look my best for when we meet the prelate at the choosing.”

“Choosing?”

Avalla gives me a curious look. “The temple’s choosing…for the Anticipation? You have not heard of such a thing?”

I shrug. “Really, really not from here.”

“But surely your land has gods. It is the Anticipation.” She says it as if there’s a “duh” at the end.

“Well, I’m sure anticipating learning what it is,” I joke.

She wrinkles her nose. “Your accent is strange,” she agrees. “Are you from across the seas?”

“Something like that.” I gesture with my hand, indicating she should continue. “Tell me more about this choosing? There are a lot of women here. Are we all being chosen?”

“Oh no. Just one. The others will become cleaver brides.”

Just one. Not great odds, and I’m definitely not the hottest babe in the room. “So what happens to that one? The girl that’s chosen?”

“She will be the servant to the prelate for the next year. He is the chosen priest of Aron of the Cleaver, and as such, she will serve all his needs until the next Anticipation day. After that, she is paid richly and can live a life of leisure having satisfied the gods.”

All right, so it’s clearly a religious thing. Sounds like a personal slave for the local priest, and then freedom. Hard pass. I’ve had enough of slaving. “Life of leisure sounds great and all,” I begin.

“Oh yes. It is a position of great honor.” Avalla’s pretty face is hopeful.

“And everyone else becomes cleaver brides? What is that, like a nun? Spend the rest of our lives serving the gods?” Maybe I can escape a nunnery.”

“You…you don’t know what a cleaver bride is?”

“No.”

She pales and swallows hard. “Cleaver brides are offerings to the god.”

There’s that word again. I’m starting to hate it as much as “tart.” “Offerings?”

“Sacrifices.” She swallows hard and tries to smile, but it has a glassy look to it. “It is a great honor.”

Ok, that is definitely gonna be a problem.

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5

There’s a huge knot in my throat and I clamp Avalla’s hand in mine. I’m trying not to panic.

Sacrificed.

To a god.

Me and all these women in this room are going to die if we’re not chosen to serve the prelate. I’m guessing we’re not going to be “serving” like a waitress but more like serving in bed.

So it’s either that or death. Shit is hitting the fan.

Choices, choices.

I look around the room, at the crowd of women. Their merriment seems to have a hard edge to it, and I realize some of the laughter is forced. In the corner, there’s a girl weeping though she’s doing her best to conceal it. Another one’s staring at the fountain so intently I’d swear she wants to drown herself in it.

“We have to get out of here,” I whisper to Avalla. “I need to get home.”

Her eyes go wide. “We cannot. We would be shamed before the gods.”

“I’ll eat my stupid skirt if the gods actually know what’s going on here.” I squeeze her hand again. “And that’s the only thing I have to wear. Come on. Do you want to die here?”

“No.” Her voice is so small I can barely hear it.

“Then let’s think. Do you know this temple? Is there a way out of here?”

She shakes her head, her movements jerky with fear. “My master brought me here last night. I am a stranger to this place, as you are.” The look on her face becomes bleak. She looks ready to cry. “Do you think I will be a cleaver bride, then?”

“Of course not. You’re awesome.” I give her a faint smile and wipe her cheek when a tear slides down it. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll think of something. When’s this ceremony?”

“Tonight. At sundown. The hour of storms.”

That means nothing to me other than we don’t have much time. An afternoon isn’t going to be enough. But I squeeze her hand. “We’ll figure something out.”

I might have overstated my abilities to figure something out.

There’s no exit and the crowded room is heavily guarded. Best I can do? Try to help Avalla become slave numero uno, because she wants it so badly. She keeps talking about the prelate and how she’d love to serve him, so I want her to win.

Unfortunately for her, the only coaching I can come up with is to tell her to bite her lip and bat her lashes. I’m worse than a pageant coach. It’s clear that there are a lot of experienced women in this room and some great beauties, so Avalla’s got earnestness and that’s about it.

I don’t even have that. I’m all right looking, but I’m definitely no Helen of Troy. I think I passed her by the fountain. Spoiler—she’s blonde.

Since I can’t escape, I decide I’m going to go down fighting. That means I need a weapon. I look around for one all day, and eventually find a chink of broken tile in a corner that has a hard edge and clutch it tightly in my hand. It’s about the size of my finger, but it’ll have to do.

I can always peck someone to death like the world’s angriest blonde chicken.

Because I’m not going to smile all the way to my funeral pyre. I did not end up on some strange podunk Game of Thrones ripoff world just to be part of the Million Blonde Funeral March.

I am getting the fuck out of this place, one way or another.

As the sun goes down, a familiar thrumming drumbeat begins. Goosebumps prick my bare arms and Avalla clutches my hand nervously. I grit my teeth, because it’s the same drumbeat I heard back in the apartment. It’s all tied to this somehow.

“You’ll do great,” I promise her as more guards file into the room. “Big smile. Fluttery lashes. Thrust your chest out. Smize.”

It must be time. The women are lined up, and one of the guards swoops up and down the row, rearranging us by height, and my grip tightens on Avalla’s hand. She’s shorter than me. I hate that we’re going to get separated, because it was nice to have someone to talk to for a change. Someone that didn’t call me “tart” or try to feel my tits.

I’ve felt so alone and friendless in this strange place. It was nice to have a buddy.

“You. This way,” the guard says, indicating that Avalla should follow him. She looks at me nervously and I give her an encouraging two thumbs up.

She moves forward in the line, sandwiched between two very busty and older-looking women. Really, that’s a win for her, because she’s going to look youthful and nubile and all those great, creepy things that a sex slave is supposed to be. I’m sandwiched between two beauties, but I don’t care because I don’t plan on being “picked.”

Of course, I haven’t figured out plan B yet, but I’m hoping something will come to me.

The drum beats continue, and then the line of women marches forward, heads bent. I mimic them automatically, though I’m peeking around as we walk down the long, dark corridors. There’s a scent of rain in the air, and I can hear thunder. It messes up the steady rhythm of the drums, which is more than a little jarring. There also seem to be even more people in this building than before. Not all of them are wearing the long red robes, but the number of soldiers seems to be greater, as does the number of civilians dressed in simple tunics. It’s like everyone’s turning out for a party.

I can just bet what the entertainment’s going to be.

The line of blondes winds through the crowded corridor, and then we’re led into a very large, smoky chamber. The drummers wait at the edges of the room, staring ahead, tapping out their rhythm.

The crowd is packed in here, and the humidity is making more than one sweat. There’s a faint body odor stink in the room, but no one’s leaving. If anything, more people are crowding in. The entire room is wall to wall people except for the back wall, which is a massive feast table laden with foods of every kind. Up ahead at the front of the room, I catch a glimpse of a large stone throne up on a dais. It’s empty, as if we’re waiting for the guest of honor.

Behind the dais is a banner of sumptuous red cloth with the battleaxe symbol and a lightning bolt going through it. I scan the room, looking for my pear-headed owner. He’s off talking to a few soldiers squeezed into a corner, but I notice he keeps looking in this direction. I want to make a break for it, but I’m being watched.

Suddenly, everything goes silent.

There’s an ominous rumble of thunder, but the drums are quiet, the people are quiet, everything in the temple is quiet. A man strolls forward and the crowd—already packed to the gills—tries to part for him. People squeeze against one another to give him room to pass. He moves forward, heading to the row of blondes, and I get a good look at him.

He’s not old. He’s tanned and has a stern face that could be fifty or a hard thirty. He looks like he’s in relatively good shape, and his head is completely shaven. Not my type, but maybe Avalla’s. As he approaches, I notice his robes have a different sweep to them, and I realize his are crusted with gems and what looks like gold along the cuffs and hem. Fancy. Prelating must pay well.

The prelate moves in the mix of people, then raises his hands into the air.

Everyone drops to their knees, bowing their heads.

Well, shit. I clench my bit of broken tile tightly and kneel like all the others, bending my head. Instead of praying, though, I look for exits.

If I’m going to make a break for it, it needs to be soon.

“Rise,” the prelate says. “Rise and let us celebrate the Lord of Storms, Aron of the Cleaver, Butcher God of Battle in his chosen hour, the hour of storms. Today is the day we celebrate the Anticipation.”

Blah blah Anticipation. No one looks excited about anything except the food. There are looks of boredom on everyone’s faces. I guess no one’s “anticipating” all that much.

Ha.

The red-robed man raises his arms into the air again, like a preacher without a pulpit. “Every year upon this day, we celebrate in the hopes that the gods will send an Aspect, as it is told in the sacred scrolls. This temple is dedicated to Aron of the Cleaver, our Lord of Storms, the butcher of battle, but we welcome any of the twelve gods if they should honor us with their presence.”

He turns and bows to the empty throne which remains, you guessed it, empty.

There’s a bit of polite clapping. Everyone still looks bored.

The prelate turns back to the crowd once more. “In honor of this day and our Lord of Storms, we will feast in his name.”

That makes people happy. A cheer goes up.

The prelate turns toward us. “One maiden will be chosen to serve me in the Lord of Storms’s honor. The rest shall be given as cleaver brides.”

No one responds. Someone makes an impatient noise. Another man rolls his eyes.

I’m thinking the Anticipation is a big let-down every year. I bet it’s a lot like Christmas, when your parents promise that Santa Claus is on his way and then you find out he’s not real. Maybe Aron of the Cleaver is about as real as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and that’s why no one seems to give a crap about this particular holiday except for the food.

“I shall choose the maiden to serve me,” the prelate says, dragging my attention back to the center of the room. “Once I have picked the honored one, we will say the invocation and proceed to the feasting.”

The prelate moves to the end of the row and begins to eyeball the blonde offerings. One by one, he looks them up and down, and I’m acutely aware that most women are half-naked. Everyone wears the same skirt, but I’m the only one with it hiked up to my tits. This is so incredibly creepy, especially when he reaches out to finger one girl’s curly hair and brushes his fingers over the shoulder of the next, as if judging how smooth her skin is.

Ugh.

He continues down the row, and the room is quiet, the only sound the low murmur of the audience, as if they’re making bets on who he’ll pick. I notice that Sinon is staring at me from afar and I resist the urge to shoot him the finger. That won’t do any good.

I mean, it’d feel good, but I’m in enough trouble as it is.

I’m toward the end of the line, so it doesn’t take long for him to get to me. I slide my hands behind my back before he arrives, hiding the chunk of tile I’m holding. When he moves near, I catch a heavy whiff of herbs, as if he’s bathing in this world’s version of deodorant under those robes.

“Why do your ears have holes?”

I blink. That’s a weird question. “My ears?”

He nods. “Your ears have holes. Why?”

Oh. “They’re pierced? You wear jewelry in them.”

The prelate wrinkles his nose. “Barbaric.”

Is it? I didn’t realize the people here didn’t wear ear jewelry. What a strange thing to notice.

He flicks a hand at the front of my skirt-dress. “I should like to see your breasts. Disrobe.”

So much for being chipper and accommodating. I clutch the front of my dress. “No thanks.”

“What?”

“I mean…no?” I try to smile sweetly. “But ‘no’ in the nicest way, of course.”

He recoils, aghast at my response. “You dare?”

“Well, they’re very shy boobs.” I promise. Something tells me I’m not getting picked.

The prelate flicks his gaze over me one more time. “Pleasant appearance…distasteful personality.” And he moves on.

Sounds like my last annual review at work.

Even so, a knot forms in my throat. I don’t want to be his little slave, but I don’t want to die either. This is the medieval equivalent of “Tits or GTFO” isn’t it? My fear gives way to anger.

Fuck this guy.

Fuck all these guys.

I’m going to go out fighting, I tell myself. This isn’t the end. There has to be more to why I’m here than to just die in a pile of anonymous blondes.

I’ve been dragged from Earth, kicking and screaming. I have to be here for a reason. It can’t be just to die because I won’t flash some jerk my boobs.

There has to be a bigger purpose…doesn’t there? My weird aura means something, doesn’t it?

Unless everyone’s just lied to me…which is beginning to look like it might be a thing.

The prelate continues to sweep down the line, talking to some of the girls and taking his sweet time making his decision. I hold my breath as he approaches Avalla, because I want this for her…if she wants it, of course. She looks up at the prelate with shining, hopeful eyes, practically trembling with awe at the sight of him. It’d be cute if circumstances weren’t so dire…and he wasn’t such a dick. I can see her slump with disappointment when he continues down the line.

Then, he finishes talking to the very last girl, the shortest one, and turns. He walks down the lineup of girls once more and pauses in front of Avalla. “Would you like to serve me, my dear?”

She drops to her knees and begins to kiss his hem. “It would be such an honor, prelate!”

“You may rise.”

I do my best not to curl my lip because this is what she wanted, but man, you’d think the prelate was the god being served around here. Prick.

Avalla gets to her feet, and when the prelate indicates she should follow him, she glances over at me with excitement. I shoot her a thumbs up and give her an encouraging nod. One problem down at least.

Except now the rest of us are cleaver brides. I can already hear someone quietly sobbing down the line. I’m not crying. I’m not giving up. I study the room, trying to figure out where we’ll be executed. If enough of us rush the executioner all at once, some are bound to get away…

The prelate moves to the center of the room, and as he does, a chair is placed next to the empty throne on the dais. It’s not nearly as big as the empty stone seat, but it’s wrought with gold and looks expensive and throne-like just the same. The prelate sits down with a flourish, smoothing his robes. Avalla immediately sits at his feet on the stairs, looking starry-eyed.

He gestures at the throngs stuffed into the temple. “Eat! Eat in honor of Aron of the Cleaver.” He waves at a servant and someone brings him a plate.

There’s a rush toward the table of food, and then the room gets noisy and boisterous. Wine is passed around and the soldiers start to get hammered. I glance down the row of women and no one’s offering us anything. They all continue to stand like statues, the guards in front of us as impassive as the others.

All right, I guess it’s feast time for everyone except the “lucky” cleaver brides. That’s fine. Every hour that they spend getting drunk and stupid on wine is another hour I get to form a plan to get out of here.

As time passes and people grow drunk with wine, the room gets rowdier. Another round of food is brought out, and I watch Avalla offering morsels to the prelate. She’s doing her best not to look giddily happy and glances over at me from time to time, nervous.

More wine is brought out, and I fidget. The broken tile’s cutting into my hand. “How long does this party go on?”

“Until dawn,” the woman next to me says. “We wait for the hour of blood.”

Dawn? So we’re just going to sit here and watch everyone feast all night and wait to die? Man, these guys are dicks.

The drums stop their ominous beats and have been replaced by reedy flutes, and now drunken idiots dance and carouse in the center of the floor. Man, this really is like an office Christmas party. My nerves get more and more shot as the minutes tick past, and I start to worry that I’m not going to be able to get away. That I won’t find a way out of this place.

That I really was brought to this strange world just to die.

I shoot to my feet. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Bathroom?” One of the guards frowns at me.

“Is that not what it’s called? Lavatory? Potty?” When he continues to stare at me blankly, I sigh. “I have to pee.”

“The garderobe?”

“Sure?” I can’t believe this hasn’t come up in conversation yet and here I’ve been in medieval hell for a whole week almost. It doesn’t matter, though. I keep my hand clenched around my bit of sharp tile. Maybe I won’t need to use it after all. “I can escort myself. Just let me know the way.”

The guards exchange looks.

“Sit back down,” a different one says, scowling at me. “You don’t need to go anywhere.”

“My bladder is saying otherwise. You want me to pee all over the place? I’ll do it,” I threaten. “Won’t that be a bit of a party ruiner?” I give them a defiant look.

The second guard sighs. “Fine. I’ll take her.”

The girl next to me stands up. “Wait. I have to go, as well.”

“And me,” says another.

“And me,” adds a third. Two others raise their hands.

I bite back my frustration. My escape plan isn’t exactly going to work if everyone has the same damn idea. They’re ruining it for me.

“Sit down, all of you,” the guard snarls. “You’ll sit quietly and wait until the Hour of Blood, and if you do not, we’ll cut your throat and toss your body into the river without so much as a blessing. Understand?”

Everyone sits. Even me. Jeez.

I watch the revelers with an increasing sense of disgust. As time passes, they go beyond drunk. Someone starts fondling a nearby woman and then suddenly there’s a girl thrown down on a table with her skirts hiked up. I try not to stare, but from the noises she’s making, she’s having a really good time. I look over at Avalla, and she’s migrated to the prelate’s knee, her hand between his thighs as she whispers in his ear and pushes her breasts into his face.

Okay, maybe this is a bit more than your average Christmas party.

Maybe it’s more like…New Year’s? A really horny, horny New Year’s, I amend as a naked man chases a naked woman through the crowd. If there’s some sort of attention that’s supposed to be paid to the whole reason for the holiday, these people have forgotten it long ago. No one pays attention to the throne on the dais, and I notice that the prelate sets his wine goblet on the arm of it, as if it’s his own special armchair. Maybe it is. Fuck if I know. There’s so much about this world that I just don’t understand.

Namely why you’d have to kill thirty perfectly good blondes to celebrate a god no one gives a shit about.

Thunder crackles overhead.

The people in the room pause, and then laughter breaks out. “The Lord of Storms sends a greeting,” calls one of the priests. I can’t help but notice he’s grabbing one of the local women, his wine spilled down the front of his robes. He’s clumsy, turning and slapping people with the long end of his sword.

I really hope he’s not the executioner.

The thought makes my stomach knot up and I feel like I’m going to be sick. I keep waiting for an opportunity to show itself but there isn’t one. The guards standing near us are the only ones sober, and a runaway blonde slave girl would be too obvious in this crowd. I can’t blend. I can’t escape.

If there’s a plan for me, a little hint right about now would be nice.

Thunder booms again, and the wind rises.

The torches flicker, almost going out. The heavy scent of ozone fills the sultry air, and I can hear rain starting outside. One of the terrified women next to me starts to cry. I pat her back awkwardly. “It’s okay. I’ve got a plan.”

Fake it until you make it and all that. I don’t have a plan, but it feels better to pretend that I do.

The air feels heavier with the oncoming storm. The thunder booms again, and this time it’s so loud that the entire building seems to shake. Wind whips through the temple, providing the first breeze I’ve felt in hours.

The torches die.

I jump to my feet as people cry out, startled. This is my chance. Time to escape.

“Someone re-light the torches,” the prelate calls out in a lazy voice. People laugh, and I hear the sound of someone getting laid, all grunts and groaning and female giggles. Ew.

On tiptoe, I start to move through the crowd. Everyone’s distracted. Time to make my escape. People are pressed against each other so tightly that it’s impossible to push forward. I try to shove my way past a pair of men, but they just knock me backwards.

One of the torches is lit, and then the room floods with dim light.

Someone gasps. “He’s here!”

There’s a little scream, and then people start dropping to their knees all around me. I look around—and see that the big, empty throne at the front of the room is no longer empty.

A man sits there.

“Sit” seems like such a benign word for what’s going on, though. His presence is so overwhelming that it feels like a stronger adjective should be used. Looms, maybe. Lords. Yeah. The stranger’s lording over all of us, equal parts arrogance and contempt emanating from him. He doesn’t move a muscle, his arms calmly stretched on the throne as if he’s been here the entire time. And as he gazes around the room, he’s impossible to like. Fear, yes. Like, no. It’s in every pore of his being that he hates what he sees in front of him.

I just wish he wasn’t so darn beautiful to look at.

Fact is, he’s gorgeous in the most intimidating sort of way. His shoulders are broad and muscular, his skin pale. There seem to be acres and acres of pale skin, and it takes me a moment to realize that he’s totally naked. He wears it well, of course, his entire form so intimidating that it almost makes me feel like everyone else is just overdressed.

His hair is dark black and falls down his back and shoulders. It’s unadorned, drawn back from his face at the crown. Instead of making him look feminine, it just highlights how blatantly masculine his features are. His jaw is sharp, his nose perfectly straight, and his eyes are narrow and bladelike…and mismatched in color.

The stranger also looks vaguely familiar to me, which is weird considering I’m a stranger in this land and I don’t know anyone even remotely close to being as perfect as this guy…and then I realize there’s a pale scar crossing over the left side of his face.

Oh my god. Like the statue.

No wonder everyone’s dropping to their feet. I suddenly realize just what it means that he’s dropped in mid-ceremony on Anticipation day. He’s sitting in that throne because it was waiting for him.

This is Aron of the Cleaver.

I laugh. Aloud. “Ha!”

Christmas has come early, bitches.

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