Barbarian's Soul (34 page)

Gair’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you were taught in the
luda
? Goad your enemy? Unsettle them with lies and insults? Pathetic. The way of cowards.” A sneer twisted his lips. “But then a dog does what his master dictates.”

A muscle ticked in Bran’s jaw. “Release my woman and we will battle.”

Gair tsked and shook his head, a twisted smile on his lips. “I think not. Will your mind be on the fight knowing that her life is in my hands?” He unsheathed his sword and swung it in a wide arc. “I will not kill you outright. No, I will maim you, force you to watch as I fuck your woman.”

Adria squirmed in Gair’s hold. “Bran! No! Do not risk yourself! They will not let you live!” Her captor shook her but she continued, her voice like an anchor through the red haze of fury Gair stirred. She caught Bran’s gaze, held it and spoke softly though he heard her every word. “Your life is not worth a Roman’s.”

Bran’s lips curled in a wry smile. “Thief, it is the only thing worth dying for.” Astonishment flashed across her lovely features only to replaced by a look of love so potent that it took Bran’s breath away. “Nobody dies today—” He cut his eyes to Gair’s smirk.”—save this bastard.”

Gair flung his head back and laughed, an unholy sound that fed the impotent fury that surged through Bran when his clansman grasped Adria by the neck and caught her mouth in a savage kiss.

The monster within him roared to kill but he allowed the cold fury to hold him at bay, keep him from rash actions, just what Gair wanted. Gair thought to incite his temper, prod him to act without guard. It was a mistake made by novice gladiators.

He was no novice.

Proud, he watched Adria sputter her outrage and spit in Gair’s face. Bran tensed for him to retaliate but Gair merely shoved her into the hands of two
Vipera
members.

“So, clansman,” Gair drawled, wiping the back of his hand across his cheek and raising his sword. “Now we end this.”

Bran circled the perimeter, matching Gair step for step. He spared a look at the room, gauged the space, searched for breaks in the crowd. There wasn’t much of it, no more than two sword lengths in any direction. Tiege’s men were shoulder to shoulder, their sour stench overwhelming. Would they interfere on behalf of their new leader? He measured the looks on their faces, every bit as eager and bloodthirsty as the crowds in the arena. He doubted it. They wanted a show.

Bran swallowed against the pressure building in his chest. This wasn’t the arena, he reminded himself. He was not fighting for his owners, he was not here to entertain. His gaze flicked to Adria, who still resisted the boys’ grip, still watched him. The battle mattered now. She gave him an encouraging smile and the pressure shattered. Bran drew in a deep breath, tested the familiar weight of his sword and pinned Gair with a glare. “Prepare to die, traitor.”

Bran feinted with his sword, growled at Gair’s reflex action, his clansman’s long, unwieldy sword swiping air as Bran spun and evaded the weapon. Gair’s expression darkened. Bran swung his
gladius
, taking full advantage of his anger. “You bastard,” he growled.

“You were the one to go to hell,” snarled Gair, recovering his focus, blocking Bran’s weapon with a harsh clang of iron against iron. “You and that witch of a sister. It was the perfect plan.”

Bran sliced upward, the tip of his sword rending the wool of Gair’s tunic and quickly changed direction, slashing downward, his blade meeting air. The thieves roared as Gair spun out of reach. “I did,” he ground out. “And now you will.”

The room narrowed in Bran’s vision, just as it always did in the arena, the stage of death. The jeering and shouts of the spectators faded into a dull roar, his concentration completely on his target. A portion of his mind recognized that was not entirely true, as his senses caught and held onto Adria. He knew where she was. He felt her gaze like a hot iron, her love and courage bolstering him. Oh, yes, this encounter was far different than any in his bloody past. The knowledge had him reining in the blackness of the monster within. This kill had to be controlled.

Bran advanced on Gair. His clansman’s sword increased the distance between them, appropriate for a coward but the sword’s weight also meant it took him a breath longer to recover from a missed strike. Bran gripped the hilt of his shorter weapon and aimed for vulnerable belly. Gair twisted and spun to avoid the blows but Bran pressed on. With a growl, Gair recovered, gained balance and drove Bran back.

Sweat streamed down Bran’s face, the air in the room thick with too many bodies. A sharp pain sliced across his arm as Gair’s blade caught him near the elbow. Cheers and jeers rippled through the spectators. Someone in the crowd tossed two small, leather-covered shields into the middle of the room.

Bran hammered at Gair, forced him to the periphery, he found an opening and swiped his blade along Gair’s ribs. Gair faltered for only a moment, the wound more surprising than fatal—damn the gods—but it gave Bran enough time to snatch up one of the shields.

The group of men Gair had fallen against jeered and pushed him back to the center of the room. Fumbling he managed to pick up the remaining shield.

“End this now,” Bran said in their native tongue, “and I will allow you a quick death.”

Gair wiped his sleeve across his face. “The grand gladiator would show mercy? Did you show mercy to those you slaughtered in the arena?”

Bran tightened his jaw against the surge of pain but Gair must have seen it his eyes. He raised his shield a breath too late, sucked in a breath at the searing pain across his thigh. Blood ran hot down his leg.

“You’re a murderer,” panted Gair.

Bran’s arm ached at the force of the blows Gair rained down on the shield. Yes, he’d killed. He’d also survived. For Bryna, for his clansman. His eyes narrowed. For
this
clansman. A surge of fury propelled him at Gair.

“Look around you,” Gair growled. “These Roman cretins respect only strength and power and I intend to prove my strength by killing you.”

“The power of a coward?” Bran grated out as Gair’s blade struck his shield, sent a harsh vibration along his arm. Back and forth, blade and shield they fought. Bran was the stronger fighter but Gair’s black determination kept him on the offensive. Sweat blurred Bran’s vision, his arm ached from blocking Gair’s blows. The air in the room had become stifling. The motley crowd began to murmur their discontent at the lack of show. From the corner of his vision, Bran saw that the boys holding Adria had loosened their grasp. He forced Gair to switch positions so that his enemy fought from the opposite side of the room, bringing Bran closer to Adria. Once he delivered the killing blow he’d be able to reach her in one step. He flashed her a look, pleased when she nodded, understanding his intent.

The red flash of warning crossed his vision even as his mind registered his mistake. He swung his attention back to his clansman who, braced on one leg, kicked the other dead center into Bran’s knee. He gripped the hilt of his sword as an explosion of pain sent him to the ground. The red haze lifted only to find Gair’s sword at his throat and his foot pinning his sword arm to the ground.

Gods be damned! It was happening again. The woman he cared for—the woman he
loved
—was in danger and he was powerless.

You’ve never lost a match
.

Bran shook his head at the sharp whisper in his mind. Yes, he’d won every match but he’d been chasing Fortune the entire time. And no deity stood a mere mortal challenging them for long without demanding retribution, as Beatrix’s death proved.

Gods be damned
, the voice shot back, angry and impatient.
You won because you had purpose—as you have now. You will save Adria.
Bran swallowed, felt the sword point nick his skin. Even if the price demanded was his own life.

“Should I make it quick? Painless?” Gair panted.

“Bastard!”

Bran’s heart stuttered in his chest as Adria attacked Gair, the lead from the collar she wore swinging wildly as she leapt like a wild cat onto his back. Bran shot a look to the corner where one of her guards knelt, holding onto his balls. The other was futilely trying to stem the flow of blood from his nose. Gods, the stubborn, bold woman!

“I won’t let you hurt him,” she said again, beating useless fists at Gair’s chest.

Gair laughed, and clamped an arm around her waist, holding her to his side. “See how eager your woman is for the thrust of my cock?”

Bran growled low in his throat, forced himself not to lunge at Gair, ending his own life before he could get Adria away to safety. Stubborn woman, he thought again. Complicating matters by throwing herself in the midst of harm. As if she heard his chastisement Adria twisted around and looked down at him, those violet eyes bright as amethysts, edged with not nearly enough fear to keep her from doing foolish things. He returned her look intent on sending that message when she shifted her gaze ever so slightly, drawing his attention to the object in her hand. Gair’s short-bladed knife.

The little thief had lifted it from Gair’s belt! Filled with equal measures of pride, fear and anger at the risk she took, he slowly spread out the fingers of his unfettered hand. Adria renewed her struggle against Gair’s hold, which kept his clansman’s attention well occupied, though it took a great deal of effort to keep the monster within him from roaring when Gair worked the hand he was clasping Adria with up to her breast.

“Let me go!” she exclaimed in a loud voice. Gair laughed again, distracted as he dipped his head to Adria’s neck, oblivious in his taunting that the point of his sword shifted away from Bran’s throat.

And ignorant of the knife she dropped into Bran’s hand.

“Top or bottom, eh spitfire?”

“Neither,” snarled Bran. He knocked the sword out of Gair’s hand at the same time he lifted his legs and lunged upward.

Gair stood, fixed in place, staring mutely at the knife imbedded to the hilt in his gut. Bran gave him no time to recover but twisted the blade, scrambled to his feet and rammed his fist into the man’s jaw. The pain in his knuckles eased at the loud crack of bone breaking. Gair staggered backward, losing his hold on Adria enough that Bran could wrench her free.

He wanted to shake Adria and kiss her blind all at once and the little vixen knew it too. She raised one brow and smiled slightly but then sobered as Gair cursed and brought his attention back to them. Bran pressed her behind him but she refused to stay, coming to stand beside him, her stance one of battle.

Gods.

Sounds of protest and disgruntlement filtered through the spectators. Bran exchanged a look with Adria.

“They owe no allegiance to the barbarian,” she whispered. “It will take nothing for them to turn on him.”

Bran flexed his arm. Adria’s touch was like a brand, heating his blood while bolstering his resolve. A woman of such courage deserved to live.

Then be certain she does
.

Bran tightened his jaw and glared at Gair as he managed to gain his feet. The knife still protruded from his abdomen, his tunic dark with blood, his color paling but his eyes glittering with self-righteous determination.

A gladiator learned his lessons, used his skill to kill. A warrior killed to protect. Bran gently shrugged Adria’s hand away.

In two strides he was facing Gair who, for all of his bravado, was too weak to raise his sword. Bran knocked it from his hand and lifted him off his feet by the front of his tunic. “Is this worth the price?” he hissed in Gaelic. “Was your treachery worth this end?

“To watch you die?” rasped Gair, smiling through the pain. “Every bit.”

Bran saw a darkness ten times as deep as what dwelled within him in Gair’s eyes. He inclined his head. “As you said. They only respect strength and power.”

A garbled gasp was the only sound Gair made as Bran caught hold of the knife handle in his clansman’s belly and pulled it straight toward his heart. Hot, sticky blood gushed out of the gaping wound, covering Bran as it had so many times in the arena. He jerked the blade free and watched his enemy fall at his feet.

A heavy silence filled the room, echoing the hollowness within his soul.

Bran felt the light, tentative touch of Adria again, only this time she pressed herself to his side and lay her cheek against his arm. He held her close, shielded her nakedness against his chest.

He glanced at Gair’s lifeless body, the brief flash of regret at the loss of a kinsman overshadowed by the justice of a warrior. A man protecting his woman.

Adria moved to stand in front of him.

“Do not,” he commanded in a hoarse whisper. “I do not want you tainted with this bastard’s blood.”

Adria gave a short laugh. “I do not care.” Her voice choked with tears. “I was so afraid.”

Bran’s gut clenched. He raised his hand and traced the line of her cheek with his finger, searched her amethyst eyes for condemnation. He saw none. “Afraid?”

“Yes, afraid you might die. And if you had—” She took a shuddering breath. “—I could not go on living. I love you, you blasted barbarian.”

The remnants of darkness within his heart shattered.

“You’re smiling.” She said, with a suspicious look. “Perhaps I should be afraid.”

Bran’s grin widened. He threaded his fingers through Adria’s hair and captured her mouth in a long, searing kiss, her mouth parting beneath his and him with equal fervor. A spear of pleasure at the heat in her beautiful face when he pulled away pierced him.

Adria, sighed but then slumped against him, her battered body too weak to stand. He sent a sharp glare to the subdued gathering and within moments, a coarse, cloak was tossed to him. He gently wrapped Adria in it, then lifted her into his arms. She sent a furtive look to the sullen thieves who seemed at a loss without the guidance of Tiege.

“Do not be afraid, thief. I fear no longer and you will never have a reason to again.”

Epilogue

“J
ared says that the time for sailing is past.”