Warlord's Captive

Frigid water splashed my face, jolting me awake. I wiped the spray from my eyes with frozen hands and tasted salt on my lips. Waves that had been high as my waist before I dozed off were now above my head, the bow of the open boat smashing against them and sending sprays of water back upon us.

A storm is rising, Terix said, glancing up at the darkening skies. He huddled beside me against the boat’s side, wrapped in a woolen cloak that had been sodden since we left the coast of Gaul eight days ago. His freckles stood out against the pallor of his skin; he’d been seasick for those eight days, too. Neptune must hate me.

You should take it as a compliment.

Eh? His weary eyes looked at me in question, the shadows beneath them deep gray. He needed dry land beneath his feet and a warm bed. I’d never seen him this drained of life, his usual spark smothered by the endless rolling of the sea—and of his gut.

It’s envy, I said, trying to cheer him. Neptune knows what an enormous cock you have, and he wants it shrunken with misery as long as Salacia is near, lest she be tempted to ravish you. Salacia was Neptune’s wife, according to the Romans, and goddess of salt waters.

A muscle flicked in his cheek, as close as he could come to a smile.

I dug my arm through his and held it close, still surprised at how much larger than me Terix had become. As children, we’d been the same height; now he was more than a head taller, and his arm was as thick as my leg. I felt like a child next to him, as if the gods had forgotten to let me grow. You can’t succumb to Neptune’s jealous plot and be miserable, I said. "I’m the only one allowed to sink into black funks. You know that. Who will tease me out of them, if not you?"

I cede the task to Bone.

I looked at the red-furred mastiff lolling in the stern. He rolled a bleary brown eye at me, foaming drool dripping from his dewlaps. If there’d ever been a question of whether a dog could be seasick, we had our answer.

The rest of the crew looked depressingly hearty as they manned the steering board, adjusted the trim of the sail, bailed the bilge waters, and even—with great care lest the charcoal escape and set fire to timbers, rope, or cargo—tended a steaming kettle of fish and turnips that would be our dinner. The cold that stiffened my hands had no effect on the men; they worked bare-chested, sinews moving like snakes beneath their sun-leathered skin. I often caught their eyes, speculative, on me, yet they kept their distance, abiding by their captain’s orders.

I owe this lady my life, Jax had told his sailors, who might or might not be pirates. She warned me of a betrayal and saved my back from the plunge of a knife. You will treat her well.

That debt, incurred more than two years past, had paid our passage to Britannia. The crew hadn’t been happy to carry passengers, and there’d been some trouble about a woman who usually sailed with them, who hadn’t wanted another female aboard and so refused to come with us. Jax had shrugged his shoulders and left her on the dock, her lips parted in surprise at being abandoned. Given her ripe looks and the crew’s answering dismay, I guessed she was a favorite whore. I was sorry for their loss but not sorry enough either to give up the voyage or to offer myself as their plaything in her stead.

Not so long ago, I might have enjoyed feeling their eager hands on my skin, but something had broken inside me when I fled Soissons a month ago, and now the thought of being touched by a man left me hollow. What was the point of it? I’d lost my infant son, Theo, to the Franks; I’d brought a man I both hated and adored to his death; and I’d rejected my lover, Clovis, because he wanted to use me more than he wanted to love me. Pride and self-preservation alone hadn’t given me the strength to tear myself away from him, but the pain of losing contact with Theo had.

And though I hated to admit it, Sygarius had given me the strength, too. He’d urged me to fly free and become what I was meant to be. He had done so from the gates of death, and I trusted the words of a man in such a place.

Jax nimbly darted between lashed cargo, crewmen, and the wood slats that served as benches, landing barefoot beside us, his toes spread and clinging to the damp wood like a salamander’s. Go to the stern, he ordered, a note of worry in his tone that I’d never heard before. We must cover the boat before the storm hits.

Quick and graceful as a fox, Jax had a feral confidence that was as dangerous as it was reassuring. Nothing scared him, so hearing the hint of alarm in his voice now sent a bolt of fear through me. How bad will this storm be? I asked.

Bad enough. He flashed a grin at me, his teeth white in the growing darkness. Wind thrashed his black hair, plastering tendrils across his cheek and brow. If I ask your help, Nimia, will you give it?

Of course.

As will I, Terix said as he and I struggled onto our feet, gripping the gunwale to keep our balance.

Jax’s grin turned wry. This will be a woman’s work, my friend. I hope not to need it, but . . . He cast his eyes to the horizon, where the gray wall of a squall was sweeping toward us. The sea goddess will have her way. He went forward to help his men.

Terix and I stumbled to the stern, trying to keep out of the way of the sailors lashing down oiled canvas covers that stretched from gunwale to gunwale. They eyed me as I went by, accusation in their glares. "They look as if they blame me for the storm," I whispered to Terix as we settled in next to Bone.

Sailors are known to be superstitious about women on board.

That can’t be, since they usually sail with one. And the carvings don’t speak to any such fear. The prow of the boat was carved in the shape of a naked woman, her spread arms reaching backward along the gunwales, her legs parting at the waterline. The carefully sculpted folds of her sex were laved by the water with every plunge of the prow into the sea.

Maybe they’re angry to be here. If not for you, they wouldn’t be this far west. The eastern half of Britannia was well known to Jax and his crew, who traded with (or plundered?) the Saxons regularly. We’d stopped in three of their tiny ports—mere piers along marshy riverbanks—for Jax to ask what they knew of Maerlin. Maerlin was the man of my tribe, the Phanne, whom Clovis had met several years before and who had told Clovis to remember their meeting. For if he did, he’d said, We shall both find that which we seek.

Did Maerlin seek me as I sought him? He was the only thread I knew to follow to find my mother, if she still lived, and to learn more about the strange powers that were erupting inside me, which I was certain were tied to my tribe.

Maerlin loomed large in my imagination, but none of the Saxons had heard of him. I’d nearly given up hope when Jax finally uncovered a scrap of information in the third port. A woman remembered gossip she dared not repeat, about a young man with spiral tattoos who’d paid for lodging in a widow’s home for a night. It had been on a farm inland, some eight or so years before. He was thought to be a Briton, from the west. She remembered only because the rumors had been so wild, so warped, and whispered from woman to woman.

She blushed when she told me, Jax had said, looking at me with a question in his eyes. And she wasn’t the sort of woman to blush.

I’d put my hands out, palms up. I’ve never met him. I have no idea what he did with the widow. Or to her. Though I wondered; and I also wondered if the ravenous sexual hunger that used to haunt me, and had gotten me into so much trouble, was tied to being of the Phanne.

A burst of wind hit us, and I yelped as it heeled the boat at a steep angle, the rushing green waters tearing by alongside. I grabbed for a handhold, my heart in my throat, certain I was about to tumble into that frothing torrent. The crew tied down the sail to a small rectangle, big enough to help maintain steerage—you couldn’t steer a boat unless it was making headway against the water—but small enough to keep it from being torn to ribbons. If we were lucky.

Terix moaned, his lips colorless. He wedged his torso under a canvas cover, between a box and the hull, and his body went limp. Bone crawled to him and collapsed on his legs. I hope we sink, Terix said from behind the box. At least it would be over.

You wouldn’t want a watery grave, I said with false cheer. There’d be no end to the sloshing about. Better to survive until dry land, yes?

Terix mumbled something with don’t care in it, and I decided to leave him alone. If he could fall asleep or pass out, he would escape both his physical misery and the terror of the storm.

For terror it was. Hard rain came behind the wind, blinding me and forcing even the hardiest of the crew to don clothes. The boat was mostly covered now, and those crewmen not needed for trimming the sail or holding the steering board retreated beneath the canvas protection up forward. My eyes were on the waves that rose above us. It was as if we were in the bottom of a bowl and then rode up the side and to the rim, where we’d hover for an eternal moment, the storm-whipped sea raging to all sides. And then we dropped, the boat shuddering with the impact, water washing over the bow, as we slid in a terrifying rush into the depths of yet another basin between the waves.

With each blow, the timbers strained, the vessel bending and twisting, and as the slats of the hull separated and came back together, the water gushed in. Men set to bailing with silent ferocity, sparing glances only for Jax and the man at the steering board—and for me.

The meager light disappeared at sunset, and the storm grew worse. Lightning cracked across a sky of burnt wool, the brilliance stunning my eyes and leaving me blinking away white shadows. Thunder roared, filling my blood with a fear born in some deep, primitive part of myself. I feared that the boat was being shaken apart.

Hands gripped my shoulders. I turned and saw Jax, his face grim, his eyes burning. He shouted something to me that I couldn’t make out and pried my arms from the lashed-down box I’d been holding.

What? What is it? I shouted.

Sorry . . . Help . . . Need . . . he said, the other words lost to the wind.

I nodded. Yes, of course, whatever he needed. Was I to help bail? Stuff leaks?

He dragged me into the darkness under the cover, and I felt the hands of others on me, guiding me forward to a soft, damp spot. The noise was different here, deeper than in the open, and the air felt moistly warm without the wind to snatch it away. I could see nothing but black shapes upon blackness, and yet I knew it was Jax who put his face close to mine, his mouth at my ear.

Offering . . . Goddess . . . he said. Calm seas.

Offering! I envisioned a sacrificial blade, and panic drenched me. Kill me? I shrieked, imagining him slicing my throat, my blood soaking the timbers in an ancient ritual to save their lives.

No! I felt him shake his head, his cheek against mine. But . . . The next several words were lost in thunder. Willing? . . . Save us.

The timbers cracked, like branches bent almost to breaking, their fibers giving way. I would agree to whatever Jax wanted, if it might save us. Yes, anything! What do I do?

You . . . We . . . Hope enough time.

What?

Instead of answering, he pushed me onto my back, and someone found my wrists and pulled them above my head. My belly tightened as I fought the urge to struggle. Jax had said they wouldn’t kill me, but there were worse things than death to be dealt by the hands of men.

Hands grasped my ankles and pulled my legs apart, while others shoved my skirts up past my waist. I froze in shock.

This is what they were going to do? Truly? The sea was about to swallow us, our deaths were nigh, and all they could think was to mount me? It was so laughably male I almost couldn’t believe it was happening.

Maybe that was how they wanted to die. It would be a happy farewell for them but not for me.

I suddenly struggled against the hands, taking them by surprise. My foot connected with a chin; my fist came free and hit a mouth. Stop it! Let me go! I yelled against the roar of the storm.

The hands fell away; the shadows of the men drew back. I thrashed a moment more, expecting to feel their hold again, but instead, I heard Jax’s voice, his mouth at my ear.

Nimia, please . . . Ritual . . . Goddess . . . Calm the seas.

A wave crashed over the bow and held the boat down as if trying to drown it. My breath caught in my throat, and I sensed the weight of the sea beyond the thin canvas. There was a sickening tear of cloth and then a rush of water, dousing me; in its icy stream I felt death lay her hands upon me, and I screamed. The men were shouting, and there was a chaos of movement in the dark as the water poured in.

With a slow heave, the bow rose out from under the wave. The hands of death retreated, draining into the bilge to await her chance. The timbers groaned in agony, and I knew the boat would not survive another blow.

I grabbed for Jax. Anything! I shouted, and tried to pull him on top of me. If he thought his sea goddess needed sex to end the storm, let her have it! I would believe in anything, give myself to any ritual, to save our skins.

Jax shouted something in his own language, and the hands came back, pulling my clothes off and my thighs wide. So be it! At least it was a distraction from the