An adult stories – Breaking the Barbarian: Ch. 01 by karina_jayde
Author’s Note: This takes place in the same fantasy setting as my Duchess of Lust series, about ten years after the finale. However, reading that prior series is not a requirement to enjoy this new series. Some places, events, and characters from that first series are referenced, but this new series is designed to be read as a standalone.
For those who have not read the ‘Duchess of Lust’ series, it is an erotic political/war drama, set in a fairly standard fantasy setting akin to the Holy Roman Empire and Scandinavia of the medieval era. Although it is in a fantasy setting, the supernatural/fantastical elements are minimal for this particular series.
As an additional note for readers of my Duchess of Lust series: I have done a bit of a retcon, deciding to give a formal name to the northern barbarian lands. In the original series I just referred to it as ‘the north’ or ‘the northlands.’ To give it a bit more flavor, I’ve decided to call that region ‘Kovgaard.’ So any references to ‘Kovgaard’ within this new series will refer to the ‘northlands’ that were mentioned in the original series.
**
The iron prow of my longship crashed into the hull of my brother’s vessel. Wood creaked and shattered. Bloodthirsty howls rose from the warriors aboard both ships. Screams drowned out the distant booms of thunder.
“Hoskuld!” I bellowed, shield and axe in hand. “Meet your doom with honor, dog!”
Shield and axe in hand, I leapt over the railing, my boots landing upon the rain-soaked deck of the enemy longship. Steel gleamed on all sides. Howling warriors closed in, their shields adorned with paintings of clan sigils and sacred runes.
My warriors flowed across to join me, as inexorable as the surging waves around us.
Once more I roared out my brother’s accursed name. My axe splintered shields and limbs, batting aside spear-thrusts and desperate sword-swings.
A dagger skimmed across my ring-mail. I snarled out my brother’s name, ducking back before the dagger could claim my flesh. My savage counter-swing tore open the dagger-wielder’s throat.
Bodies and severed limbs flopped upon the deck around me. Wounded and dying warriors tumbled over the railing, embraced by the hunger of the sea. A wave crashed into the conjoined longships. A snarling foe tumbled into me; I grabbed him by the wrist, slashed open the back of his thigh, and sent him spinning over the side and into the churning depths.
“Anvarr!” a voice cried from behind me.
I spun, barely avoiding a spear-thrust that would have claimed my life had it not been for Orgumir’s warning. After chopping the spearman across the chest and sending him sprawling, I gave the wiry old Orgumir a grateful nod.
A semblance of order settled upon the bloody deck. My followers assembled into a loose shield-wall, while Hoskuld’s men staggered into a similar formation to face us. Corpses ruled the space between our battered, bloodied warbands.
“You missed me that much, brother?” a voice called, barely audible over the thunder and the roars of the sea.
The enemies’ painted shields dipped lower, giving me a glimpse of the man I’d been hunting for weeks.
Hoskuld was tall and broad-shouldered, his beard and wild blonde hair streaked with blood and seawater. Hate and hunger gleamed in his bright green eyes. Our resemblance was so uncanny that even our mother had occasionally mistaken us for one another.
She would have made no such mistakes now, however. The half-healed, jagged scar along my cheek ensured that no soul would ever confuse me for my twin again. I’d earned that wound as a result of his treachery: it would serve as an eternal reminder of my brother’s greed and foul ambition.
“No more of your men need to die,” I snarled, rolling my shoulders and thumping my axe against my shield. “We can settle this. A trial of iron and blood. You can at least die with glory as a true man of Kovgaard. Your death can restore some honor to the clan as well.”
Another wave sloshed over the side of the longships. Thunder boomed.
“Do you hear that, Anvarr?” Hoskuld said, pointing his bloody sword skyward. “Our gods growl in hunger. They gnash their teeth, eager to feast upon your soul. I think they have waited long enough for such a meal.”
“Enough chatter,” Orgumir growled, taking a step forward, interlocking his shield with mine. “You know he wouldn’t fight you honorably anyway.”
“Aye,” I snarled. “But honor demands that-”
Lightning flashed like a spear from the heavens, striking the mast. Splinters rained down in the midst of Hoskuld’s shield-wall.
A good omen from the gods. In gratitude for their favor, I’d send them my brother’s soul.
I took a step forward. A great wave crashed into the side of the longships, forcing me back against Orgumir. Water splashed over our feet. Both shield-walls collapsed. Screams entwined with the roaring thunder.
Undaunted by the wrath of the sea, I regained my footing and charged. Hoskuld leapt over one of his men who’d lost his footing.
A moment before we met, another wave crashed into the ships. The hull creaked, then splintered. The mast shattered, tumbling down into the midst of both reeling warbands. Pain roared as my flailing brother’s blade bit into my forearm.
I managed one wild swing of my axe, missing his throat by mere inches.
The deck gave way beneath me. The sea rose, the icy waters wrapping around my waist and dragging me into its hungry depths.
**
Water spewed from my lungs. The warmth of sunlight danced across my aching body. Desperate lurches of my arms brought me further up the beach. A thin trail of blood followed me across the sand.
Panting, I flopped onto my back and stared up at the sky.
Not a cloud in sight.
The storm had vanished within minutes of us all plunging into the sea.
Had the slaughter sated the thirst of the deep gods and thus spared us a greater storm? Had the gods’ hunger claimed Hoskuld as well?
I hoped not. My steel longed to taste his flesh.
As I took in deep and frantic breaths, I caught the stench of smoke on the wind. Frowning and growling, I rose to my feet and glanced around.
I stood upon a beach of gray sand. Moss and weeds clung to massive, jagged boulders. Corpses and debris drifted in along with the waves. Around me stretched rolling, rocky hills and sheer cliffs of dark blue stone.
At the top of a nearby hill I could make out a few structures: all blackened, burned, and smoldering.
“By the fangs of the gods,” I cursed. “Where am I?”
My hunt for Hoskuld had taken us far from our homeland in Kovgaard. Our longships had sliced south across the great sea, occasionally skirting the well-defended coasts of the northern imperial duchies. Had I washed ashore in imperial territory?
If so, I was in need of a weapon. Though the duchies and Kovgaard had been at peace since King Ulrik’s failed invasion, tensions still lingered and northlanders were not always welcome in the south.
Staggering, I wandered along the beach and searched among the corpses. Almost all of them had lost their weapons upon plunging into the depths. One of them clutched a broken spear, while a second man still had a hatchet strapped to his waist.
I turned him over and flinched with recognition. The dead man was Amundar, a cousin of mine who had joined me on my blood-quest.
“You fought well, cousin,” I said, patting his rune-tattooed cheek. “I will honor your memory with your steel and ensure that your soul is carried to your ancestors.”
After tearing the hatchet from his belt, I murmured a prayer before collecting a few more supplies from the dead. In time I could return to put the dead to rest, after I had found other survivors and ensured a measure of safety for myself.
Grief would have to wait.
A trumpet sounded from the burned hamlet. Figures scurried amidst the skeletal ruins.
Four men trotted down the hill. All were armed with spears and axes, wearing chainmail and long green cloaks. Ash and soot stained their uniforms and half-helms. Upon their tabards was a sigil I hadn’t seen before: a lion fighting a two-headed serpent.
Judging by their weapons and armor, these men were clearly southerners. I had landed in an imperial duchy or perhaps upon one of the island kingdoms scattered across the Talon Sea.
They stopped in their tracks, eyes wide.
More figures emerged from the burned huts. A dozen ashen men and women, eyes wet with tears. None were armored; all were dressed in simple, humble clothing that marked them as fishers or farmers. Among them were a few children who whimpered and cowered behind the adults.
“Who are you?” one of the soldiers shouted, jabbing in my direction with his spear.
“I am Anvarr, son of Eyvald and Valgerrd. I mean you no harm.”
I gave another quick glance at the sobbing villagers. What had they done to deserve such cruelty at the hands of those soldiers?
“Bloody hells,” another soldier hissed. “A fucking northman. Just what we need.”
“Only one,” said a portly bearded soldier, though he regarded me as warily as the others.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“You’re on our island, savage,” said a soldier as he and his comrades closed in “We ask the questions.”
Once more my gaze flitted up to the onlooking villagers. As the wind picked up, something moved under the rafters of a burned barn; two burned, blackened bodies swayed in the wind.
My rage at Hoskuld had shifted to simmering embers after washing up on the beach. That fire now roared to life at the side of those swaying bodies. Despite the pain in my arm from the wound I’d suffered, my hand coiled tightly around the hatchet.
“I apologize,” I said through clenched teeth. “I misspoke earlier.”
“Oh? When?”
“When I told you that I meant you no harm.”
Their eyes widened. I sprung forward, hatchet swinging. It caught a spearman beneath the chin before he had time to react. As he gurgled and fell, I snatched up his spear before it could hit the ground. A quick bob to the side spared me from a spear-thrust, and I plunged my own stolen spear into a second soldier’s throat.
As he let out a bloody moan, I lunged forward and tore my hatchet free from my first victim’s body, before ducking beneath an axe-swing. A wild chop of my hatchet tore into the man’s boot.
I screamed as a spear plunged into me from behind, just above my hip. The spearman snarled and twisted the weapon, sending it deeper. I flung myself to the side. The spear snapped; I grabbed the broken haft and swept the man’s legs out from under him.
He toppled with a grunt, letting out a string of curses. The curses ended as I tore a dagger from his belt and plunged it through the visor of his helm. After a grunt and a twitch, he went still.
The last soldier closed in on me, limping from the wound I’d delivered to his foot.
“Fucking savages,” he spat.
He raised his axe.
Blood burst from his neck and lips as a pitchfork took him from behind, skewering him in the back of his throat.
An ash-covered villager lowered the pitchfork, his eyes wide and bloodshot.
Growling through the pain, I struggled to my feet. Agony flared within my back and I staggered back down to the ground. The impact sent the spear-tip deeper into my back. My scream echoed across the beach.
“Go!” the man shouted up at the other villagers. “To the convent. This man needs a healer!”
The villager tore off the cloak of a dead soldier and turned me back over before using the cloak to staunch the bleeding.
“You’ll be all right,” he murmured. “The nuns will know what to do.”
“Where?” I sputtered, my vision darkening.
The man mumbled something. The fire of agony was so great that all I heard was a faint whisper. The blood pounded in my ears. The strength fled my shaking limbs.
Darkness swirled but did not consume me.
No.
This would not be my end. I could not face my ancestors without confirming Hoskuld’s death. I would struggle on, gasping and snarling, until I knew that my wretched brother was dead.
Firm hands grasped my arms, guiding me into a cart that I hadn’t even notice arrive. Someone mumbled and I growled back.
“Hoskuld,” I hissed, my senses and wits fleeing my mind. “Where?”
“Hush,” someone said.
How long had passed since the storm? How long had I bled out upon that beach? Pain and delirium stripped away all sense of time and place.
The cart rocked beneath me. A horse huffed. A dark figure loomed over me, blocking the harsh glare of the sun.
Shadows embraced their face, hiding their eyes from view. No, not shadows. A veil of dark silk.
“It’s all right,” she cooed, a soft hand brushing against my cheek.
The softness of the voice and that touch soothed the ache in my back.
“Drink,” she murmured, bringing a vial of blue liquid to my parched lips.
My shaking hand fumbled against the vial, too weak to take hold. The veiled woman gently pushed my hand away and tilted the vial, dumping the ice-cold contents down my throat.
Wintery waves spread through my body, engulfing the fiery pain. I sighed and shivered.
“Extract of snow-lotus root,” the veiled woman said. “It will soothe the pain and help your body fight off the infection. Now I can tend to the wound.”
Gentle hands turned me onto my side. Strange, probing pressure assailed my back but the potion kept the agony at bay.
“Hoskuld,” I muttered. “Where is he?”
The soft hand patted my cheek.
I leaned my head over my shoulder, catching sight of the bloody spear-tip that had been removed. Wrapped against the wound was a thick green bandage.
Gods, I had barely felt a thing. How had she extracted it and bound the wound without causing me further pain or harm?
My shocked eyes looked over my savior. She wore long, flowing dark blue robes with a bronze circlet around her head. Dangling from that circlet was a veil of dark silk that shrouded her face from view. The gleam of the sun gave me just a hint of what the veil covered: a soft, pale face and deep brown eyes. She wore her dark red hair in a short bob. Etched into the fabric of her robe were beautiful silvery depictions of flowers, roots, and vines.
“Who…” I said, my eyes fluttering.
“Save your strength. You shall need it to endure the Mother Superior’s questions. A northlander arriving on our shores is cause for great alarm; she will require answers.”
Darkness flitted at the edges of my sight but I refused to slip off into unconsciousness. The cart rolled along a rocky path, winding through moss-covered hills. I was too dazed to assess my surroundings or how many people were with me, nor could I guess as to how long it had been since we’d left the beach.
As the cart rolled on, the young woman sang a soft, gentle and soothing song about a river filled with flowers. The gentle lyrics did as much to soothe my pain as that potion; the lilting melody even caused my head to sway and I nearly drifted off.
“Hoskuld,” I said for perhaps the hundredth time that day.
“It’s all right. Once the Mother Superior has her answers and you are rested, you can go back and try to find your friends.” She murmured something under her breath and pressed her hand to my chest. “I am sorry for those you have lost, it must be-”
“He was no friend,” I snarled, the pain flaring along with my rage.
Guided by that fury, my hand lashed out, gripping hold of her wrist and yanking her hand from my chest. Her eyes widened beneath the veil and she let out a squeak, her arm trembling beneath my grasp.
Regret replaced my anger. Wincing, I released her and mumbled an apology.
The veiled woman shirked back to the other side of the cart, watching me with wide, wary eyes as the cart slowed to a halt.
Before us loomed an imposing iron gate and a low stone wall. Vines stretched across the length and breadth of the wall, blooming with bright blue flowers.
On one side of the gate was a life-like statue of a kneeling woman wearing a veil just like the healer’s. The statue’s hands were clasped together as if in supplication. Around the statue’s neck was a vine, keeping her bound like a prisoner.
Opposite the kneeling statue was a statue of a veiled woman with similar curves, though she stood stall and proud like a conqueror. In her stone hands was a whip and a bundle of vines.
The gates opened, revealing rows of gardens. Veiled women tended to herbs and vegetables. As the cart rolled past, a few nuns glanced in my direction. The veils prevented me from seeing if their reactions were of fear, curiosity, or a mixture of both.
The cart halted in front of a large domed structure, the outer walls of which were adorned with more vines. Stained glass windows depicting the kneeling woman adorned the left side of the structure, while the windows on the right displayed that triumphant, whip-wielding nun.
The man who had guided the cart dismounted to help me out. As I leaned heavily upon him, we shuffled over to the doors leading to the central sanctuary.
The doors opened to reveal a cavernous hallway. Blue candles flickered from the walls, casting unearthly light across wooden carvings and paintings of the same women displayed in the statues. Other paintings displayed herbs, flowers, and mushrooms.
“What is this place?” I murmured.
The man steadying me said not a word. Other veiled women materialized out of the shadows, forming a silent escort around us.
Our journey ended at a wooden doorway which opened into a large room. Stained glass windows cast a kaleidoscopic array of light upon the floor. Within the room was a large but simple bed, a bookshelf filled with leatherbound tomes, and several pots by the window which bloomed with bright red flowers.
Without a word, the nameless man helped me to the bed before he and the nuns vanished out into the hall. Iron scraped against iron as they locked the door from the other side.
I ran my hands over the bedding. It had been weeks since I’d slept in anything but a cot or a hammock. The fine fabric certainly outclassed the rough furs I was used to sleeping on back home.
If these strange nuns intended to kill me, at least I’d have one last night of comfort.
Rising from the bed, I limped across the room to inspect the rows of books. They were all written in an unfamiliar script. Even though Kovgaard and the Empire spoke distinct but similar dialects, the southerners’ written language was nothing at all like the runic writing of my homeland.
Regardless, such texts could shed light on who these women were, so I flipped open the first book. Within were detailed drawings of flowers and herbs, some of which I recognized from my northern homeland.
Bored and unenlightened, I moved onto the next text, which contained intricate sketches of the human body, showing the details of bones and muscles. No doubt it was a healer’s text of some kind.
The convent was thus home to nuns with skill in healing and herblore. That didn’t explain the women depicted in the statues and artwork, however.
My eyes widened as I moved on to the next book. The first page displayed a curvaceous, naked woman with a leash around her neck and a veil over her face. Long lines of script filled the next page, followed by another image of a naked woman, standing triumphant with a whip in hand.
Further drawings showed images of detailed knots and bindings.
What madness had these nuns embraced?
Though I was tantalized by the prospect of further drawings of nude women, I slipped the book back into place to inspect my surroundings. There were heavy iron bars against the stained-glass window, preventing any escape. I tested the door: it didn’t budge.
Frowning, I wandered through the room and cocked my head as the sunlight gleamed against something embedded in the ceiling. Standing upon the bed for a closer look, I saw two sets of manacles dangling from the stone.
Three soft knocks rapped upon the door.
“We have brought you food,” said a soft voice, distinct from the woman who had healed me.
A slot opened at the base of the door. In slid a wooden tray containing a loaf of bread, piles of fruits and vegetables, and a bowl filled with sizzling fish. Alongside it was a cup of dark red wine.
The sight of that feast distracted me from my curiosity about those manacles. Stale bread and poorly-cooked fish had been my only sustenance during the long voyage. I lunged like a starving wolf, kneeling beside the food and devouring it within minutes. Sweet and savory sensations detonated within my mouth.
Gods, I had never tasted grapes so sweet and spices used to season the fish were downright heavenly.
I washed down the frantic feast with a few gulps of wine, and groaned at the sweet taste of it. Rising, I wiped the crumbs from my mouth.
My hand went numb and my eyes fluttered.
The wine.
They’d put something in the wine.
Swaying, I managed to brace myself against the bedpost. My vision blurred as the door opened.
Six nuns entered, all wearing the same embroidered dark blue robes and veils as the woman who had tended to my wounds. One of them wore a necklace made of vines and bright blue flowers. Within her hands was a long iron chain.
“You drugged me,” I murmured, helpless to do anything but sway as five of the nuns closed in.
“Of course we did,” came the cold, crisp reply from the woman holding the chains. “We heard of your bloody exploits upon the beach. You are a killer. A reaver of the frigid north. We had to take precautions. Do not worry, it will soon wear off.”
The women guided me to the center of the room. As three of them steadied me, the others looped the chains through the manacles dangling from the wall, then placed other sets of manacles around my wrists.
I tensed, though the effects of the toxin prevented me from doing more than that.
Moments later I was bound: my feet braced against the floor, my arms spread high and wide. True to the nun’s word, the numbness faded after but a few moments.
The nuns stepped back, forming up alongside the woman with the necklace of vines.
“Your name,” she said, her voice as cold and firm as the manacles about my wrist.
“Anvarr, son of Eyvald and Valgerd. Of the Red Omen clan of Kovgaard.”
Despite my fear and confusion, I managed to raise my chin and give her a defiant glare.
“You must be the Mother Superior.”
“Indeed. I have the honor and blessing of being Mother Superior Isidora, the steward of the Sisterhood of the Blessed Chain. It is my duty to protect and guide my Sisters from harm…which is why you are bound and helpless.”
“Why? I pose no threat to you. I only killed those men on the beach because they meant to kill me.”
She crossed the room in three long steps. Now that she was mere feet from me, I could catch a glimpse of her face beneath the veil: thin, with a prominent but pretty nose, and tanned skin. Long dark curls framed her face. Icy gray eyes glared at me through the veil.
“I do not speak of those wastrels you butchered. I speak of the harm you did to Sister Catriona.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“You struck her, despite the fact that she saved her life.”
“I did not strike her. In a fit of anger, I merely grabbed her wrist because she mistook my foe for a friend. It was a rash reaction, nothing more.”
“It is a grave sin to harm a Sister of the Blessed Chain without permission.”
Without permission. That made no sense. Did that mean Icould have harmed Catriona had I simply gotten approval first?
I couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle at the notion. The laugh shifted to a grunt of pain as Isidora slapped me across the cheek. Despite the influence of that numbing agent, pain flared throughout my face.
“Sister Catriona,” Isidora said, snapping her fingers.
The healer-nun stepped forward, her head bowed low. Isidora reached out, taking the younger woman by the hand and raising it.
Doing so exposed a thin, faint bruise upon the young woman’s wrist.
“I am sorry,” I said through gritted teeth. “It was a rash mistake. I was wounded. Half-mad with pain, hunger, and anger.”
“Our holy scriptures provide no exceptions on the matter. You harmed a Sister of the Blessed Chain. For this, you must be punished. But first…”
Isidora reached out and took me by the chin, tilting my gaze upwards.
“Why are you here?”
“I do not even know where ‘here’ is.”
“The Duchy of Etmorra.”
I blinked, vaguely recalling the name. If memory served, it was an imperial duchy not far off the mainland’s coast. Some of the older men of my clan had shared stories of traveling there to trade or to sell their skill as mercenaries. They’d said it was a beautiful and verdant land, far more bountiful than the frigid plains and forests of our Kovgaard. From what little I’d seen of the place during my fevered journey to the convent, I could not disagree.
“I did not intend to come here. I was hunting down my brother.”
“This ‘Hoskuld’ of which you spoke.”
“Yes.”
“Just as striking a nun is a sin, so too is the taking of a kinsman’s life. Your words invite more punishment.”
“The only punishment that matters is punishing my wretch of a brother,” I growled.
Despite the fire in my voice and gaze, I couldn’t help but beneat her faint, cold grip upon my chin.
“And did your kinsman do to deserve such ire?”
“He challenged our king, claiming he could be a better ruler. King Ulrik agreed to the trial by combat, but Hoskuld feigned sickness the day before the trial. Rather than allow our clan to be shamed, I stood as his champion. But it was all I ruse. Even as I was fighting for my life against King Ulrik, Hoskuld was sneaking into the royal treasury.
“When all eyes were upon that bloody duel, Hoskuld made off with a fortune in gold and trinkets. Ulrik was moments from taking my head when word arrived of the theft. To redeem my clan’s honor, I was forced to swear a blood-oath to hunt my brother down.”
“We have heard of King Ulrik…his infamy spread far and wide after his attempted invasion of Fellhaven. You must be quite the warrior, to have stood against him.”
Her hand left my chin and brushed over the scar on my cheek.
“Delivered by the king’s blade, I presume?”
“Aye.” I closed my eyes, dispelling the terrifying memories of Ulrik’s blade hammering against my shield, and the searing pain inflicted by his savage slashes. “We caught up to Hoskuld but a storm struck our ships during the fight. I awoke upon the shore. And when I saw what those soldiers had done to that little village, I attacked them. And now here I stand. In chains.”
I opened my eyes, resuming my fiery glare.
“I see no deception in those eyes,” she said. “Rage and fear, yes. But no lies. You have satisfied my need for answers, yet not for retribution.”
Isidora stepped back.
“Sister Catriona, it is time to administer the Rite. Sister Miriam, see to that armor and tunic of his. The sweat, blood, and seawater have practically ruined it already.”
Another nun stepped forward. I continued to glare at Isidora as Miriam unstrapped the ring-mail. It clattered to the floor and the nun drew a knife. I gritted my teeth but did not flinch as she made three precise slashes upon my tattered tunic. The knife passed just barely over my skin, enough to make me aware of the blade but not enough to break the surface.
“You’ve quite a talent with that blade,” I said, grinning as the sundered tunic slid down to the floor. “How do you find time to practice knife-work in between all the praying and gardening?”
Miriam said nothing, sheathing the knife as she stepped back to join her fellow nuns.
Another nun handed a flogger to Catriona: the handle was covered with script similar to the writing contained in the books. The ends appeared to be made of silk rather than something genuinely dangerous.
I bit back a laugh. This was hardly punishment at all.
“You may proceed, Sister Catriona,” Isidora said.
The young nun stood before me, her hands trembling as her grasp tightened around the flogger.
“For the sin of harming the holy flesh of a Sister of the Blessed Chain, I sentence you to ten lashes, and the Rite of the First Torment.”
“Fifteen,” murmured one of the other nuns. “The punishment is fifteen, Sister Catriona.”
The young nun cleared her throat.
“Yes. Fifteen lashes.”
Catriona stepped forward and brushed the silken strands over my chest. I grunted at the soft, tender caress of that fine material, arching my back a little.
It had not been that long since I’d enjoyed a woman’s touch; I’d made love to a witch back in Kovgaard immediately before setting sail, as part of a ritual to bless our voyage. And though past lovers had bound and teased me before, I’d never endured something quite like this. So exposed and helpless in front of so many pious women…
I shivered.
Despite my confusion about the convent’s strange practices, I didn’t find the situation to be entirely unpleasant. That witch I’d fucked before leaving home had gnawed at my neck and clawed at my back, granting me no end of painful delight. The tool in Catriona’s hands was but merely another instrument of joyful agony.
And if I could ensure the harshness of war, I could endure a novice nun’s punishment.
Catriona dipped the flogger lower, brushing the silken strands over my stomach. Through the thin veil I saw her wide brown eyes dip lower, staring at my crotch for a few moments. I shifted against the manacles, finding myself growing hard beneath her gaze and the soft teasing of that silk.
The other nuns stood silent and motionless as Catriona circled around me, the silk brushing over the toned muscles of my arms and back.
“So many scars,” she murmured, the silk tracing up and down my spine. “So much hardship.”
“You tended well to my wounds,” I said, smirking. “You need not hold back.”
“I was not planning to, Anvarr.”
Iron slipped into her voice with that last word.
A light pain flared in my back at the first strike upon my back. It wasn’t nearly enough to make me flinch or wince.
“Remember your training, Sister,” Isidora said, her voice low and hungry. “It’s all in the wrist.”
“Yes, Mother Superior.”
The next strike was a bit harder than the first, but still not enough to ignite anything but a faint gasp from me.
“Perhaps you should take over for her, Mother Superior,” I said.
“You would shatter beneath such attention,” came the cold reply.
The next strike against my back was strong enough to send me rocking forward a little. The chains rustled above me. My grin widened.
Again and again the young novice struck me, the silk raking and slashing against my back. By the time she’d reached the tenth blow, the pattern of pressure and friction was enough to make my skin burn.
After another strike, she at last found her strength. Two rapid slashes in a row actually caused me to bite my lower lip to muffle a grunt of pain. Heat flared across my back, rippling down into my loins. My thighs quaked.
The next strike turned my grunt into a groan. The strange harshness of that silk inflicted upon me a gentle agony I’d never quite experienced before. The sensation danced right on the edge of pleasure and pain. Catriona delivered a caress and a sting in equal measure.
“The last one, Sister,” Isidora said. “Make it count.”
I braced myself.
The final blow did not land. Instead, the silk brushed over my back, down towards my tensing buttocks. Catriona moved to stand in front of me.
She placed the handle of the flogger beneath my chin. For a moment she stared at me, panting a little from the exertion of the silken torture. Her wide brown eyes looked me up and down.
“I wish to reserve this last strike, Mother Superior.”
“Granted.”
I flashed Catriona a wolfish grin, my body still tingling from her wondrous onslaught.
“And what does that mean?” I asked.
“It means that Sister Catriona can deliver that last strike upon you at any time she wishes. Under any circumstances. It will serve as a reminder of your place, and of her responsibility.”
“Why hold back, Catriona? Did those fourteen lashes tire you out so much that-”
Catriona let out a hiss, pulled back her hand, and slapped me across the face. Murmurs rose from the other sisters as my head snapped back. My taunting laugh rippled through the cell.
“Sister Catriona,” Isidora growled. “You were to deliver fifteen blows with the silken lash. This Rite does not involve punishment with the open palm.”
“I apologize, your holiness,” Catriona said, trembling and taking a step back. “His impudence is…”
“A test,” murmured another nun. “Saint Morwenna sent this warrior to our shores as a test, Sister Catriona. For you. And for the rest of us.”
“And perhaps as a gift,” mumbled another nun.
“Silence,” Isidora hissed. “Senior acolytes such as yourselves should know better than to speak of such things in front of an outsider.”
She moved to collect the flogger from Catriona.
“You also sentenced him to the Rite of the First Torment. Or do you reserve that as well?”
“No,” Catriona said, fire creeping back into her voice. “I will conduct it and burn away his insolence. If you would but assist me, Mother Superior.”
“Of course. But given your skills, you hardly need the aid.”
“And what is this new Rite?” I asked, my grin darting back and forth between the two nuns. “I hope it’s as soft and comforting as those lashes.”
“You have endured pain and withstood it well,” Isidora said. “But there are other tools and weapons at our disposal.”
Isidora murmured something to Catriona and tapped her shoulder. After a deep breath, Catriona lifted the veil and set it aside.
Though I’d caught glimpses of her face through the veil when we’d met, nothing had prepared me for the soft, innocent beauty now on display. Her brown eyes looked even wider and more doe-like now that they were uncovered, and she had plump, red lips that begged to be kissed. Licking her lips, she tucked her short, dark red hair back behind her ears.
Without a word, she fell to her knees before me.
“This hardly seems a punishment at all,” I said, grinning despite the shivers racing through my body.
Catriona’s thin fingers deftly undid my belt. I sighed as she wriggled the fabric down my tensing thighs.
Her eyes fluttered at the sight of my achingly-hard prick.
“Before I begin,” Catriona said, her warm breath washing over the tip of my cock. “You must make a choice. You can take another fifteen lashes, or I can proceed with this particular punishment.”
I let out a long, throaty laugh. While another fifteen lashes might inflict a bit of lingering discomfort, Ihad to choose this new punishment, even for the sake of mere curiosity.
“Make your choice,” Isidora said, her voice still low and cold. “Do you embrace the lash or the Rite of the First Torment?”
“Get to work, Catriona,” I said with an impudent grin at the kneeling nun.
Snarling, Isidora gripped the back of my hair, tugging my face to the side and forcing me to meet her gaze. Even through the veil, I could see fury gleaming in her gray eyes.
“Disrespect her again and you shall suffer far more than the lash, Anvarr. Answer her question: do you embrace the lash or the Rite?”
Another laugh escaped my lips.
“I already told you, I-”
She slapped me. The impact sent a jolt through my body, causing the chains to rattle and shake.
As the sting fled my cheek, I managed a grin.
“I embrace the Rite.”
“Good. Sister Catriona, you may begin.”
Through the veil I could make out a proud, hungry smirk upon the Mother Superior’s face. She released my hair and stepped back.
“Sister Catriona may require further instruction in the use of the lash, but she requires no guidance for this particular skill. Before long you shall find yourself begging for the lash. Or worse.”
Catriona closed her eyes, placed her hands together, and bowed her head.
“Saint Morwenna, Queen of Surrender and Queen of Conquest. I beseech thee for your aid and guidance. Grant me the power to break and the strength to tame.”
Her eyes flashed open, filled with a hunger that caused me to flinch back. By the fangs of the gods, I had never seen such fire in a woman’s gaze before.
It didn’t look as if she was about to pleasure me…
She looked ready todevour me instead.
Those soft lips parted and her lips descended, taking the full length of my shaft into her warm mouth. I let out a trembling laugh and leaned my head back.
With a snarl, Isidora reached out, gripped my wild blonde locks, and forced me to look back down.
“Do not dare avert your gaze from her holy work.”
Catriona stared up at me, her gaze wide and hungry, silently demanding that I keep my eyes locked with hers. With her mouth sealed against the base of my shaft, her tongue licked and teased alongside the underside of my cock. Her mouth tightened, clenching and sucking around my length.
I let out a soft grunt. Gods, the woman’s control was impressive indeed…
Unblinking, she pulled her lips back at a slow, agonizing pace until she reached the tip. Catriona gave it an almost chaste little kiss before sliding all the way back down, taking me to the hilt once more. Wide brown eyes stared up at me while her tongue bathed the underside of my cock, and then she slid back up again.
Again and again, she moved with perfect poise and control. Not once did she whimper or gag. Her hands rose to settle on my trembling thighs. Sharp nails scraped over my muscles and she let out a muffled giggle against my twitching prick.
My eyes fluttered as the tension in my core shifted. I moved as best as I could within the chains, my hips bucking against her mouth. Her nails bit into my thighs again but she did not otherwise protest, instead persisting with that slow, agonizing torture.
And yet it would still be enough. The lashing, the teasing, the sight of those warm brown eyes…
Not long now. Tension rippled through my stomach and loins. Waves of bliss echoed from deep within me. Pressure surged through my cock, my lungs strained…
Just a few more moments. One more lick or bob of her head and I would be undone.
Catriona stopped, her lips sealed around the tip of my cock.
My growl turned into a sob of need. The chains rattled as I tried to buck against her mouth, desperately seeking that one last burst of sensation to send me over the edge. Her grip tightened on my thighs, keeping me in place.
“Fangs of the gods,” I cursed, my head thrashing.
Isidora gripped my hair again, forcing me to look back down at the wicked nun kneeling before me.
My body reeled away from its peak, my climax denied by that cruel mouth. For several moments Catriona’s mouth lingered upon the tip.
Only then did she begin to move again, repeating that same cruel, slow pace up and down my shaft.
As Isidora gripped my hair, keeping my gaze locked with Catriona’s, the other nuns looked on in silence.
Twice more Catriona repeated that wondrous torture, using the perfect pace to draw me right up towards the edge of my climax. My heart pounded in my ears, my chest heaved, and my thighs ached from tensing for so long. The agony of it all made the discomfort of the chains fade; the rest of the room blurred, and I’d have forgotten all about Isidora were it not for her cruel grip of my hair.
“Do you repent for your sin against Sister Catriona?” Isidora said, the icy tone slicing through the haze afflicting my senses.
My only reply was a broken little moan. Catriona continued her work and Isidora repeated the question.
“Yes,” I blurted out after a deep breath.
Joy and relief erupted through my body, certain that my repentance would soon lead to the mercy of a long-denied climax.
To my shock and horror, Catriona lifted her mouth from my aching, dripping cock.
I shuddered within the chains and let out a whimper, my engorged cock twitching. I’d been mere moments away from release…only to be so cruelly denied once more.
“Are you satisfied, Sister Catriona?” Isidora asked, still gripping my hair.
“Yes,” the redheaded nun murmured, panting a little and wiping the pearly droplets of my pre-cum from her lips.
“What?” I hissed after another tremor. “That’s it?”
“The Rite of the First Torment does not end in climax, Anvarr,” Isidora said, her voice warming slightly, shifting away from her usual icy fury. “But you can beg, if you wish. If Sister Catriona decides to be merciful, she may grant you that reward.”
“Please.” The forlorn word erupted from my shaking lips. “Please, Catriona.”
I could not recall ever feeling so desperate and broken beneath a lover’s touch before. The fears and concerns over my journey and the hunt for Hoskuld had faded entirely. All that mattered was easing the agony gripping my entire body. Just a faint touch, another lick, a gentle stroke…
Murmuring under her breath, Catriona took hold of the base of my shaft with her soft fingers. I flinched and cried out, my body stumbling once more towards its peak. Biting my lip, I prayed to my uncaring gods that she would not deny me again.
“You were quite cruel to me, even though I saved your life.”
Catriona pouted a little as she leaned up to brush her lips over my neck.
“I am sorry,” I whispered, every word bursting with desperate need. “I was not…”
I bucked my hips in a futile attempt to claw back control. An utter failure: her hand remained motionless at the base of my shaft.
“What shall you grant me in exchange for this reprieve?” Catriona whispered, her breath warm and hungry against my neck. “What boon shall I earn for granting you this mercy?”
“Anything,” I sputtered, my eyes rolling back into my head as I felt her tongue caress my neck. “Anything at all…”
“There is power in such an offer,” Catriona said. “You glimpse upon the sacred and the divine. Even as a foreigner and a nonbeliever, you stumble towards enlightenment.”
Catriona took me by the chin, tilting my head to force me to stare at the stained-glass window, which depicted a naked woman bound in chains just as I was. Blue flowers blossomed within her hair and at her feet.
“You suffer as Saint Morwenna suffered. And perhaps you shall ascend, as she ascended.”
And with that, Catriona finally dragged her fingers up the length of my cock and back down again. As she worked, she licked and nuzzled against my neck.
Three strokes was all it took. The chains clattered as I trembled. My wild gasps turned to broken sobs and whimpers. My hips rocked with all of their might against her soft grasp, my toes curling against the harsh stone floor. Fire erupted in my chest and core. My eyes fluttered, my vision blurred. The room faded into a misty haze; my senses were completely unable to grasp anything save for Catriona’s touch.
My cock pulsed and twitched within her once-cruel grasp. A pearly spray erupted from the tip, arcing into the air and splashing onto the stone floor. Her strokes quickened, her grasp tightening with each surge of my seed, her rhythm perfectly matching the agonizing pulses roaring through my length.
“Praise be to Saint Morwenna,” all of the nuns murmured as one.
Catriona released me and raised her hand, licking at some of the mess that had splashed onto her fingers. As I trembled and writhed within the chains, she lifted her other hand, displaying the faint bruise upon her wrist that I’d inflicted upon her.
Without a word, she raised her wrist to my lips. Taking a few moments to gasp and shudder, I leaned forward to place a gentle kiss upon the bruise.
The other veiled nuns stepped forward to lower the chains. I slumped to my knees, though Catriona bent down to steady me before I could collapse fully to the floor.
I had endured battles and duels that had been less exhausting than that ordeal. My muscular frame leaned heavily upon Catriona for a few moments, until I’d regained enough of my strength and wits to rise.
Upon standing, my legs shook and nearly gave out. With a sigh, I flopped backwards onto the bed, bracing a hand against the bedpost for support.
Catriona collected her veil and covered up that pretty, innocent face.
“Rest,” Isidora said. “Tomorrow, we will discuss your fate in further detail. And remember, Anvarr, that Sister Catriona still reserves the right for one last lash.”
The veiled nuns filed out of the room, locking the door behind them. With a groan, I sank down onto the bed. Exhaustion and relief dragged me to blissful slumber.
**