Bound to the Battle God Page 3

  Well that doesn't make me feel uncomfortable at all.

  I pause, trying to figure out where I am and where I need to go. Can I turn around? I look behind me, but there's no hint of the room I was just in. There's no door, no nothing, just stone walls, people leading around land-hippos and the occasional shabby-looking booth propped up against the walls.

  There’s no obvious route home.

  I pinch myself. Hard. Twice, just in case the first one didn’t count. Nope, I’m awake. Awake and hating this. I look around one more time for a door or a portal of some kind that would have dumped me here, but there’s nothing. It’s entirely possible I’m having a stroke or I’m in a coma or something and my brain is firing up fantasy scenarios, because this definitely looks more like Game of Thrones than Chicago. I gaze at the land-hippos and try to match them up with known animals on Earth, but I come up with a blank. I don’t think these are Earth creatures. And if that’s the case, where am I and how did I end up on another planet? I hesitate, and when a woman with a large basket on her hip pauses to adjust her load, I approach her.

  “Excuse me,” I say brightly. “I seem to be lost.”

  She frowns at my mouth, as if my words sound weird. Her gaze slides down to my clothing. “What’re you looking for? An inn?”

  “An inn would be great. I don’t suppose you can tell me where I am?”

  Her uneasy look grows. “The slums?”

  “No, I mean here.” I gesture at the ground with both hands. “This city. Where is this?”

  The woman’s brows go up. “Aventine?”

  Aventine. Okay, that’s a start. I beam at her, trying not to panic. I’ve never heard of Aventine, but I’m admittedly not the best with geography. “And are we still on Earth?”

  “Earth?” she echoes.

  “The planet?” How has she not heard of Earth?

  She makes a gesture over her chest—probably to ward off my crazy—and shakes her head, walking away. “Leave me alone.”

  Right. Just makin’ friends wherever I go. I bite back a sigh of frustration. It’s obvious I don’t fit in here, which means that not only is this not Chicago, this is definitely not Earth. It’s also hot as blazes, the air dry. Considering it was sweater weather back home, I’ve definitely changed locations. I glance back at the woman with the basket, but she’s disappeared into the maze of crowded alleys.

  All right then, I’m alone. Hot panic simmers in my chest. I can’t be stranded here. I don’t have my purse, or money, or even a fucking bra. I don’t have shoes. I don’t have the faintest idea of where the hell I am or how I got here. I want to press my hands to my forehead and cry. I want to collapse, but I know all of that won’t do any good. So I take a deep, shuddering breath, straighten my shoulders, and try to figure out where I am. If I got dumped here, it stands to reason someone will know how to put me back. I just have to find that person.

  Somewhat calmer, I put my hands on my hips and gaze around me, trying to figure out my next move. The music continues somewhere nearby, low and urgent, and I decide I might as well follow it. Seems about as good an idea as any other idea.

  I head forward through the dusty streets of…wherever I am. One thing I've learned about people thanks to five years in a corporate environment is that if you look confident, people will assume you know what you're doing and where you're going. So I put confidence in my step and stroll forward like this is all part of my master plan.

  Fake it until you make it and all that.

  The stone walls snake around, and I follow them until they fork, splitting in opposite directions. One way seems more crowded than the other, so I pick the less crowded path.

  Almost immediately, I regret it. It opens up into what looks like a big open area in the city, and here there are rows and rows of tents like something out of an old war movie. There are more land-hippos and more men. Armored men. To a one, they're all dressed in an overcoat of a dark red over armor. It makes them look alarmingly badass.

  And they’re all looking at me.

  I get that uncomfortable prickle along my spine. Clearly, I'm not supposed to be here…wherever here is.

  Clearly, this is very, very bad. I’ve stumbled out of a marketplace in the slums and into a war encampment. I turn on my heel, moving back toward the walls I've just—stupidly—wandered out of.

  A hand grabs my shoulder. “What have we got here?”

  A man in armor gazes down at me. His face is craggy and rough, unshaven, and he stinks of sweat. He eyes me like I would a new flavor of cheesecake.

  I try to feign a smile.

  “You look like you’re lost.”

  Boy he has no idea just how lost I am. I gesture back where I came. “Sorry. I didn’t see the sign that said ‘no girls allowed.’ I’ll be heading out now.”

  His hand just tightens on my shoulder and his eyes narrow at me. “Who’s your overlord?”

  “Pardon?” I try to slide out from under the grip of his gloved hand, but he yanks on my arm instead.

  “Your overlord,” he says, leering at the front of my pajamas. “If you’re from Aventine, you’ll have an overlord and a house symbol showing your allegiance. Wanna flash those for me?”

  “Oooh, they’re in my other pants,” I say brightly. “But if you’ll just let me go—”

  He clamps down tighter on my shoulder. “We’ve got ourselves a runaway slave,” he bellows. “Rodrick!”

  A man starts running toward us. “Yes, Commander?”

  “I’m not a slave,” I protest, jerking at the man’s grip. “Let me go!”

  The commander backhands me and I go flying to the ground. “Rodrick” hauls me to my feet as I stare at the men in shock.

  Someone just hit me. I touch my face in stunned surprise.

  The commander just gives me an icy look, then focuses on Rodrick. “You know what we do to those who have no allegiance, don’t you?”

  “The slave pens, Commander?”

  The man nods. “Make sure she brings a fair coin. She’s got all her teeth.”

  I’m the unluckiest woman ever.

  I push my face between the metal bars of the slave cage that’s been my home for two days, trying to see the man that’s just walked up. He gives me a look, and I try to smile prettily at the man in front of me, since I’ve learned that no one listens to a pissy slave. “Hi there. Are you from around here? Because I’m not and I really, really need to get out of here.”

  “Shut up, tart,” the man says, barely glancing over at me.

  Rude, I think, but I’m not surprised. No one in this place has even heard of the word “manners.” I’m now two days into this new world, though, and I’m determined to find a way home. I’m long past hysterics, long past tears, and have ended up in the grim-resignation end of things. I’m here in this shithole, now I need to figure out how to get out. And getting out means getting out of this slave cage, first of all.

  If that means being nicey-nice to this guy, I’ll do it. So I flutter my lashes, give him a chirpy smile, and try again. “I’m from Earth. Chicago, actually. I know everyone thinks it’s all crime ridden and cold, but it’s actually pretty awesome. Great nightlife. Fantastic museums. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it?”

  And I beam like I’m not in a slave pen on some Conan-esque planet, wearing manacles and what can only be described as a half of a skirt.

  I’m going to get my way out of this place with the power of positive thinking, damn it.

  The man just narrows his eyes at me. He glances over at the man in front of the slave pen and gestures at me. “This one’s got a mouth on her.”

  “That can be fixed,” the man says, counting coins in his hand and not looking up.

  I swallow hard, thinking of the guy I saw have his tongue pulled out yesterday. Okay. New plan. “Did I say Earth? I meant…east. Totally meant east. Absolutely, one hundred percent from this land.” I try to slide back behind the other slaves shackled in the pen. I only moved to the front because
this guy looked clean and wealthy and maybe would be reasonably nice to a poor, down-on-her-luck woman that isn’t supposed to be in a slave pen.

  Or isn’t supposed to be in this world at all.

  No such luck, though. The man points a finger at me and looks over at the guy counting coins. “I’ll take that one anyhow. Best looking of the lot.”

  The slave-master finishes counting his coins and grunts. “You’ll want to collar her. She doesn’t think she should be a slave.”

  They both share a chuckle at that, and someone puts a hand to my back and shoves me forward. With a yelp, I stagger to the front of the pen, and then I’m hauled out. I would say it’s an improvement from the cramped, filthy pen I’ve been stuck in for the last two days, but given that I’ve just been sold as a slave?

  “Improvement” is debatable.

  So I smile at the soldier that bought me, determined to make a friend. If I can win him into friendship, maybe he can explain to me what I’m doing in this weird-ass world and how I get home. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Faith. I’d give you my hand to shake, but I’m a little tied up at the moment.” I raise my shackled hands and put on my most winning smile.

  The soldier stares at me. He smiles, then crooks a finger.

  Even though it feels like a trap, I lean forward. “Yes?”

  He grabs me by the neck, and then something rough and metal locks around my throat. A collar. I choke, raising my manacled hands to claw at the hair caught between my skin and the collar, since it feels as if it’s all being pulled out. He slaps my hands away, then grabs them and loosens the manacles before snapping my lead chain to my collar. “Follow me, tart.”

  Coughing, I stumble after him when he tugs on my lead. “My name’s not Tart. It’s Faith. And I feel like we really need to talk—”

  The man comes to an abrupt stop, and I slam into his front. He gives me a shove backward, scowling. “I say I wanted you to lip off at me, Tart?”

  “No—”

  He glares again, and I go silent. I know when to take a hint. Fighting back frustration, I follow behind the jerk—my new owner—as he heads out of the slave pens and into the busy Aventine streets.

  “Pleasure doing business with you again, Sinon,” the slave-master calls.

  His name is Sinon. I file that bit of information away, because knowledge is power, and right now I am absolutely on the low end of both knowledge and power. Words burn in my throat, because I desperately want to talk to this man. I need him to listen to me. I need him to realize I’m not from the filthy streets of Aventine, or anywhere else in this land. I’m not from here at all.

  I’m from freaking Chicago.

  I’m still not entirely sure how I got here. The kids from Narnia went through a wardrobe dresser and became kings. The chick from Outlander touched some stones and ended up with a hot kilted Scotsman.

  Me, I knock on my neighbor’s door because I hear voices shouting, and the next thing I know, I’m being shoved in a slave pen and referred to as “Tart.”

  Hollywood has definitely misled me.

  The most frustrating thing of all is that no one will listen to me. I’ve told everyone I’m not a slave, that I’m not from here. What did I get?

  First, I got backhanded.

  Then I got shoved into a slave pen.

  Now I’ve been sold and I’m following behind Sinon, the bitchiest soldier ever, all because I was trying to be a good neighbor.

  “You keeping up, Tart?” Sinon growls as he pushes his way into the busy streets.

  “Absolutely.” I hop behind him as quickly as I can, considering I’ve got no shoes. Even though I don’t like this guy—and “don’t like” is being kind of mild—I know I can’t be left alone on the streets of Aventine. I learned that lesson already. I don’t have a “mark” that shows I’m from here, and everyone that doesn’t gets enslaved because apparently Aventine is at war with someone.

  Despite the flowery name, this place is a lot more like a barracks than any city I know of. The streets are nothing but trodden mud, there are soldiers crawling everywhere, and all around the city there’s an enormous stone wall. It’s like a fort. A scuzzy one.

  And all of the soldiers that pass by in their regiments, that file out of the city on the regular, and that pour forth from every tavern—all male.

  This is not a good place to be a slave girl.

  Or a girl, period.

  Sinon grunts as I trot up to his side like an obedient little waif. “That’s better. Follow close. We’re going to a special party and then I’m passing you over to your new owner.” He gives me a thin-lipped smile that shows yellowing teeth and dark gums. “So behave and I won’t bruise you up before then.”

  Whee. I don’t know if I should be excited he’s not going to be my permanent owner or if I should be scared. “Who’s my new owner?”

  He doesn’t answer me. Just yanks on my chain again and leads me through the crowd of soldiers.

  I study him as we walk. He’s thick-looking, but that might be the layers of padded armor he’s wearing. His head is shaven bald and the stubble there is a mixture of gray and black. He’s sweaty and stinks to high heaven, and his nose has probably been broken more times than I can count. He’s got a thick jaw so his shaved head actually looks more like a pear than a circle, and he’s got questionable dental hygiene.

  I really, really hope he’s going to pass me off. If the outfit I’ve been given is any sort of clue, I haven’t been sold so I can wash dishes and mend socks.

  I really am gonna be a tart.

  Since my pajamas were stolen, the only clothing I have now is the same as the other slave women I’ve seen. It’s a long, unbleached skirt. That’s it. No top, no bra, no nothing. Of course, I’m not about to go all bare-titty through soldier-town, so I hiked it up to my armpits and I’m wearing it like a minidress. Every soldier that passes by us stares as if I’m wearing something far more scandalous, and they leer.

  So far? Not a fan of Aventine.

  “This way, Tart,” my new owner tells me and jerks on my chain again.

  I put my hands to the neck cuff, trying to shield my abused skin from the next yank, and trot a little faster behind him. “Where are we going?”

  He ignores me. In fact, he keeps ignoring me as we leave the mucky streets and head toward rickety, stinky docks that crawl with cats and fishermen. There are dozens of small boats moored here, and one flat-bottomed barge with a bright red linen top waits at the far end. We head there.

  “Where you going?” the man standing in front of the boat asks Sinon.

  I wait for Sinon to ignore him. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest in a quasi-salute. “Heading to the temple. They’re expecting me.”

  The sailor glances at me. “And her?”

  “Tart’s a gift.”

  I wave my fingers at him in greeting. Now’s not the time to debate my name.

  “Gift for who?”

  “Ain’t none of your business, is it?” Sinon’s grumpy.

  “It is if you bring uninvited trash to the temple tonight. Prelate’ll have my head.” The sailor crosses his arms and rocks back on his feet.

  My owner snorts. “Who do you think she’s a gift for, fool?”

  Oh.

  Okay, so I’m going to be for the prelate. I guess he likes…tarts. Lucky me.

  The sailor smirks in my direction. “If I was placing odds, she’d be a cleaver bride.”

  “What’s a cleaver bride?” I ask.

  “Shut up, Tart,” Sinon says, and when the sailor moves aside, he pulls me after him without answering.

  We ride on the flat-bottomed boat, crammed next to a bunch of other people. Someone reaches out and pinches me, and I slap at hands, wishing medieval plagues on all these armor-wearing bastards. It’s the longest boat ride ever, but eventually we pull up to the docks of the island…and the world is different.

  This place is cool and clean and beautiful. I’m surprised. There are green manicured ga
rdens and people in long red robes watering plants from what look like helmets. There are several marble buildings, all of them columned and lovely, and there’s a scent of incense in the air. It’s nothing like dirty, overrun, soldier-covered Aventine at all.

  Clearly they take better care of their temples than their city.

  We head to the front of the main building. Outside is a massive statue of a man, battleaxe raised. Immediately, Sinon drops to his knees and bows his head.

  I wait behind him, fidgeting.

  Sinon looks up and gives my chains a furious yank, sending me staggering forward. “You kneel before the gods, Tart! Lord Aron of the Cleaver, the Butcher God of Battle, deserves your respect.”

  “Okay, okay!” I drop to my knees. Sheesh.

  Sinon continues to glare at me with his egg-shaped head, so I even go so far as to put my forehead to the ground. Sheesh.

  I figure a little kneeling won’t matter if I don’t mean it—and I don’t. I have no idea who Aron of the Cleaver is, after all. Clearly a god of some kind in this strange land. Maybe a war god, given that there’s a lot of guys covered in armor around here.

  My owner continues to sit in front of the statue, eyes closed, meditating. When this goes on for a while, I sit up and study my surroundings. The statue’s made of marble, and the man behind the upraised battleaxe—Aron of the Cleaver—doesn’t look friendly. Most of his face is hidden behind the axe itself, but his hair is long and straight, held back from his head by a braid at the crown, and his stern, unyielding face has a long, wicked scar that goes from above the left eye all the way down to the jaw.

  Pretty sure he didn’t get that from playing darts.

  I continue to sit, watching my surroundings. More soldiers move past. Some pause to bow at the statue, some just pause, kiss their sword pommel and continue on. Definitely a war god. Maybe that’s why they were watering plants with helmets.