Fantastic Tales: Volume 2

The Barbarian: Part 1

Grinda leads a peaceful but difficult life until she's kidnapped by a gang of violent barbarians. But are they all as bad as they seem?

Romantic Fantasy

'Go fetch more water from the well. And when you've done that, the cow needs milking. And when you've done that, bake some bread. Your father and brothers will be home shortly and they'll be hungry.'

'Yes, Mother,' Grinda said, picking up the pail.

She stepped outside into the burning day. The village was a bustle of activity. Women hauled along their pails of milk or water or grain. Children fetched eggs and tended the family gardens. Men made their way to the farms, carrying scythes and spades and shears, on foot or mounted on donkeys or mules. Grinda could hear banging from the blacksmith as he shaped his iron blades. There was the stench of shit as a woman shovelled manure into a wagon. From the oldest woman to the smallest child, everyone was hard at work.

Just another day in the small village of Quay—long and dull and difficult.

Grinda reached the well, put down her pail and pulled on the rope, hand over hand, the rope scratching against the pulley as she hauled up a full pail of water. She glanced up at the mountains, pale and stark against the sky—the Stone Mountains. A world away, where the wind blew cold and the village was nothing but a dot below, and where there were no cows to milk or bread to bake or heavy pails of water to carry.

If only.

She tipped the water into her pail, careful not to wet her skirt, then lifted it with a grunt. Staggering with the weight, she was about to make her way home when she stopped at the sound of a horn. Deep and booming, it echoed across the fields and through their little village, making everyone take pause. For several moments the village was still and quiet, the quietest it had ever been.

A crowd of mounted men had gathered atop the hill to the east. Their steel weapons gleamed against the sun. Their bronze skin shone with sweat. Then the horn sounded again, and they galloped down the hill towards them.

                                                                       *

Mock blew the horn, then licked his lips, grinning as the men around him shouted and whooped. Their target was a large village, rich with women and supplies. Maybe even gold. It would be a great day for the Quarthi.

Villagers scattered, screaming and shouting. Most tried to run. Others hid in their houses, mostly women. Some of the men stayed back to fight. Good. He unsheathed his sword.

His first kill bent beneath his strike, head arched back, eyes wide, as Mock split him from groin to chin. Blood exploded out of him, spraying Mock in a red shower. The man didn't even have time to cry before he hit the ground.

His next kill decided to drop his weapon and run—too late. Mock ripped him up the back, his blade grating against his vertebrae. More blood splattered his face, and he licked his lips again, savouring his kill, the death, the thrill. Ahhhh. There was little better than a pillage.

He had made seven kills, his sword bloodied from point to hilt, when the village was taken and the real fun began. Women screamed as the Quarthi rushed into their houses and dragged them outside, or else rode them down, sweeping them onto their horses. 

There—he saw her. His next victim. Petrified, staring straight into his eyes. She was only young, barely a woman, her face white against her pale hair.