12Oh, uh, I guess I should drop a warning here. Lesbian sex! Because Baz deserves love too. ...or at least some fun sexy time while she waits for love... Wheeeeee
Chapter One: (two years later)
"Fuck, Baz!"
The girl's fingers tangle in Baz's short hair, pulling sharply.
Baz lifts her head, low voice filled with irritated amusement. "Easy there, girlie. I'd like to keep my hair if you don't mind."
"Sorry! So sorry!" the girl gasps, pink face going red.
"It's all right, love." Chuckling, Baz lowers her lips to the girl's lower lips again and brings her to a raw-fingered, ragged-breath finish.
They lie on their backs for a moment before the girl rolls over and whispers in a low voice, "You want a go?"
Baz nods.
She tries not to think too much about the girl between her legs, closing her eyes as she feels a tongue tentatively taste her. What's her name? She can't even recall. To her she's just the innkeeper's daughter, a plump and pleasant girl with pretty eyes. She and Baz have been trading glances and smiles all week. And Baz, well, she's only human.
But she can't keep from thinking about another girl in another small village, a girl with gold hair and a penchant for watching the soldiers training just a short walk from her farm, a girl who picked Baz out of the crowd in a packed dance hall, despite the fact that she was masquerading as a boy at the time. A girl named Ana, who quelled her fears with a simple smile and three short words.
"Ana, I'm not what you think I am. I'm not—"
"I don't care. Come to the stables tonight. I don't care what you are. I don't care."
Baz feels the tension, the happy release, and cries out wordlessly. The innkeeper's girl flops down beside her with a breathless giggle.
"I knew you looked like a good time," she whispers, green eyes sparkling happily.
Baz smiles faintly and nods. "It's rare to find a girl so eager for my company."
"Soldiers are always coming through, you know. Ever since… Well, anyway, they're not nearly as fun. Too much cock swinging getting in the way."
Baz laughs and turns to the girl. She wraps her arms around her, pulling her close. Their lips meet, soft and eager. She almost forgets the pain of the past and the dread of tomorrow.
She wakes with a gasp, sweating and panting.
The girl beside her sits up, a shadow silhouetted against the moonlit window. "Are you all right?" she whispers with concern.
"Yeah," Baz croaks, rising and looking around the dark room. Her heart still pounds in her throat, but the vestiges of her bad dream are already fading. "Yeah," she repeats, nodding. "Nightmare, that's all."
The girl's hand strokes her soft, short hair, ruffling it playfully. "You want to talk about it?"
Baz shakes her head and settles back down. "Nah."
The girl forces a smile, shrugging nonchalantly and cuddling up to Baz, resting her head on her shoulder. Baz wraps an arm loosely around her, absently rubbing her smooth skin as she stares up at the ceiling. A happy sigh escapes the girl.
After a moment, she props herself up on her elbows, eyeing Baz in the darkness. "I don't think I can get back to sleep. Wanna fuck?"
Baz smiles tiredly. "Hang on. I have a question for you, girlie."
"All right. What is it?"
"The land west of here. Do you know it at all?"
She can feel the girl stiffen a little, shrinking farther under the blanket. "Aye, I know it. We used to travel there in the summer to visit my Aunt Helen. Why?"
"It was Laird Hadrig's chiefdom, no?"
The girl nods. "Until he vanished."
"Hm," Baz grunts. She knows the truth, the reason Hadrig and his men vanished. Anwyn turned them into monsters—half-man, half-Should-Be—and attacked the O'Haig lands. Once the witch was defeated, her monsters fled back into the mountain, chased and hunted. Three years later, it's almost as if they never existed. Should Be sightings are rare, thank gods.
"Why are you asking?" the girl's voice is full of worry again, her grip tight on Baz's arm. "Don't tell me that's why you and those other soldiers are here. That land is haunted. You shouldn't go there."
"What makes you think it's haunted?" Baz inquires calmly.
"Well Laird Hadrig and his men all vanished, for one. And nobody that's gone there since has ever been seen again."
"That's why I'm here. A scouting party went to investigate the state of the land about a month ago. They never returned. I'm here to find out why."
"Baz, you mustn't," the girl whispers, fingernails digging into her arm. "It's cursed."
"Don't worry, girlie," Baz chuckles softly. "I've dealt with flatlander mages and Should Be. I think I can handle a little curse."
"I just…" The girl's eyes are wide and frightened, her entire body trembling with fear. "I don't want you to get hurt."
"Hey there, I'll be all right," Baz reassures her, pulling her into a gentle kiss. Stroking the side of her face, she adds, "Come on now, don't go putting me in a coffin yet. I'm still very much alive, and quite happy to be here with you."
The girl submits to another kiss, and then another and another. Pretty soon her heart is racing, breath catching in her throat, but it's not with fear anymore. She cries out Baz's name and they fall together, wrapped in sweaty sheets and shaking limbs.
"I really like you, girlie," Baz admits with a breathy laugh.
The girl squeezes her tightly in her embrace. "My name's Alys, you know."
Baz reaches around her and gives her thick bottom a pinch. "Alys, then," she murmurs against her lips.
Alys sighs and burrows her face into Baz's neck. "When do you leave?"
"Tomorrow."
"I won't be there," Alys announces. "I'm not going to watch you ride to your death."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Baz scoffs.
Alys doesn't respond, and soon her breathing softens, her embrace going limp. Baz strokes her long hair, pressing a kiss to her brow.
She's not worried. The farther they travel from the chieftain Laird's seat of power, the farther they travel into the fringes of the chiefdom, the stranger the superstitions. Of course the locals here on the border believe there's a curse on Hadrig's land. His entire clan up and disappeared without a trace one day, supposedly leaving porridge still cooling on the breakfast table. A curse naturally became the only logical explanation.
But Baz knows better. She knows Anwyn's to blame. And three years is a long time for land to lie dormant and untamed. Duncan O'Haig sent a scouting party west to Hadrig's land, hoping to send a few families to settle the land. Sure, they should have returned two weeks ago, but anything could have stopped them. Bears or wildcats, bandits, rogue remnants of Should Be. The land is feral now.
Fortunately, Baz has a dozen soldiers at her back, good and dependable men and women, most of them O'Haig's, but a few loyal friends who stayed behind instead of returning home to the eastern chiefdoms. They, like Baz, had nothing to go home to, and Duncan's clan needed hands to help rebuild and protect their lands. She'd like to think she stayed for good reasons, to be of use, to find a new home, to get a promotion even, but none of that would've kept her there.
She stayed for her, that angry redheaded girl with the burn scars on one side of her head, and fierce brown eyes. The youngest O'Haig, Moraine. Baz stayed just to see her every morning in training, waited for her to return when she rode off to secure a treaty of peace with a flatlander prince. She stayed even when Moraine left with her big idiot giant, the hulking mountain of bone and flesh that stole her heart away from Baz.
All right. Baz knows she's not being fair. Moraine was his before she was hers, and so she never really did belong with Baz, but that's not the way it feels. All she knows is that Moraine rode up to the high reaches of the mountain and married the High Mountain Laird, and still Baz stayed on O'Haig lands, and now she still does the bidding of Duncan O'Haig because what else is there to do? She's alone, and there's nowhere else that feels more like home. At least here she has purpose.
And maybe, she thinks, there's a little part of her that believes in the curse, or at least wants to believe. Because that means not returning, and there's something tempting about that.
Baz glances down at the sleeping woman in her arms, not much older than she was when she lost Ana, her first love, to the raiders, saw them drag her from her burning house, screaming and struggling at first, then going ominously still under the last of her assaulters. And Baz couldn't do a thing—not a fucking thing, except lie there just a few paces away, bleeding and broken, left for dead.
No, she thinks as she holds Alys close. A curse might be just what she needs.
Alys, true to her word, doesn't come out to bid the party farewell. Baz watches the girl bustle around the taproom, serving breakfast to the guests. She only meets Baz's gaze once, as she drops a bowl of cold porridge and cream in front of her. They don't exchange a word, just that one glance.
Baz looks over her shoulder as they ride down the road, but she doesn't catch sight of Alys, not even a glimpse of her straw-colored hair in the window of the inn. Probably for the best. She won't even remember her name come nightfall.
"So how'd you sleep, commander?"
Baz turns as one of her men rides up beside her. He's an archer, long and lean, with neatly kept dark hair and curious brown eyes. Tagrit.
"I heard someone sighing and moaning your name last night. You going to share the details?"
Baz scoffs. "Like I'd tell you."
"Not even a name? Baz, I'm disappointed. All the other lads share stories of their conquests."
"Bunch of gossiping old hens," Baz growls.
"That's all right. I think I know who it was."
Baz eyes him with a wary, sidelong stare.
"That pretty little blonde. The innkeeper's daughter, right? What was her name? Aris? Ada? Ana?"
"Alys," Baz interjects before she can think.
"Oh ho, and there we have a name, lads and ladies! Alys, the smoldering sapphic seductress worms her way into the heart of Baz the Bold!"
A rousing cheer arises from the others.
"Baz the Bold!" one man shouts. Baz recognizes the voice. It's Aoidan, a soldier she's known since training, one of the few who stayed behind to rebuild Clan O'Haig.
She raises a hand in grudging acknowledgement. At least morale hasn't suffered. Yet. Today they cross the border into Hadrig's land.
"Eoin." Baz turns to glance at her lieutenant. "Did you learn anything from the locals?"
The large man shrugs. "Can't say as I did. They all avoid Hadrig's land like a plague took it. Heard the usual mumblings about curses and such, but that's not new."
"Right," Baz agrees. "Guess we're going in blind then."
"At least you got laid last night," Tagrit notes. "If you die, you die a satisfied woman."
"You're just bitter that you had to depend on your hand for company," Baz snaps.
Tagrit only makes a face at her.
She doesn't hate the man, at least not as much as she pretends. He's dependable, good in a fight. He was one of the first to welcome her into the O'Haig clan, to treat her like she belonged. But that doesn't make his teasing any less insufferable.
They ride, stopping only to eat a light lunch and water the horses just before midday. Thick forest obscures any view they might have of Hadrig's lands, but the mountains loom in the distance, snowy peaks appearing through breaks in the trees. Somewhere up there, Moraine and Padraig preside over the northernmost chiefdom, hardly more than rocks and ice. She heard they had a child a couple years ago, a healthy boy. Duncan and Dougal both rode up to greet their nephew. They offered Baz a place in their guard.
She declined.
It's not that she has anything against either of them. She's glad they're happy, from a distance. But it still hurts to even think about Moraine, much less be near her. And Padraig, well he only makes it worse. She can't even bring herself to hate the bastard. He has an easy way of making people like him, even Baz, who has every reason not to.
She still remembers their first and only conversation, before Anwyn attacked, back when the giant still had both hands, when his wounds and her feelings were still raw.
The door opens, a chill wind drifting through the tavern. It closes. Heavy footsteps approach, and a large body plunks down on a stool next to Baz.
"Two ales."
Baz doesn't look up, but she can feel a very large and pointy elbow invading her bubble of solitude. A tankard slides down the bar, coming to rest directly in front of her, foam sloshing slightly over the edge.
She sighs. "What?" Her voice is hard, with a studied edge. Something she wasn't born with, something she practiced for years.
The man beside her takes a long pull on his ale, letting out a low groan of satisfaction. "That's the stuff. Best ale in the north." He glances at her. Baz still won't look at him, but she can feel the weight of his gaze on her. Heavy, like the rest of him.
"Did she send you?" she asks, all surliness.
One thick finger prods her shoulder curiously. "Prickly little thing, aren't you?"
Baz slams her drink down on the bar, immediately regretting it as ale sloshes down her sleeve, the bartender shooting her one of those looks. "Damn it, man!" she hisses, rounding on the giant at her side. "What the hell do you want?"
He's grinning. Of course he's grinning. He's just that kind of person. "Looks like you need another drink." Glancing into his own tankard, he adds, "Huh. Me too." He motions at the bartender, who sends another pair of tankards very reluctantly in their direction.
The massive man takes an ale in each hand and nods his head toward the far end of the tavern. "Come on. This is a conversation best had where other ears won't pry."
"Fine. Let's get this over with." Baz rises and follows the man to a table in a dark corner.
He sits, ridiculously large in his chair. All the furniture looks doll-size around him. Baz would laugh, but there's something about big friendly idiots that she finds off-putting, especially the horny kind. And right now, he is the king of idiots, at least in her book.
"Seems like you already know who I am, but why don't we introduce ourselves anyway?" He leans forward on the table, proffering one huge paw. "Padraig."
She notices he leaves off the honorifics, the titles. Just Padraig. Studying him flatly, she finally reaches out, her hand uncomfortably small in his. "Baz."
He shakes her hand, his grip surprisingly gentle—firm enough to not feel oozy and make her skin crawl, but not strong enough to break bones.
He leans back, taking a swig of ale, closing his eyes as if he's just sipped from the cup of the gods. Baz drinks from her own tankard, trying to figure out what it is he's tasting. All she gets is a mouthful of swill.
"Mora told me about you," Padraig explains after a moment. "She didn't send me, though. She's too…" he thinks about it, choosing his words carefully. "…direct to be any good at subterfuge."
Baz lets out a soft scoff, shaking her head. "That's one word for it." She takes another drink, the ale washing down her throat. "So. Let's have it. What did she tell you about me? No, let me guess. She had some theatrical plot full of impossible heroics that inevitably ended in tragedy."
Padraig's eyes narrow. He shakes his head slowly. "Nah." He drinks. "Her story had more breasts in it. More ass too."
Baz splutters into her ale, choking slightly. She manages to regain her composure before the man has time to reach around and pat her back. One touch of those massive mitts and she swears she'll throw him over her shoulder, giant or not. Wincing and clearing her throat, she asks, "She told you about that, eh?"
He grins again, baring his teeth. "She tells me everything, Baz. Especially the good parts."
"So, what, you've come to tell me to step off, is that it? 'Thanks for saving the pretty lady, Baz, but she's mine, so back off before this ends in fisticuffs'."
"Fisticuffs? Really?" Padraig doesn't seem amused. "Do I look like a fisticuffs kind of guy to you?"
Baz considers it, finally responding, "Buy me another ale and I'll tell you."
Padraig laughs. He signals the bartender, who obliges with a certain sort of longsuffering about him. Two more ales find their way onto the table.
"What's this about then?" Baz asks over the edge of her drink.
"I came to say thank you." The man's mouth twists wryly as he adds, "You're not making it easy."
Baz sets her tankard down and folds her arms, leaning on her elbows. "I don't like you either, you big lug. So why don't we just get this over with? Thank you, you're welcome, have a happy life together, make lots of babies." She shoves her chair back and starts to stand.
One heavy hand lands on top of her head, pushing her back down into the chair. "I'm not done here," Padraig tells her calmly. "So sit down, finish your drink, and listen."
There's something in his voice that makes even Baz obey. She sips at her ale, feeling positively meek for a moment. The moment passes, of course, but by then Padraig has begun again.
"Look, you did Mora a good turn. You were there when she needed someone, when I couldn't be there for her. I appreciate it, all right?"
Baz frowns. This feels like a trap. Peering suspiciously at Padraig, she says as much. "This feels like a trap."
A low chuckle thrums from his throat, surprisingly pleasant. He shakes his head. "No trap. There is one more thing, though."
"I knew it," Baz grumbles. "What?"
"Mora put your name forward as representative of the eastern clans. They want you at council."
"Gods, no!" Baz suddenly exclaims in disgust. "What the fuck? Why didn't you stop her, you big—dumb…prick?" It's not often Baz has trouble with words.
He throws his head back and roars with laughter. "Slow down there. Whoa, sit."
Even though Baz has gotten to her feet, Padraig's voice calls her inexplicably back to the chair.
"Look, she trusts you. I can see why. You're not all softness and curves."
"Like you, you mean?" She eyes his thick torso.
"You know, I get why you're feeling so antagonistic toward me, but it's not going to do you a lick of good if you let that get in the way of your common sense. The eastern chiefdoms need a voice, and right now you're their best option."
"No."
"No, you don't want to? Or no, you're just being surly?"
"No."
Sighing, Padraig rises to his feet, indicating that Baz do the same. He pulls his chair out and sets it in front of him. "Climb up," he tells her.
She frowns. "Why?"
"Do it."
Reluctantly, Baz obeys. "Now what?"
They're eye-level now. Padraig steps forward, face close to hers, and whispers, "Hit me. Right here." He taps his jaw.
Baz stares incredulously. "What?"
"Go on. You won't get another chance like this. You want to strike me, so do it. Hit me!"
His sudden bark spurs her into action. Without thinking, Baz throws a punch at his jaw, feeling her fist connect solidly with the man's face. To her satisfaction, he stumbles back with a groan. She leaps at him, sending the chair tumbling as she careens into him and knocks him to the ground. She's pummeling him with all her strength, picking up the chair at one point and bringing it crashing down over his back, and he just lets her do it.
The barkeep and a half-dozen men come rushing at her, but Padraig holds up a hand to stop them. Limbs trembling, breath coming in gasps, Baz stands over the fallen giant, her glare sending everyone back to their drinks. Padraig rolls over and sits up with a groan. Baz reluctantly offers him a hand.
He takes it.
"Thanks," she breathes, glancing up wryly. "And sorry about that."
Padraig shakes his head. "Nah. I figured the night would end in…fisticuffs."
She lets out a wan laugh. "You know, you're not at all like what I expected, you big idiot."
"I could say the same about you, tiny idiot," he responds with a grin. "So. Council. You coming?"
She sighs. "Fine." She nods resolutely. "I'll be there."
"Good." He claps her on the back. "Now, how about another drink? On me."
Baz wants to hate him. She wants to feel the purging heat of righteous anger. But she can't seem to summon it, and worse, she can actually see what Moraine sees in the man. She can't hate him.
Instead, she just hates herself.
They reach the first village by late afternoon. The shadows are long, the sun sinking as they ride up to the deserted buildings. Baz sends her men to search the houses, riding into the square with Eoin at her back.
"It's eerie," the man mutters behind her, glancing around nervously.
She nods, dismounting and peering over the edge of the well. Something about the dark depths unnerves her. Picking up a rock, she tosses it in, listening to it clatter downward. No splash. Just silence.
"No water," she notes.
The rest of the village is in great disrepair, thatched roofs collapsing, walls crumbling, thick weeds growing over the roads. Worse, it feels empty, like something sucked the soul from it, not even leaving memories behind.
"Nothing, commander," Tagrit informs her, returning from one of the homes with his men in tow.
"Aye, nothing here either," Aoidan chimes in as he approaches with his men, sword unsheathed in precaution.
"What do you want to do, commander?" Eoin inquires.
Baz sighs. "Well, for one, I can see why they think this land is cursed."
The others nod their agreement.
Peering up at the sky, she adds, "It's too late to push forward. We might as well stay and make camp here. Let's see if we can find some proper shelter."
There's a large house just beyond the village square that doesn't seem to have suffered quite the same damage as the others. Its roof is constructed of hardwood instead of straw thatching, and though a few puddles of water inside the house prove that it leaks, it looks sturdy enough to shelter them for the night.
They push the furniture aside and set up their bedrolls on the dry parts of the floor, crowding together to make room for everyone. Baz can't help but notice the dishes on the table. The food has either been stolen by wild animals or it's rotted into desiccated husks. The cups have all been overturned, their contents just stains on the dusty table now.
"It's like they just got up and left." Aoidan's whisper makes her jump.
"I wonder how she did it," Baz replies with a shiver. "That witch."
He shakes his head. "Better not to think on such things. Come on. Looks like Eoin got a fire going."
They gather around the fire, huddled together as they pick at their rations. Gone are the smiles from earlier, the gossip and jesting turned to silence. It's one thing to deny curses in the bright glow of daylight, when shadows hide from the sun. Now they sit in a home that hasn't seen human life in three years, fully aware of the unpleasant fate its previous occupants met. Baz wonders absently if any of these particular villagers found themselves impaled on her sword when Anwyn led her charge. Perhaps they escaped, retreating into the mountains, where they now roam in darkness, becoming less human with every passing day.
She shudders.
"All right, first watch to your posts, and stay alert. The rest of you to bed. We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow."
Nobody groans or argues, they simply obey with an eerie sort of silence, as if they're afraid to disturb the dead village. Baz settles into her bedroll and closes her eyes, thinking of the innkeeper's daughter, her plump, pleasant body, so warm against hers. But it's not her sweet kisses or her heady sighs of pleasure that tease Baz's senses. She feels the prick of the girl's fingernails in her arm, sharp and stinging, hears her voice trembling with fear.
"That land is haunted. You shouldn't go there."
Baz squeezes her eyes tightly shut, one hand tightening around the hilt of her sword, which lies nearby. Despite herself, she feels her heart thump uncomfortably in her chest.
"I'm not going to watch you ride to your death."
Another nightmare wakes her. Flames and screams and stabbing pain. Broken and helpless while the girl she loves cries in agony just paces away. Baz's eyes fly open and she inhales with a gasp.
At first, she still thinks she's dreaming, frozen with a heavy weight on her chest that won't let her move. A shadowy figure looms over her, black and sharp, like a hole cut in the air, an emptiness hovering just above her. She can almost feel it tugging at her, empty space needing to be filled.
She blinks, expecting her eyes to adjust to the darkness, see the figure for what it truly is—a simple shadow, a figment of her imagination, a remnant of a dream.
But it doesn't go away.
The thing leans nearer, leering above her, a mouth splitting open to reveal a set of far too many rotting teeth. Its breath wafts hot and rancid over her face, and something dribbles onto her cheek. She stares up helplessly into its empty eyes, unable to move.
Somebody suddenly lets out a shout, startling her free.
Baz's hand finds her sword. She slices upward, a shrill shriek piercing the air as the shadow blinks out of sight, reappearing high above in the smoky rafters.
"Get up! To arms!"
Baz thanks the gods for Eoin and his booming voice. The others startle awake, clamoring for their weapons.
"It's up there!" she shouts, pointing at the rafters, but the thing is gone.
"Fuck!" Tagrit cries.
She whirls to see the man cornered by the shadow creature, desperately fending it off with his bow.
"Fire!" Baz shouts the only thing that makes any sense to her. Should Be are afraid of fire. Why not a creature made of shadow?
She dives for the embers of the dying fire, wishing she had Moraine's penchant for magic at the moment. Grabbing a half-charred log, she stokes the ashes and fans the fire back to life. She raises the log like a torch and waves it at the monster.
It shrinks back with another hissing shriek and blinks out of sight.
"Eyes open!" Baz warns, scanning the room. "Stay close!"
They circle up, eyes darting wildly in their search for the creature, but it doesn't reappear. After several interminable minutes of waiting, they slowly begin to lower their weapons.
"Think it's gone?" Aoidan asks.
Baz shakes her head. "I don't know. Whatever it is, it doesn't like fire."
"What was it?"
Nobody answers.
A shriek pierces the night air, distant, human, echoed by another eerie and inhuman shriek.
"The watch!" Eoin's shout voices everyone else's horrified realization. "They're still out there!"
"Hold your ground!" Baz barks the order. "You leave, and that thing will kill you too!" Her voice is firm, commanding, but her lip trembles as another cry sounds in the distance, only to be abruptly cut off.
The men and women around her shift uneasily, looking to her. They need her to lead.
Someone screams outside, much closer than the other. One of the sentries, fleeing to the house for safety. Not fast enough. His cries die out. How many were on watch? Three. Baz's eyes scan her soldiers for the missing.
Ingmar. Anders. Liv.
Even as she thinks the last name, she hears the panicked shout, the terror in the woman's voice. Liv, one of the first women to answer the call to arms, a brave soul hidden under a demure façade. Moraine spent hours of extra training with her to help her learn the quarterstaff. Now that monster hunts her. Unlike the others, her screams fade slowly, each one a little quieter, a little more desperate than the last, until finally they are heard no more.
"Shut the door!" Baz shouts suddenly. She doubts it will keep the monster at bay, but at least it puts a barrier between it and them, and it startles the others into action, focusing them on something—anything—other than the creature outside. "Keep the fire burning," she instructs. "And for gods' sakes, stay inside the light."
She exchanges a glance with Aoidan, who murmurs, "I think we know what happened to that scouting party of Duncan's."
Baz nods numbly. "Aye."