The Barbarian
Authors: Georgia Fox
Evernight Publishing
Copyright© 2012 Georgia Fox
ISBN:
978-1-77130-159-6
Cover
Artist: Sour Cherry Designs
Editor:
Marie Medina
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING:
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is
illegal.
No part of this book may be
used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission,
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This
is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To V
THE BARBARIAN
The Conquerors, 6
Georgia Fox
Copyright
© 2012
Chapter One
Four days ago.
"Readers want
to know how the series ends." The text leapt out at her from the little
bouncing envelope on her phone.
"So do
I," she muttered, pressing 'erase' with her thumb.
Oh, so do I
.
Another text flashed
up immediately. "So when can we expect the next book?"
No possible answer
to that question, while you have writers' block on a
to get on a plane. She switched her phone off and slid it guiltily into her
coat pocket.
Still, she had an
excuse, didn't she? Not that the publisher or her agent wanted to hear the
juicy details of her private life. They wanted to make money, of course. They
didn't care about her problems anymore than her English literature tutor at school
ever wanted to hear the dog ate her homework. Even when that really happened.
Which it did, twice. So there, bastards!
The attendant at
the gate took her boarding pass and cracked a brittle smile, lipstick and nail
polish flashing in a gleam of matching blood red. "Enjoy your trip."
"I'm sure I
will," she replied with equal sincerity and walked through the gate,
following the other passengers. At this point in the day's adventure they all
walked briskly, heads up, eyes wide and hopeful. Breezy excitement cooled the
air as they passed from the echoing terminal into a jet-way of purgatory, their
last contact with earth for the next approximately eight hours. Ah, the gleeful
anticipation of airplane food and the challenge of limited leg space; the joy of
festering, recycled air and the luxury of back-breaking chair angles—all for
one full third of a day.
As she stepped
through the door of the plane and passed the line of robotically welcoming
stewards, she thought briefly of the hopes she'd once had—back when her first
book was published and she had visions of becoming a bestseller overnight.
She'd seen herself traveling in first class from then on, falling into one of
those long seats with oceans of space, dabbing her face on a damp towel served
to her by a steward with silver tongs, ordering the best champagne....
Instead she was
directed to her right and shunted along a tight aisle that would challenge even
the hips of an Olsen twin. Now she was a mouse, trapped in a maze with a
hundred other laboratory mice. The only way was forward. The man pushing along
behind her, jamming the back of her knees with what had to be the world's
bulkiest carry-on, would never allow her to turn around and go back, even if
she was screaming about fire in the engines. She could almost feel his
impatient breath moving the back of her hair as he shoved her along, muttering
numbers out loud, reading them on the overhead luggage compartments, just in
case no one else could see them.
Please don't let him sit near me.
Here she was. This
was her home for the next eight hours. 39a
She stopped and squeezed to one side, letting the juggernaut and his
"carry-on", which looked as if it probably contained severed limbs,
thrust his way by.
Through the tiny
window, she stared at grey tarmac and a slice of the wing. It looked as airless
outside as it was within. She was hot already, stifling. No chance to get her
coat off with the stream of people pushing along the aisle, glaring at her as
if she was begging for money on a street corner. She could barely get her
luggage stowed away, before the combined force of gusty, discontented sighs in
the aisle behind blew her down into her narrow seat. Coat would have to come
off later; she'd wriggle out of it somehow once they were in the air and the
seat-belt light was turned off.
She sat directly
on the little bag of goodies, gifts from the airline who wanted to compensate
their passengers for the inhumanity of their seats. And the swag? A tiny
toothbrush, paper thin travel "socks" that she had no room to put on
anyway and an eye mask for "sleeping".
Oh, if only the
seat next to her remained empty. Elbow room. Blessed elbow room. She tried not
to make eye contact with the other passengers as they passed.
Please, please don't let any one of them be
39b.
She took her
notebook and pen out of her pocket and flipped down the little tray from the
back of the seat in front of her. It hit her knees and she winced. Never mind
that now. Must concentrate. Got to make notes. Got to get her head straight
about this last book. Readers were waiting for it.
It still amazed
her that anyone actually enjoyed what she wrote. But apparently they did. Had
to stop second-guessing herself and her talent. Don't look a gift horse in the
mouth, as her father would say.
Pity she couldn't
afford first class. She'd have lots of room to write then. Alas, she was not
first class material. Her perspiration would never meet the likes of a soft
white face cloth on an airplane; it had to make do with a crumpled Kleenex.
A pair of khaki
capris suddenly staggered sideways, knocking into her arm rest and her mini
table. She didn't look up, but cursed inwardly. The woman was chattering loudly
to her friend, who apparently had the seat across the aisle. Still staring at
her notebook, she heard the click of the overhead compartment being opened
again and then the whoosh of a heavy duffle bag thrown through the air. No time
to get out of the way and no space for an evasive move anyway. The woman's
luggage hit her soundly on the side of the head, like a swinging punching bag.
"Oops. I'm so
sorry, honey!"
Honey?
She held her cheek. "Don't worry about
it. I trained with Ali."
Ouch, that fucking hurt.
The woman made no
further amends. Stretching up and showing a pale, paunchy midriff, she was
forcing her duffle bag into the small compartment, probably crushing everything
else in there, so busy yakking to her friend that she paid no more attention to
her wounded neighbor. Probably hadn't even heard her reply. The apology, it
seemed, had been as genuine as a harried waiter's "Have a nice day",
uttered while surreptitiously searching the table for a tip.
Thanks, bitch.
Now she had a
royal headache and they hadn't even taken off yet. Tylenol was in her checked
luggage. Damn it.
Wow. Her head was
really spinning. The side of her face was suddenly numb. She wished her
forehead felt the same, but it throbbed.
Angrily she pulled
on her complimentary eye mask and leaned as far back as possible in her seat.
Darkness.
That's better.
Now. Think.
But she couldn't.
She didn't even
know how she ... how she ... how she...
How the figgity fuck did I get here
?
****
Cornweal, December 1084
Lurching slowly
and painfully forward, the wagon made progress that would have bored a snail.
Sometimes it missed the hardened ruts of the track and jerked sideways before
dropping a few inches with a sudden squealing shudder that ripped up through
her tired bones. The wheels, thought Amias, might as well have been square,
rather than round, for the motion would have been just as uncomfortable and
tortuous. Shaken back and forth for the past several hours since they left
behind the last sign of civilization, her nerves were now at the edge of an
abyss. Her teeth hurt and her temper, never known for being mild even on a good
day, was about to explode like seeds from an overripe pod. Anyone with some
familiarity of Amias would know the signs. Her new maid, however, had yet to
learn.
"Surely we
must be there soon," ventured the short, plump girl squeezed onto the seat
beside her in the trembling wagon. "It cannot be much further, my
lady." Despite the lack of any reply, the young maid continued with
undeterred optimism, her breath forming soft puffs of cloud that dispersed
quickly in the damp air. "And then you will meet your husband at last. How
excited you must be."