The Kindred Warrior's Captive Bride

“Wait, daughter,” a voice whispered in her ear. “Do not despair—not yet.”

Lan’ara jumped and nearly dropped the blade. Where had that voice come from? She didn’t know but instead of slicing her wrists, she tucked the sharp little blade into the tiny side pocket of her dress. There—now she knew where it was if she wanted to use it. Maybe she could use it as a weapon, after all. Maybe she could slash Drung’s throats—all three of them—if only she could get the chance.

As if thinking of him had called the huge Trollox, she suddenly heard him bellow for her.

“Girlie!” A heavy fist was hammering on the door. “Girlie, come out of there! You’ve had enough time to clean up, so you have!”

“All right,” Lan’ara called back, her heart pounding in her throat. “All right, give me one more minute. I’m almost done.”

“No more moments!” Drung roared. And with a crash, the door shattered inward.

Lan’ara gasped and backed away from the huge Trollox, but he had already lunged forward and grabbed her.

“You’re coming with me, so you are,” he snarled, dragging her into the bedroom. “It’s breeding time, girlie!”

Before she knew it, Lan’ara found herself sprawled on her back on the sagging bed with the Trollox pawing between her legs.

“Stop!” she begged, trying to roll away even as she gagged at his touch. “I can’t do this—can’t take your equipment! I thought you had to…had to use your, uh, spreaders on me first!”

The image of the Trollox periodical which had showed the miserable girl with a huge metal spreader shoved between her thighs flashed before her mind’s eye. It was awful to think about, but still better than having the Trollox’s shaft inside her.

But Drung was shaking his head.

“Nah, girlie,” he snarled, grinning fiercely at her. “If you’re able to take the Kindred’s shaft, you’re able to take mine, so you are!”

And then he was pushing up her dress and pulling a long, dirty shaft out of his trousers.

It looked like a thick, filthy fungus stalk to Lan’ara. It was gray—though if that was the actual color of the Trollox’s skin there, or if it was simply disgustingly dirty, she couldn’t tell. A ripe, cheesy odor accompanied its appearance, making her stomach roll with disgust.

“No!” she gasped as he took it in his hand and tried to shove it between her legs. “No, no!”

Then, suddenly, another face appeared above the three Trollox faces leering down at her. A familiar face with wild, bronze eyes.

It was Need and he had something in his hands—something long and silvery-green which was twisted around both fists to form a kind of garrotte.

With one swift move, he threw the silver-green garrotte around Drung’s middle neck and began to pull it tight.

Fifty-Six

The Trollox fought him from the first.

“Get the fuck OFF!” Drung roared with all three heads and bucked, nearly throwing him off as Need pulled the sword-grass tight around his dirty throat.

Need held on grimly and refused to be dislodged. He could see Lan’ara’s wide, frightened eyes staring up at him and he was determined to save her or die trying, just as he had promised the Goddess.

The sharp grass cut into his hands, making them slick with blood. But he had the long strand wound firmly many times around his palms, making certain it couldn’t slip. He barely noticed the pain and anyway, it was just part of the price he had to pay, he told himself. The price to rescue the woman he loved—the woman he no longer deserved.

Drung reached for him with both long arms, but Trollox—while huge—weren’t built for flexibility. Though he made snatching grabs at the assailant on his back, he couldn’t get hold of Need, who dodged this way and that, while doggedly hanging on to the ends of the sword-grass garrotte.

At last he felt the thick skin of the middle throat begin to give way. Great, oozing droplets of tar-black blood began to rain down on Lan’ara, who shrieked in fear and disgust and turned her head from side to side frantically.

Taking a deep breath, Need reared back, pulling at the garrotte with all his might. Drung reared back with him, his thick spine bowing in response to the pain and pressure on his primary windpipe.

“Get out,” Need rasped, jerking his head at the girl. “Get away now—while I’ve got him!”

Kicking and struggling, she managed to scramble out from underneath the Trollox’s bulk. She rolled off the bed and onto the floor just as the sword-grass garrotte did its work and sliced completely through the middle neck at last in one final stroke.

The ugly head, its jaws still working, its eyes still blinking, toppled down onto the dirty mattress where Lan’ara had been just a moment before.

The other two heads bellowed and snapped at Need, but the damage was done. Black blood pumped in gouts over the pillows and soaked the sagging bed. Slowly, the light died from first the eyes of the right head…and then the eyes of the left.