Author's Note: This is the longest entry yet in this series and contains a greater proportion of action/adventure. While there is still plenty of bondage and femdom erotica within, since there's a greater focus on the fantastical adventures, I decided to switch categories from here on out.
**
Cheers thundered from the beach as the first rowboat hit the shore. Villagers and refugees swarmed us to help unload the desperately-needed cargo.
The elderly, wiry Baron Rikard broke free of the crowd and clapped me on the back before helping heft a barrel out of the boat.
"Damned fine work again, Anvarr," he said, beaming. "First you save my neck from an executioner's blade and now you save my people from starvation."
"We've far more work to do, I'm afraid," I said with a frown. "If our attack draws out Grozdan, we'll have to-"
"I know it may be hard for a man like you, but try to relax," the rebel baron said with a warm smile. "Let the rest of us handle the unloading. Mother Superior Isidora is waiting for you up the beach."
The baron gave me a sly wink, then a gentle shove out of the way. I left Orgumir in command, trusting him to see to the unloading of the cargo. Once the stolen goods had been returned to the people, my warriors would let the crew go, advising them to seek other ports for the time being. Hopefully the implied threat of violence would be enough to scare them off.
A short walk up the rocky, moonlit beach brought me to a makeshift field hospital. Isidora and a dozen other nuns were tending to the wounds suffered by some of Rikard's militia in a recent skirmish with Grozdan's men.
The darkness and the veils of the nuns made it hard to recognize any of them. Only Isidora herself stood out thanks to her necklace of vines and blue flowers.
"Anvarr," she said, her voice thrumming with warmth. "I take it all went well?"
"Indeed. Two ships with full holds captured. No casualties for our side. The sailors seem keen to return to the mainland and escape the unrest, so they should not be any trouble."
"And do you think Grozdan will take the bait?" asked another nun.
"We will see." I tapped the hilt of my sheathed dagger. "In the days that we've been gone, did you receive any word about my brother or other northlanders?"
"Indeed," Isidora said. "After another round of requisitions by Grozdan's men, a hundred more peasants fled south towards the convent. One of them said that two dozen foreigners were being kept by Grozdan's forces at one of the duke's wineries in the countryside."
"As prisoners?"
"So it seems. Rumors have already spread of your exploits and Grozdan perhaps suspects those Kovgaardians as being your allies. One of the peasants I spoke to described a man matching Hoskuld's description."
She paused.
"That description sounded quite a bit like you, in fact."
"He is my twin, after all," I said darkly, glaring out at the moonlit cliffs behind Isidora. "My own kin would sometimes get us confused."
I ran my fingers over the scar I'd received as a result of his schemes.
"Not any longer, though."
The Mother Superior approached and rested a hand upon my scarred cheek. The tension in my body melted away at that tender touch, though the embers of rage still simmered.
"The winery is a two days' ride away. Tomorrow, you can head there with Sister Miriam, your Kovgaardians, and a few of Rikard's militia. If your brother is there..." She frowned beneath the veil. "You can do as you see fit. If the other prisoners were members of your warband, perhaps they'll be of help against Grozdan."
"What will you do if you find him?" asked Sister Catriona, looking up once she'd finished patching a peasant's wounded leg.
"I will offer him an honorable end. A trial of blood and iron. A duel to the death. Brother against brother."
"By Saint Morwenna, why would you risk such a thing?"
"Because if he dies in such a duel, he can reclaim the honor he lost when he betrayed our king and our clan." I sighed. "Though he is a traitor and a murderer, he is still my brother. So if he is to die, I would prefer that it be clean and honorable, at my hand. The gods may yet smile upon him in the afterlife and spare him from their eternal hunger."
I raised an eyebrow.
"And what would Saint Morwenna's laws dictate in this situation?" I asked, curious about the Sisterhood's thoughts on the matter.
"We forbid the taking of life except in self-defense," said Isidora. "But as punishment for the crimes you have told us about, he would be sentenced to branding and to a life of penance and hard labor. And not the sort of Rites that you have endured, Anvarr. No criminal would deserve such wondrous cruelty."
The Mother Superior patted my cheek again.
"We have already spoken too much of dark and grim things," she said, taking my arm. "Come along: I have something to show you."
Bidding farewell to the other nuns, I walked with Isidora further up the beach. We veered inland, heading up a narrow dirt path that led to an imposing cliff of gleaming white stone. At the base of it was a narrow cavern.
After lighting a torch, Isidora led the way inside. Paintings of swords, animals, and trees adorned the rough white walls. To my surprise, there were Kovgaardian runes interspersed among the old artwork.
"These are holy symbols," I muttered, tracing over one of the markings. "This was a sacred place. A place of power."
"I daresay it still is," she said, her low voice echoing down the cavern.
I followed her further into darkness and the passageway widened into a room with rune-covered walls. At the center of the chamber was an altar of dark stone, upon which were stone carvings of wolves and bears.
Eyes widening, I traced my fingers over the sacred carvings.
"This makes no sense," I muttered. "I know that some men of Kovgaard came this far south as traders, raiders, or mercenaries in days past, but this was the work of witches and shamans. Of people who had settled down."
"When the Empire arose on the continent and proclaimed their intent to conquer this island, the rulers of Etmorra enlisted northerners as mercenaries. Many died bravely in defense of the island. Some remained, settled, and intermarried with the locals after the Empire's eventual victory. That was centuries ago, and the numbers were so few that most Etmorrans don't even remember. But in ages past, your people did in fact worship here."
She let out a soft sigh.
"I find it quite soothing to bask in the holiness of this place."
"Surely this is heretical or blasphemous in your eyes, yes? Saint Morwenna is a servant of the southern gods, not the hungry northern ones."
"Honoring Saint Morwenna does not stop one from honoring other gods. I can honor your skills as a warrior while still acknowledging the skills of others, yes?"
She circled around the altar, tracing the edges of the sacred stone.
"So what sort of rituals would have been conducted here?" she asked.
"The practices vary from tribe to tribe and clan to clan. Given the time that has passed, I could only guess as to what the Kovgaardian settlers would have done in such a place."
How many more secret fragments of Kovgaard had been scattered across the south? Did other shrines hide elsewhere on the island, or even the mainland?
"But in the sacred caves like these back home, there would have been sacrifices. Anointing rituals. The awarding of special blades, like the weapon I received when I came of age."
That particular weapon had shattered during my duel with King Ulrik, thanks to my brother's treacherous schemes.
I smiled nonetheless.
"Other rituals, too. Ones that the delicate ears of a nun should perhaps not hear about."
Isidora's husky laugh flooded the sacred chamber.
"Do you truly think tales of northern debauchery could make me blush, Anvarr? Do your worst."
I paused, my hand settling upon the holy stone a few inches from hers.
"A year ago, I won a great victory against a rival clan that was poaching game from our lands. In honor of my triumph, an allied clan sent an invitation for me to make a pilgrimage to one of their sacred caves. A place not unlike this one."
As I spoke, I held Isidora's gaze. Her gray eyes brightened beneath the veil.
"Waiting for me was one of the friendly clan's witches. Naked, her body adorned with sacred runes...and her hands bound. A gift from that clan: their way of honoring my victory."
Isidora licked her lips.
"And what did you do to this very fortunate witch?"
My hand drifted from the stone to settle upon her hand.
"I started at her feet. Soft, gentle kisses up each leg. Soft licks over her stomach. Gentle nibbles upon each breast. A slow, hungry kiss."
She murmured something under her breath. I stiffened as the surge of memories rushed back. Gods, how that witch had whimpered and mewled...
"One finger between her legs. Then two. Soft. Careful. Precise." I licked my lips. "And then once she was right on the verge of climax...I stopped."
"Cruel. That was exactly what I would have done, though," Isidora said with a low, hungry laugh.
"I then cut her bonds and walked away."
She let out another laugh, one so loud that it no doubt echoed out onto the moonlit beach.
