Barbarian Dragonslayer (Princesses of the Ironbound Book 5) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Summary

  Black Forge Books Mailing List

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

  Books by Black Forge

  LitRPG on Facebook

  Even More LitRPG on Facebook

  GameLit and Cultivation on Facebook

  Copyright

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PATREON

  Summary

  AN ANCIENT EVIL HAS come to Old Ironbound—is it a dragon or is it something else?

  Ymir has obtained six of the eight Akkiric rings—the rings that allowed Aegel Akkridor and his wives to live for a thousand years—but the more he studies, the closer he comes to learning the secret behind the great vempor’s death.

  A secret that may mean death for Ymir and his wives as well.

  With a murder in Four Roads, his supply of xoca beans gone, new information about the Fayee, a demon king on the march, and rumors of a dragon, Ymir barely has time to please his women and flirt with the Princept of the school. Are these distractions from the destruction to come, or will Ymir need all the help he can get to face the darkness descending on Old Ironbound?

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  Chapter One

  YMIR, SON OF YMOK OF the Black Wolf Clan, lifted the tankard of ale and shouted, “Drink to the Axman, all you bastards, or I’ll split every one of your skulls!”

  Every patron in the Angel’s Kiss howled, “To the Axman!”

  “To the Axman!” Brodor Bootblack yelled before quaffing down his tankard, spilling ale down his thick dwarven beard.

  “To the Axman!” Gharam Ssornap roared, and jammed the tankard between his tusks to drain the cup. The orc was so huge, the big tankard looked small in his right fist. He still had one arm at least to drink with. He’d lost his left arm during the Gruul gladiatorial games—the Kurzig Durgha—but Brodor had come up with a hunk of metal he could strap on. With Form magic, Gharam could change it into a variety of shapes. He preferred a hook, and that was what he was wearing tonight. Other choices were a buckler, sword, and the imitation of a hand.

  The Kurzig Durgha had been six weeks ago. And now, a new school year was starting. Both dwarf and orc would have to be on the Sunfire Field bright and early the next morning to test the young men who’d come far and wide to try to pass the Open Exam and earn their way into the Majestrial Collegium Universitas.

  Had it only been two years since Ymir showed up with the deer carcass over his shoulder? It felt a lot longer, but then, so much had happened. He wore the Black Ice Ring on his left ring finger—it was his Focus ring, and yet, it was so much more. He had six rings in all, but he wasn’t going to parade around with forbidden magic decorating his hands. Not only did he find any kind of jewelry uncomfortable, but he didn’t desire the unwanted attention.

  As a barbarian with a dusza, he received enough attention. The northern clans did not have any magic to speak of, and he only had this burden because of the Lonely Man’s curse.

  The Winter Flame Ring decorated his right hand, a ring of ice crystal, which he could claim was a part of his Flow magic. He would’ve liked to wear the Crystal Null ring on his right hand, but it had a certain notoriety after Gulnash the Betrayer had used it to nearly win the summer’s gladiatorial games. Now Gulnash was dead, and Ymir was two rings away from completing his collection. There were eight Akkiric Rings in all.

  Brodor took a golden sheck out of a pouch by his side. The damn dwarf was trying to pay.

  Ymir’s hand flicked out and snatched up the coin. “No, Brodor, I’ve told you. I pay. You both are starving professors, and I’m rich. You southerners love your money games, and I don’t know why.”

  Brodor scowled. “Dammit, clansman. By my beard, I hate that you won’t let us pay. I’ll have you know, even with my gods damn divorce, I’m as rich as you.”

  It wasn’t true, but letting the dwarf believe his little fancies was a small price to pay for his company.

  While Ymir liked Brodor, his affection for Gharam went deeper. The two had fought and bled together. And Gharam had finally forgiven Ymir for besting him in a fight his first year at the school.

  “I say if the barbarian wants to pay, we let him pay!” Gharam gripped his tankard in his right hand while he shoved the dwarf with the back of his metal hook.

  To think, on the Ax Tundra a warrior might have taken their own life after receiving such a wound. That was the pride of the clansmen at work. Did it serve them? Ymir didn’t think so. Better to use magic to live than to seek death. He’d made that choice two years prior. It came as a bit of a surprise to him—a moment of significance—that after the past years of learning, fighting, and winning, he was finally comfortable with it. It had been the correct choice.

  Brodor slammed a hand down on the bar. “More ale, Doyll. And while it pains me, we’ll let our northern friend pay.”

  Doyll, the innkeeper, was a friendly if gaunt man. His wide smile wrinkled his face under a mop of dark hair. He had a precise way of speaking, obsequious and servile, with just a hint of malice. “It is as you say, Professor Bootblack. Mr. Ymir has the money now, and it’s better to drink with a rich man than a poor one.”

  Normally, Ymir might’ve hated such an innkeeper, but Doyll kept the Angel’s Kiss an interesting place, bringing in people from every corner of Raxid, from Ethra to the west to Reytah to the south. And Doyll wasn’t shy about providing Ymir gossip that might affect his xocalati business.

  Ymir wasn’t sure he liked the tone in Doyll’s voice this time, however. “And will I be poor soon, barkeep?”

  Doyll stood back while a serving girl, a woman with a big ass and bigger tits, hurried forward to scoop up their tankards to refill them. Doyll had a definite type, and he both married big, beautiful women and recruited them to work in his bar. He had three wives of epic proportions. And he brough
t in three more women to work there, who were beautiful but tough, because working inns in StormCry’s harbor required a certain strength of character.

  “Demons.” Doyll leaned in close. “The demons have returned.”

  “That’s only so much mine glitter!” Brodor guffawed. “Dammit, Bertha, quick with the ale. I have a mighty thirst this night. For tomorrow the work begins and won’t end ’til next summer!”

  “Fucking scholars!” Gharam roared. “I’m already two-shits done with this year, and it hasn’t even begun!”

  Ymir let the professors complain. It was one of the reasons why he liked drinking with them. While he’d come to love Old Ironbound, he didn’t have to work there. The professors did. He nodded at the barkeep. “And why would demons affect my xocalati business?”

  “You want to talk about demons?” Brodor wiped ale from his beard. “Why, in the very depths of the Golden Stonehold, there are demons in the darkest of shadows, black vile things that will turn your heart cold. There are stories of dark diamonds that devour all light. I’d take either, because they are angels compared to the bitch I married. Talk about demons!”

  Ymir waited for the dwarf to finish. Most of the time, Brodor needed to simply talk, and listening wasn’t required.

  Gharam had less patience. “Hush, dwarf. Tell us, Doyll, tell us tales that will haunt our dreams. Tell us about the end of the fucking world.” The orc snapped his fingers. “Better make it quick. School starts tomorrow, and if I have to live another year teaching whelps swordwork, I might have to end the world myself.”

  Doyll’s smirk told them he found their chatter amusing. “What have I heard? From all accounts, there’s a city on the southern continent, floating above the Urkwa Mountains.”

  “Floating cities? Now he really is telling stories!” Brodor howled. “You overtoppers must not like the rock at all.”

  Ymir, from his reading, knew that the floating cities of Reytah were real. It made sense that the Wingkin would want their homes drifting on the winds. “Enough now, Brodor. Let the barkeep finish.”

  Gharam shrugged. “To see a floating city would be something. I taught a Wingkin who graduated a bit back. A year or two at most. Anjhel, or that’s what we called her. She was a fierce one, granted, and fighting a fucking birdwoman tests you. She could fly up and float down like a bladed wind.”

  “And I’ve served Wingkin here many a night.” Doyll set the cup on the bar and started cleaning another one. “The floating cities are real. One, though, might be no more. It was overrun by a winged army when one of their great warriors was lost. Her name was Lalindryx Pjolin, a sky warrior of Al-Mawkwa-Takka, of the Pjolin Wassi.”

  Brodor made a face. “Is he even speaking Pidgin? I don’t recognize half those words.”

  Ymir was getting frustrated. “Damn the Ax, dwarf. Let the man finish!”

  Doyll shrugged. “In truth, I’m nearly finished, Mr. Ymir. Al-Mawkwa-Takka was destroyed, a victory for this new conqueror, demonic or kingly, who is to say? But now this King Shapta is on the move. That is what some are calling him. King Shapta, from the old stories. Not stories of Thera, mind you, but stories from the other continents. Others simply call him the demon conqueror.”

  “King Shapta.” Ymir said the words, to feel them on his tongue and to ponder them. “I know of the five demon kings on Ethra, the Pentakorr. But my world history isn’t as keen as I would like.”

  Brodor was too drunk to really understand how much he was poisoning the conversation. “If you want histories, lad, you should study the dynasties of the dwarves. Or simply the life of Ordoon Thunderrock. He was the greatest Morbuskor who ever lived. While you overtoppers fell apart during the Age of Withering, Ordoon dug tunnels to all the continents, going right under the ocean. You don’t need flying cities when you have gorgeous Underkeeps in Stoneholds in the very bedrock of the world. Don’t need to worry about demons. Don’t need to worry about dragons.”

  “But you just boasted of demons in the rock, dwarf!” Gharam thundered. “You’re drunk. So keep your beard hole closed.”

  Ymir winced. “Never tell a drunk man they’re drunk.”

  “I’m miles of mines away from drunk!” Brodor insisted.

  Ymir ignored him and nodded at Doyll. “So if this conqueror makes his way to Tubaqua, it will disrupt the supply of xoca beans. No beans means my business will suffer.”

  Doyll nodded and kept cleaning glasses.

  Brodor had moved on to the next topic of conversation. “You haven’t seen a demon. And you haven’t seen a dragon! Aye, they might’ve existed in the distant past, but they’re all gone. We live in an age of reason, orc. Or those of us who are civilized do.”

  The door to the tavern crashed open, and like normal, the crowd turned to see who had come in. At first, Ymir didn’t see anyone, but then he saw five figures sweep in on whirring wings. Fairies, five of them. Four he recognized, but there was a fifth that seemed new to him. It was hard to tell with the fairies, for they were small creatures, full of trickery. He wanted little to do with them.

  Except for one. Except for Ziziva, with her short blond hair, mischievous face, and glittering blue eyes. He’d known her body, mostly, but he knew her true self was locked away. She would never share her true self with him. Or perhaps her silliness was her true self. Regardless, she had let her last name slip. Ziziva Honeygood. Not that it told him anything, other than the fact that she wasn’t very good at naming things. She called the automaton posing as the friendly old lady in the back room of The Paradise Tree Nan Honeysweets.

  The fairies didn’t fly to the bar but found a perch on the wall, a place just for fairies, almost lost in the smoke of kharo and dully weed. It was interesting that Doyll had a section just for fairies.

  Ymir turned around to lean his back against the bar. He wanted to keep an eye on the fairies, or that was the term for them in Pidgin. They had their own term for themselves that people used—Fayee.

  One of Doyll’s barmaids, an inked girl with thighs and flabby arms, went to serve the fairies. Ziziva was there, as was Zorynda Gold. While Ziziva had short yellow hair, Zorynda had long golden hair, which fit her name. Both worked in The Paradise Tree down in the Sea Stair Market. They were both former students who’d left to focus on their business, which made Ymir’s life easier. They were his business partners, at least Ziziva was. Zorynda seemed to bow to Ziziva’s will.

  Then there was Lolazny Lyla, dark-haired and black-eyed, a Flow professor at Old Ironbound. With them was probably the richest Fayee in all of Thera, Dillyday Everjewel. She was the mistress of the Undergem Guild, which provided all banking operations for the continent. Dillyday had the wrinkles of an older fairy, though it was easy to be distracted by her shining blue hair and blue eyes to match. The last of the Fayee contingent was the stranger—pink hair, in full armor, complete with a sword and a kite shield. The pink fairy was female, of course.

  Fairies only had the one gender, which forced scholars to speculate on how they mated and if they were affected by the Withering, the disease that made getting pregnant hard, and having boys harder. Some thought the Fayee, like all the other races, had to drink sanctum sap tea to improve their fertility. But who got them pregnant? Very few, if anyone, knew they could change size to have sex with normal men.

  Ymir did. From what Ziziva said, the Fayee were very fertile, which was why she’d wanted Ymir to take her in an unexpected place rather than her honeypot, which is what she called her oheesy.

  The Fayee kept their secrets because they had magic to remove memories from those not protected. Ymir was protected.

  Ymir wondered if his very profitable xocalati business was why Dillyday Everjewel was staying longer in their little section of the world. Or perhaps the queenly fairy didn’t like the idea of a barbarian with magic knowing so much about her people. Then there was the business of the Fractal Clock. Ymir had undone their dealing with the merfolk during a short-lived war the year before.

  Regardless,
the fairies caused him more worry than storybook demon kings on other continents. Or storybook dragons.

  Brodor’s drunken shout pulled Ymir from his reverie. “What say you, Ymir? Are dragons real?”

  “Demons are. I killed one.” Ymir caught Ziziva’s eye. She glanced away. Was that a blush on her cheeks?

  Gharam knocked Ymir. “Of course you did. The Lonely Man, that fucker who cursed you, was a demon. Do you barbarians have stories of demons?”

  “Not like the rest of the world,” Ymir said. “Yes, we have stories of monsters, but we fear the cold wind more. The wind has murdered far more people and has a sharper kiss than any demon, I would imagine. And yet, I’ve fought some fiends in my time, but nothing like the Lonely Man. Nothing like that.”

  “And dragons?” Brodor had that drunk, panting dog look on his face. They were going to have to escort him back to his room in the Imperial Palace on the college’s campus. “What of dragons?”

  Ymir shrugged, holding his ale. “All dead. From what I understand, the dragons of the world were too powerful to be allowed to live. The Wingkin hunted them to extinction.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Ymir, but there’s at least one dragon on Ethra,” Doyll said quietly. “And from what I understand, there might be another in Four Roads. I’ve had Myrran merchants come in to confirm both. We live in an age of miracles. Speaking of which, Miss Everjewel would like to pay your bar tab. I would let her, Mr. Ymir. I would let her.”

  At that moment, all the fairies were gazing at them, except for Ziziva, who seemed embarrassed by the whole affair. That in and of itself was strange. He’d experienced Ziziva’s shamelessness twice now, once with Jennybelle Josen in the Sea Alley shower and once in the fairy’s candy shop with Toriah Welldeep, when love magic had gone awry.

  Dillyday Everjewel raised her small cup to toast him.

  Ymir toasted her back.

  If one of the most powerful women in Ethra wanted to buy them drinks, he’d let her. For now.

  Demons. Dragons. Fairies. Angelic warriors on feathery wings. His damn life had become the stuff of legends. A part of him loathed all the nonsense he found himself facing.