Barbarian Alchemist (Princesses of the Ironbound Book 3) 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

  Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Patreon

  Books by Black Forge

  Books by Shadow Alley Press

  GameLit, Harem, and Cultivation on Facebook

  LitRPG on Facebook

  Even More LitRPG on Facebook

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Summary

  SHE’S A SHE-ORC ON the streets, and a Princess in the sheets...

  Ymir has heard rumors of possible trouble with the merfolk because the fish people are not to be trusted. But everyone's favorite barbarian turned scholar has other things to worry about. He's working on forging another ring, running a business, and studying for his alchemy exams.

  The women of Old Ironbound aren’t making that easy.

  There's a greedy fairy who won't take no for an answer, his dwarven girlfriend is sampling aphrodisiacs, and now Gatha, the she-orc librarian, is showing some interest in him—but only if he can defeat her in battle. Meanwhile, the seas around the Majestrial Collegium Universitas are boiling with trouble. Someone is coming for an ancient artifact inside the Librarium Citadel, and if they get it, the continent of Thera will never be the same again.

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  Chapter One

  YMIR, SON OF YMOK, of the Black Wolf Clan had survived his first year at the Majestrial Collegium Universitas. So far his second year at Old Ironbound had been much less dramatic.

  It was mid-October, and Ymir stood in the entryway of the Sunfire Tower. The late morning wind and rains were intense. The storm had come.

  How he missed the summer weather—the bright days were full of sunshine, and an evening fog cooled Vempor’s Cape every night. Those had been such fine days, loving Jennybelle Josen and Lillee Nehenna, and having fun with Toriah Welldeep. He had a rich life with a human, an elf, and a dwarf. All kept him smiling.

  Tori was the most cheerful, yes, but there had been a cloud around her for a little while now. Something was bothering her. He hoped that a night together, just the two of them, would help with that. He planned to sleep over in her apartment that very night. He wasn’t looking forward to it, for any number of reasons.

  He’d survive a night in the Zoo. His life was good. He did have one problem currently plaguing him. One of his new classes, Personal Combat Techniques in the Sunfire College, wasn’t going well. The irony was bitter. He had to swallow his pride and get a tutor with only nine days until the First Exam.

  None of the Sunfire professors wanted to teach him a thing. Even though it had been almost a year since Ymir had faced Gharam Ssornap in battle, the old Gruul professor still wouldn’t speak to him. Nor would any of his wives. That left Ymir trying to figure things out on his own. He’d found help from the unlikeliest of sources.

  Already, students were filling the windows of the Librarium, the Sunfire dormitories, and the tower itself. Scholars would be in the stables, with the horses, out of the elements to watch the coming fight.

  Everyone wanted to see Ymir fight Gatha, the surly she-orc librarian.

  No one had beaten Gatha. No scholar. No professor. Gharam Ssornap said that Gatha was the best warrior he’d ever met, and Professor Slurp had ridden down rogue orcs on the Blood Steppes.

  Ymir had signed up for Personal Combat Techniques knowing he’d not have a professor. He’d read a pile of books, he’d trained on his own, and he’d fought anyone who would fight him. He’d hoped one of the Gruul would agree to train with him, maybe even Korga and her huge breasts, but she had refused. Gharam’s resentment was contagious.

  Brodor Bootblack, the Form professor, was always up for sparring, as was the other dwarf professor, Brandmunli Ironcoat. Ymir didn’t much trust either of them, however. The hidden assassin on campus had a gruff voice. Ymir had heard it in the sea alley showers when he’d used the Veil Tear Ring to see into the past. That voice seemed to have come from either an orc or a dwarf, though the clansman supposed someone could’ve altered their speech.

  The words he’d heard still haunted him: May the night never end, and may the day never begin. Ymir had read up on the Midnight Guild, but he couldn’t find much. No one thought it really existed. Something interesting, though—those words were part of a poem by the poet Obanathy, talking about the turning of the ages.

  Ymir and Obanathy had a strange relationship. The clansman hated the man’s fucking poetry, but he loved the poet’s Flow cantrips. They kept Ymir hidden from prying eyes.

  The clansman was used to learning things on his own, and he’d mastered all of the moves in the syllabus except for one attack, called the wizarding riposte. It was a vicious strike after a parry. There was a magical component to the move that he couldn’t quite master on his own.

  The clansman thought that the Honored Princept, Della Pennez, would agree to help him. She was skilled. Last year, she’d bested Gharam in a duel on the Sunfire Field, a day of rain and violence. Gharam still bore the scar from her slash up his belly. The Princept, though, was too busy, and so she’d suggested Gatha of Ssunash.

  To his surprise, the she-orc librarian had agreed. However, she was now late to their meeting. He wasn’t surprised.

  Gatha finally walked out of the back of the Throne Auditorium and walked to the middle of the Sunfire Field. She was wearing armor that covered her shoulders, arms, and legs. A band of leather held her breasts down. A loincloth hid her sex.

  It was the first time he’d seen her in her sparring gear, and she was an impressive sight. Her white hair, braided and tied, was pulled back from her face. Rain dripped down her green skin. She had a thick, square jaw above a muscular neck. That jaw held her retractable tusks. Even with such heavy features, she was beautiful. White eyebrows arched over fiery rose-colored eyes above a fine nose and bow-shaped lips that rarely smiled.

  She stood with a curved Gruul sparring sword, the steel edge blunt. He had a similar sword. For this exercise, they would be using their respective school’s prolium magic, the attack spells of the Categoria Magica.

  Ymir walked out into the sheets of rain and tromped across the green gra
ss. He was drenched in an instant. In the middle of the field, he took off his robe and his shirt. He liked the way the wet brought out the fragrance of the grass, and he liked the she-orc’s musk in the wind.

  He sat on the grass to remove his boots—Gharam Ssornap’s boots—and he’d bet anything that the old Gruul professor was watching. Ymir’s girls—Tori, Jennybelle, and Lillee—would be in the citadel. They’d offered to come to the field to be with him, but he’d told them he’d rather be alone.

  Alone? That was a laugh.

  The entire school was there. Della was probably looking down from her chambers, far up at the top of the citadel, on the seventh floor. Or maybe she was watching from the eighth floor, the Illuminates Spire, at the very pinnacle of the old fortress. That was where she kept the forbidden texts and ancient artifacts that could destroy the world.

  Gatha strutted over to stand above him. She shouted over the wind, “I didn’t come out here to watch you strip. Let’s get this fucking lesson over with.”

  Ymir blinked rain out of his eyes. “This isn’t just a lesson. Yes, I need to know the wizarding riposte, but we have an audience. We’ll have to give them a fight.”

  “You’d lose,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t.” He stood. She was only a bit shorter than he was and nearly as thick. Ymir was six feet, four inches tall and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. Gatha must weigh at least hundred and eighty pounds if not a full two hundred—she was all hard bone and flexing muscle.

  She clenched her teeth, and her lips trembled. “I told you. I don’t want to fight you. I want to show you the move and be done with you.”

  “I remember.” He lifted his chin. “You don’t want to know that you can beat me. Why does it matter, Gatha? You can’t hate me much more than you already do.”

  She lost control of her rage. Her tusks snapped out of her mouth. With those dark pink eyes, those tusks, and her green skin dripping, she appeared monstrous. “I don’t hate you! Ignis prolium!” The Focus ring, a red metal band on her left hand, flashed a scarlet light. Fire wreathed her sparring blade. She’d gone with a more advanced spell, using the prolium verbal component and not just the normal ignis ignarum. Word choice was just one aspect of the magical arts.

  Ymir would match her. “Jelu prolium!” Shadows swirled around the Black Ice Ring on his left ring finger. He felt his dusza working with the ring to both fuel his magic and protect his core. He’d gotten more adept at using the Akkiric Ring, though he still hadn’t unlocked its secrets.

  The shadows turned to white mist around his right hand and his sword. Ice crackled as it covered his blade in a mist of cold fed by the rainwater and his own sorcery. He’d grown accustomed to wielding a Gruul sword. It had its advantages, though he longed to use his big ax in battle, for there was nothing like hacking apart your enemies, breaking their swords, cleaving skulls, and lopping off limbs.

  He didn’t think he’d get to wade into any kind of real war any time soon. He’d make do with these skirmishes.

  “Jelu armatus!” Ymir called out. Yes, he was showing off. He covered his arms and legs with layers of ice, armor that adjusted with his movements. A wide-necked helmet of blue cold protected his head. He’d come far since he’d first used the magical armor earlier that year. This fucking magic shit wasn’t that hard, not for him. The Black Ice Ring gave him a bit more power, and he’d already impressed his professors with his stores. Most importantly, he’d learned control. However, he’d still find himself floating every now and again, or lost in a vision.

  Such visions made him nervous now that he’d caught a glimpse of what lay beyond reality using the Veil Tear Ring, which he kept in a special pouch on his belt. Better he have it and not use it than for anyone else to use it against him.

  Ymir stood with his blade of ice and his armor of cold. “I think you do hate me.”

  “I don’t.” Rain popped off Gatha’s sword of flame. Steam roiled around her.

  As for Ymir, more rainwater froze on his blade, marking it with running droplets. "If you don't, then why do you spurn me like a bitch dog abandoning her runts to the cold?"

  “That’s stupid.” Gatha swept her fire sword through the air. “I don’t bite. I don’t bark. I avoid and ignore. Now I’m going to lunge at you. You will parry, then you will strike, while at the same time, you use a Moons cantrip to increase the speed of your blade. Strike my armor, please. I don’t feel like bleeding today.”

  She flung herself forward; Ymir smacked her sword away. The ice snapped as the fire hit it. He then spat, “Caelum caelarum!” It was a specific cantrip to increase his speed, and he felt the change in his strike. He angled his blade to hit the armor on Gatha’s right wrist.

  The misting cold around his sword froze a patch of her armor.

  “There,” the she-orc said. “You’ve learned the wizarding riposte. There are some things you can’t get from a book, sadly.”

  “Like love?” he asked.

  “Fuck you!” she snarled.

  He looked her right in the eyes, tired of her ire. “You can read your pornography all you want, but it will never replace the caresses and stink of a real lover.”

  Did her green skin darken with shame? Or was that simply more fury? This woman seemed to have an endless supply of rage.

  “You say stink like it’s a good thing,” she shot back.

  “The Axman gave me a nose to use.” He smiled. “By his hidden name, I’ll experience this world with all my senses before I die. Now, let us fight to first blood. Let us end the suspense. Perhaps you’ll quit ignoring me if you know you can’t beat me.”

  He didn’t give her a chance to respond. He stabbed at her chest, ready to pull his point if she didn’t block his attack. She did, and her flames blazed brighter, spitting in the rain against his ice. He went in, grabbed her armor, and threw her back, trying to throw her down.

  “It’ll be a sad day when I can’t bleed an asshole like you.” She kept her feet, whirled, and fought back. Her sword cracked down on his arm. The slash would’ve ended the fight if he hadn’t had his ice armor. He wasn’t bleeding yet.

  He danced back, blocking one blow, then the next.

  There was a grim expression on her face. Her tusks were still out, dripping. “Ignis armatus!” Fire swam around her armored body, flickering in the wind, sizzling in the rain.

  He blinked the wet from his eyes and lunged. She did the wizarding riposte, and he barely survived the sweep of her flames. The heat of her, though, felt good in the chill air, made worse by his ice armor.

  He ducked, and her blade of fire roared over his head. He chopped at her leg, and she took it on the plate of her armor. She then brought her sword down with a mighty, perfectly placed strike. Her fire sword burned through both the ice and steel of his blade.

  He was left with a dagger-length shard. Which was fine. He got inside her defenses and grabbed her sword arm while she gripped his right wrist before his cold knife could nick her skin. Her fire armor made him wince, but he kept his head down, and his ice helmet protected him. Both of them grunted against the other. Ymir was impressed with this woman’s strength. But he was stronger.

  They struggled, grunting, sweating, and yes, he could smell the stink of her body, and it was familiar. How often had she brought him books after a long day? And they had their time in the Scrollery with Lillee, when Gatha broke the rules, both the Librarium’s and the ones guiding her moral compass. That was when she’d cut him off emotionally.

  Before that she and Ymir had flirted, and hated, and laughed, and longed for one another. After? They might as well have been going to different schools.

  Gatha wasn’t going to give up, and neither would he.

  In the end, though, Ymir knew this was a battle he couldn’t win. If he won, she would feel ashamed and she would run even further into her books. And if she won? She’d never be able to look on him again without knowing that she was stronger, faster, better. He’d become simply one more oppone
nt she’d crushed.

  Gatha slashed at his face with her tusks. If she even nicked his cheek, she’d win.

  Ymir dodged her tusks. At the same time, he moved his hand down her fist, where she clutched the fiery sword, and he crushed her hand until she gasped in pain and dropped her sparring sword. The flame flickered away, the magic gone.

  She didn’t pause. She drew the silver knife from his own belt.

  He actually heard the scholars watching gasp in union.

  She had a weapon again. If he weren’t careful, he’d find that blade in his belly. His ice armor was melting from the heat of her flames. Chill water streamed down his skin. He could smell burning hair. He only had seconds to end the fight.

  He was going to risk beating this woman. Maybe it was out of pride. Or maybe he hoped that if he did win, her respect might grow into love. Either way, he was going to use his gifts, both magical, from the Lonely Man’s curse, and physical, from his own sinews.

  “Ignis inanis!” He dispelled her Sunfire armor, the spinning flames dissipating. It was obvious she hadn’t seen that coming.

  He darted forward and sliced into her neck, just enough to draw blood.

  At the same time, he felt his own silver dagger slide across his side, exposed because his armor had melted away.

  They’d cut each other at the same time.

  She roared. “This isn’t what I wanted! I won! I always fucking win! I didn’t hate you before, Ymir! But now I do. Now I fucking do.”

  She hadn’t felt the cut on her neck. He showed her the blood on the ice covering his broken sword.

  Gatha saw it. Her eyes widened. Her tusks snapped back into her mouth. Her hand went to her neck, and then she stood gazing at the blood on her fingertips.

  For an instant, for less than a second, she seemed so relieved. Then the tears came. She cried them, proudly, head up, not running away, and not ashamed.

  She threw his knife to the side.

  “That was a present from Jennybelle,” Ymir said quietly. “It’s Morbuskorian silver. It’s precious.”

  Gatha seemed calm now, calm if a little shattered. “No. Weapons are not precious. No gift you can hold in your hand is precious. All will be lost, or destroyed, or forgotten. What you have with your women is precious, but I’m not sure you know its value. And I don’t think you know my value. Worse yet? I don’t think I want you to know. Leave me be, Ymir. I didn’t come to this school for you. I didn’t come to Old Ironbound for love.”