The Scars We Leave — Chapter Five

As the band anxiously waits for war to start, Luka adjusts to life as a mercenary. Tension runs high with Julian, and neither is sure what they want.

Erotic short story, dark fantasy. 4.8K words.

Header by Octavian Dan via Unsplash.

Chapter Five: The Steel in Her Grip

Askervall braces itself for civil war, and Luka learns to wield a sword in her new life as a mercenary. She clashes with the other company members constantly, and one night, arguments break out between her and the one person who seems to be on her side.

You can find a directory of chapters in The Scars We Leave here.

Cis F/Cis M, 4821 words. Luka’s body is described with the words “breasts,” “tits”

CWs and Tags:

• Slavery
• Dubious consent
• Teasing
• Choking
• Collar

Readjusting her fingers on the hilt, Luka swung the blade in a diagonal slash towards the straw dummy. It caught the burlap sack the target was “wearing” and cut cleanly through, dry grass tumbling out in pieces from the sliced opening.

“Your edge alignment is good,” Julian said, standing behind her. “But your stance is too narrow. Spread out your feet a little.” He pushed her ankle with his boot, forcing her to slide it to avoid falling over.

Luka resisted the urge to step on his foot. “Use your words, don’t fucking knock me over,” she told him.

“You’ll learn faster by being shown. Unless, you think you’re ready to spar again?”

She rolled her eyes. Their first “training” match had left bruises all over her arms. She was determined that, when they fought again, she’d leave the smug prick on his ass in the dirt.

All in all, Luka was doing much better than she had been the first night she’d joined the Flying Swords. The tonic that old man had given her had, day-by-day, significantly helped her illness. He’d told her that her lungs might be permanently scarred, but she had stopped coughing up blood, and could breathe and move a lot easier these days.

She’d cut her hair short past her ears, trimming it herself with a razor and letting the waves sort themselves out. Now, she wore leather tunics and hardened jackets, and walked with a longsword strapped to her hip at all times. Although most of the rest of the band hardly liked her, some had developed a slight grudging respect for how quickly she picked up swordsmanship.

As a half-elf, she had a natural grace and dexterity in her hands that made bladework come easily to her. She’d used axes and knives enough in her life to get a sense for how to line up a cut, and a sword wasn’t really any harder. More intuitive, even, since it was weighted for slashing. She still didn’t have as much strength in her arms as she’d like, but her muscles were recovering.

“Take a few more swings,” Julian said. “Remember, you fight with more than just your hands. Mind your footwork and use your hips for leverage when you strike.”

Luka bit into the training dummy again with a long horizontal cut, then savaged it several more times in a precise flurry of attacks.

“Better,” the mercenary said clinically. “You don’t hesitate, which is good. I’ve seen plenty of novices who wait a second to just watch after they hit something. That kind of opening will get you killed on the battlefield.”

She sheathed her sword. “I’m not a child cringing away from knives,” she responded.

“It was a compliment,” Julian said dryly. “But you don’t deal with those very well, do you?”

“Bite it,” Luka told him. “I’m getting a drink.” She turned to head back to camp. He shrugged and followed her.

The half-elf still wasn’t happy with her place in the group. Julian had laughed and told her to keep the collar on, because she “hadn’t paid herself off yet,” and she slept in his tent on his orders. She knew it was to keep any of the men who resented her for killing their old boss from trying to off her in her sleep, but she still chafed at the notion. It made the rumors of “Julian’s personal slut” all too easy to spread.

Sometimes, Luka wondered what he did think of her. He’d been the one to actually buy her that day at the slave market, but even before she’d cut Hadley’s throat he hadn’t laid a finger on her. Still, he paid more attention to her than any of the other fighters in the company, and sometimes, when she turned on him quickly, she could swear his gaze was predatory. If he wanted something from her, Luka wished he’d just say it instead of constantly lingering over her shoulder.

They trudged back through the tall grass towards the Flying Swords’ circle of tents. It was merely one of dozens that were scattered like jacks across the fields, here, outside the walls of Askervall’s eponymous seat of governance. A crisis of succession was looming, and every merc gang worth their salt was pushing in on the chance for a payday.

Vadik had snatched them all up, signing contracts and letting gold flow easily. Mercenaries rarely got advance payments, so the young Ivanov lord had gotten quite a few people’s attention with his show of wealth. He was reportedly in the castle now, in talks with the late duke’s sister Tanya and representatives of the Church of the Sacred Tower. The “disagreements” could start any time.

“Oy, it’s the lovebirds!” Camus called as he saw them approaching. “Decide the field was too public, eh?”

“Stop flapping your tongue,” Luka said caustically. “You’re polluting the air. There’s enough sweaty bastards out here stinking it up already.”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you? We were all over you, after all, while you cried like a whore.”

She flushed angrily. Usually the men wouldn’t go so far as to reference that night, for fear of pissing off Julian, but every once in a while she’d get a comment like that.

Luka opened her mouth, but Julian spoke first. “If you’re going to throw out fighting words, Camus, back them up. Think you can take her in a duel?” She shot her boss a deadly, irritated glare at the suggestion.

“Of fuckin’ course I can, her pointy ears are greener than basil leaf, and just last week she was still hacking up blood like a plague victim!” Camus swaggered, sounding insulted.

“Good,” Julian nodded. “Both of you, out in the field in an hour.”

“I’m going to tan both your hides,” Luka muttered.

They faced each other off at a dozen paces, swords in hand. Camus was a tall man, but he wasn’t a mountain like Hadley had been. Luka wouldn’t be overpowering him in brute force, but the difference in their reach wasn’t insurmountable.

They wielded practice blades with dulled edges, corks on the tips, and cloth wrapped around the steel. With plenty of work looming on the horizon, Julian didn’t want anyone getting hurt.

Camus advanced first, holding his weapon out defensively and making a slow circle perpendicular to her.

You move like you’re trying not to scare a doe, Luka thought. She bolted forward, swinging her sword down in a fast overhead strike and fully intending to crack his skull, practice blade or not. Camus parried, metal sliding against metal, and she pulled back, whirling her weapon away to keep her defense and get ready to hit him again.

As he twisted his blade to counter-attack, she leaned in and kicked him as hard as she could in the shin. Her boots were steel-toed. Camus hissed in pain and immediately favored that ankle, stumbling back on his other leg.

She followed through relentlessly, clashing swords over and over. Luka stepped in close, not letting him outrange her and forcing him to focus on defending himself. She feinted her sword to the right, and his followed in a practiced block. But when the attack came, it was a bare-knuckled fist, flying in from the left and slamming into his nose.

“Fucker!” Camus yelled, flinching and swinging his sword wildly. Luka paddled his arm with the flat of her blade and dove in for the “kill,” forcing her opponent to take desperate steps backwards to avoid her. “You fight like a fucking tavern drunk!”

“And you fight like a moron,” she spat back. Their weapons rung off each other again, and this time, she sidestepped, making a low, horizontal cut that collided with his wrist. If her weapon hadn’t been dull and padded, blood would have flown. As it was, she just battered his arm aside and knocked the sword from his grip.

Luka poked him in the chest with the harmless tip. “You’re dead. Better start digging the grave.”

“Bitch…!” Camus looked at her with angry eyes. “Fine, you got lucky. Try it in a real fight and get yourself killed.”

He stormed away.

She laughed giddily and tossed her sword in the grass. “Oh, it feels good to shut them up.”

“Your swordplay’s sloppy,” Julian criticized. “Your cuts are good, but there’s too much wasted movement. A better fighter than him could take advantage of that.”

Luka shrugged. “Yeah, I get it.” She sounded flippant, but she did take his advice into consideration. Personal feelings aside, Julian was an excellent swordsman and not a bad teacher either.

“How are you feeling about the prospect of an actual battle?” He asked, crossing his arms.

“I’m sure it’ll go fine, unless I get trapped in a forest and have to fight my way through a hundred men, or something.”

“Don’t treat it casually. Skirmishes are messy, and you need a lot more than technique to stay alive. You have to be aware of everything around you, and sometimes you’ll have hardly any room to fight.”

She tilted her head and looked at him. “Why do you care so much?”

“I told you before. You’re an investment.”

“I call bullshit. You’re not nearly so worried about losing any of the men.”

“They’ve been in battles before. They don’t need me to baby them.”

“But I do?”

“You’re an inexperienced whelp, and if I let you off your leash, you’re liable to go die in a ditch.”

Luka scooped up her sword off the ground and lunged at him, swinging angrily. She was tired of the way everyone treated her here, and after beating Camus, violence seemed like a good way to solve it.

Julian caught her wrist and twisted it painfully, forcing her to drop the blade. He pulled her in, bending her arm back, and snaked out his other hand to grab her neck under the collar. But his grip loosened as soon as he touched her skin.

She looked up at him in surprise. His eyes were wild, a little hungry, staring deeply into hers. They stood together in that awkward position a little too long. She could feel his heartbeat, thumping fast.

He pushed Luka away, hard.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Julian growled.

She laughed out loud, rubbing her wrist. “So you are only human under that ice, after all.” The half-elf made mocking doll eyes at him, pursing up her lips. “Is the boy flustered?”

“Luka, stop playing arou–“

“There it is!” She said triumphantly. “My name. You treat it like a curse. It’s fine to just fucking use it, you know.”

He was silent for a long moment, then sighed. “…Fine. But don’t fucking swing on me again.”

That afternoon, Vadik sent runners out to announce that he would be making some kind of proclamation. The fields buzzed with activity, the lord’s own sizable army coming alive along with the gathered mercenary forces. Everyone was eager to know what was on the horizon; if there’d be bloodshed, who would get paid.

A stage was quickly constructed on the top of a knoll, and the noble’s attendants wove through the crowds, finding the leaders of the mercenary bands and the officers of the standing army. They were sent up to the small ring of space around the platform to hear Vadik speak personally. As always, Julian took Luka along with him, to the chagrin of the other Swords.

After almost an hour spent waiting, lounging around in the cool afternoon light, the man finally arrived. He was flanked by a squadron of armored knights, but only one person followed him up onto the stage: A lanky, androgynous figure in a red cloak and understated finery, carrying no armaments to speak of.

Luka had heard around the camps that Vadik had a witch in his employ as a bodyguard; apparently, it was true.

The man himself was exactly the picture of a lord, which meant Luka disliked him instantly. He had long, straightened, black hair, a face that was used to sneering, and angular features. He wore a black and gold doublet, along with a black cape embroidered with the Ivanov crest: An ash tree with spears emerging from the crown.

“My war-time friends,” he began to speak, and his voice was louder than it should have been. The work of his pet witch? “I am greatly heartened to see you here today, in support of my rightful claim. I could stand here and sing the praises of my late uncle, who managed this domain admirably…but we are men of action, are we not?”

A shout went up from the crowd.

“So I will tell you the things that you will care about, my friends, and not waste our time on obituaries. I have been in council with the good lady Tanya for several days now. She and I share…many crucial differences of opinion, and we have determined that they are irreconcilable. We cannot jointly rule, and neither of us wishes to see Askervall in the hands of the other. Disagreement, unfortunately, is a sad truth even among family.

There is no easy way for us to determine amongst each other whether it is her or I who is fit to succeed Duke Ivan, so I have agreed to a suggestion made by Lady Tanya. We shall send for the Church of the Sacred Tower, via message to Adamanthold, and ask them to make a deliberation. Of course…the respect of the church is imminently important to us both.

If I find the terms of their decision just and fair, I will willingly abide by it, whether they choose go support my claim or the good woman’s. But, my friends…”

The crowd rippled. Everyone here knew Vadik wasn’t camping an army outside Askervall because he was ready to walk away peacefully.

“…If I believe the process has been corrupted, or a grave error in judgement has been made, I will have no choice but to correct it, by any means necessary.” Vadik drew his thin sword from his belt and pointed it to the sky. “So stand with me, friends! If we must rally against those who do not harbor the best interests of Askervall’s people, we shall do so with courage in our hearts!”

More noise from those assembled, including the rattling of steel as Vadik’s own officers drew weapons with him.

“For the time being, I ask you all that you merely stand at the ready. Violence is, of course…a last resort. For those brave soldiers of fortune here, instructions will be conveyed to you individually. Rest assured, we appreciate your willingness to ride with us. For now, I will depart, and leave you to your revelries. My good people…”

He descended the platform, followed closely by the red-garbed witch, and the crowd was slowly dispersed.

The group gathered around the fire that evening as the sun set to discuss the proclamation.

“So, what, he’s just gonna let some two-bit pulpit pusher decide?” Anthony grumbled. “The gold they gave us is nice, but if there ain’t a fight we don’t get paid.”

Julian shook his head. “The Church will never back Vadik willingly. Tanya’s a faithful woman, and he’s practically a heretic in their eyes after spending so long outside Neverreach. They’ll choose her, and he’ll attack.”

“Then he’s stalling for time,” Luka said idly.

“What do you mean?” Anthony eyed her.

“If he was ready to fight, there’s no real reason not to start battering down Askervall’s gates, right? Why wait for a choice he knows he’ll lose? So he’s trusting Tanya not to make a move until the Church does…all the while he gathers his forces.”

“…That’s not bad insight.” Camus titled his head grudgingly. “Better than I’d expect from a woman.”

“Shut the fuck up already, dude.”

He started to get up. “You want to go again, bitch?”

Julian shot him an icy glare. “No more fights tonight.”

Camus sighed bitterly and sat back down. Luka yawned.

“In that case, I’m going to sleep. You’re all boring when fighting’s off the table.” She stood up and turned to slip into the tent she shared with Julian.

The murmurs outside continued as she stripped down for bed. The leather was swapped for soft underclothes, but she still kept on a shirt and pants. The half-elf wasn’t taking any chances with this band. To that end, her sword stayed right beside her, in arm’s reach for her to defend herself.

It was a few minutes later, when Luka was drifting off, that she heard Julian enter the tent. She rolled over to look at him and got a rare glance at the mercenary leader shirtless. He was undressing, but hadn’t slipped into the bed roll yet.

He caught her eyes watching him. The hints of firelight outside snuck into the tent and cast flickering shadows over his skin, illuminating lines and lines of old scars. His chest was toned, slim, an athlete’s build rather than a strongman’s. Luka was the first to break their gazes, and neither spoke.

She felt him settle onto the ground…a little closer than usual.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“…What?” Julian shifted to face her.

“You’re the only person I can really talk to here. So tell me something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, anything. Where you learned to fight, how you became a mercenary.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Am I your first slave?’

“Yes,” he said bluntly. “And it’s a lot of trouble. I don’t think I’d do it again.”

“What about your investment?”

“That’s still true. I’m not selling you off, I’m just not eager to take in any more bratty waifs.” He huffed.

“Bratty waif?” She demanded. “Julian, I swear to fucking Amiel, if that’s–“

Luka cut herself off as he suddenly rolled on top of her. Her breath caught and she forced down the memories of her first night in the camp. The blankets were still between them. His eyes were unreadable.

“You’re doing it again,” he breathed.

“Doing what?”

“Being a brat. It makes me want to hit you.”

“At least you’re honest. Why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I hit you? Luka, how low an opinion of me–“

She laughed in his face. “Are you trying to act moral? You bought me, bragged about the bargain, and handed me off to be a fucktoy.”

“Hadley handed you off.”

“Oh, fuck off. You think you’re not complicit? He would have walked right by me if not for you.”

“And then what? You’re sold to someone even worse who fucking strangles you or something?”

“Do you…” She raised her eyebrows. “Do you actually think you did me a favor, Julian?”

“Be quiet.” He frowned.

“No, you listen to me, you little fucking prick, I–“

Fingers wrapped around her neck. He choked her, for the second time today, but this time he didn’t let go. Luka coughed, trying to push him off, but he was still stronger.

“I said be quiet.” His eyes darted around wildly. “Do you want me to be angry with you so badly? I have been nothing but patient with you, Luka.” His hand eased up and he stared at her. “What do you want me to do?”

She didn’t answer, sucking in a painful breath and coughing, curling her body in.

“You’ve done this since I let you join. You respond to me with acid and to the others with open hostility–“

“Why would I…” She gasped for air. “Why would I like any of you after what happened?”

“I gave you a chance!” Julian hissed.

“A chance to die in the mud?”

He growled. “Do you want to be treated like a slave so badly? Fine, I’ll indulge you.”

He clamped his hand over her mouth and Luka immediately started thrashing, pushing against his chest and trying to tear him off her. Julian dug in his feet and pushed her shirt up, groping her breasts with scraping nails, his movements shaky and uncontrolled.

She tried to push her legs off the ground and get out from under him, dark memories in her thoughts, but he tightened his hand over her lips. “Don’t struggle. Do you want the others to hear you and join in?”

Luka glared at him, knowing he was right. She couldn’t fight off all of them, even having partially recovered.

Julian put his mouth to her tit and ran his tongue over her nipple, pressing it back and forth against her skin. She shifted uncomfortably, closing her eyes, hating that she wasn’t pushing back.

But…it didn’t make her body recoil in panic like she expected it to. For two weeks, they’d slept next to each other, trained together. She’d felt how her body fit easily into the shape of his when he stood close to guide her hands and show her how to grip a sword. Felt how their legs locked against each other’s when she carefully matched his footwork.

He bit lightly, pushing his teeth down on her freckled skin, and Luka let out a tiny moan against his fingers. Julian’s other hand traveled down her side, reaching her pants, hooking into the hem and dragging them down.

She felt him suddenly tense, and then he rolled off of her, snatching his bedroll back up around him.

She panted, keeping her voice down even without his hand to muffle it. “What the fuck was that?” Luka whispered to him. “Who does that and doesn’t follow through?”

“Do you want me to rape you?” Julian whispered back.

“No, I’m just…confused.” A little bit of the fire in her voice went out. “I don’t…I don’t want you to hurt me.”

“I’m not–“ His voice sounded hoarse. “I’m not like them. Or, I don’t want to be.” He rolled over to face away.

Luka couldn’t find words that weren’t an insult. Did she think of him any differently than them? Did he deserve to be thought of any differently?

“Julian.”

“…In the morning, fight me. Let’s spar. In the forest, away from the field where everyone is everywhere. I want to get all this fucking energy out.”

“Can’t you spar with someone else?”

“Fighting Camus or Bobby won’t make me stop wanting to hurt you.”

She went silent for a long minute. “Am I allowed to say no?”

“…Yeah, just forget it, I won’t–“

“Then yes.”

“What?”

“I said yes. I’ll fight you.”

The clearing they chose was far enough away to be out of earshot from the camp. Julian wanted privacy, and Luka didn’t really want people watching them work out…whatever they were working out, either.

The morning mist clung to the trees and drifted over the grass, sunlight shining in the dew. Days like these, the north had a certain cold beauty to it, thin cedars stretching like spikes into the air and sleepy grey clouds carried by the wind overhead.

They both wore plain clothes, and although their swords were dull practice tools, they’d forgone any of the extra blunting equipment. Julian wanted it to be as close to a real fight as they could get.

“Show me everything you can do,” he told her.

Luka raised her sword. “I’m not letting you walk away without some bruises yourself, this time.”

They circled each other, his eyes flat and unreadable while hers were fiery and angry. She made the first move, darting in and swinging low. He parried the strike easily, but the half-elf danced out of his reach before his blade came around on the counter.

Julian watched her carefully. She wasn’t fighting in the same way she’d beaten Camus yesterday. Then, she’d been swift and aggressive, but this time her first strike was…testing. It was a good thing, he supposed. She wouldn’t have a chance if she fought him like he was some big oaf.

He advanced a step and thrusted, testing Luka in the same way. Instead of blocking, she back-stepped again, hopping away from his attack. He reached out and swung again, and she ducked. He saw her moving, lunging low again, and realized she was trying to get him to over-extend.

Rather than retreating, he met her with a charge of his own, shifting his blade down out of his previous attack to slam against hers, pushing out her momentum with his superior strength. She immediately darted to the side, correcting her defense and keeping steel between them for the entire movement.

“I thought you wanted to hurt me?” She taunted.

“You can’t goad me into making a mistake,” Julian replied.

“No, but I can goad you because it’s fun.” Luka grinned, but the anger was still in her gaze.

There it was again. The behavior that got under his skin so easily. It wasn’t the disrespect. Not primarily, at least. It was the way she enjoyed it, the way she leaned forward like she was putting her whole body into an insult. She delighted in being rude and disruptive, even when he’d done nothing for her but–

Julian parried another glancing blow, chastising himself internally.

“I said, show me everything you can do.”

“You’re the boss, boss.”

She charged him again, swinging in a long overhead arc with both hands. He intercepted, clashing blades, and set his feet, sliding his sword down hers to overwhelm her and break her grip.

Suddenly, Luka released her right hand, letting the pressure he was putting on her weapon bear it down towards the ground. Her fingers pulled a tiny hidden knife out of the hem of her pants, and she dove for him, whipping her sword left-handed away from his block and out of her path.

Julian slipped to the side, intending to let her slide past, but she whirled with surprising grace and landed in a defensive pose on the follow-through, the knife already unseen again wherever she’d stowed it.

“Are you trying to kill me?” He asked, irritated.

“Is ‘everything’ too much for you suddenly?” She pointed the tip of her sword at his chest. “Do I need to go easy on you, little boy?”

“You’re pushing your luck, Luka,” he growled.

“Good.”

He went on the aggressive, moving forward instead of letting her try more tricks, feinting left, cutting right, twisting his feet and leaning his body to extend his reach. She took another step back, flicking her blade to the side to deflect his, pulling it back in for a second block as he struck again. Julian watched her feet carefully, letting her backpedal as he made careful swipes at her guard.

As soon as her stance was unbalanced, he lunged, striking high while Luka was halfway through a backwards motion. She blocked, but didn’t have the leverage to push against him, and went stumbling back from the force of the blow. His next swing slammed the flat of his blade against her arm, then sliced with the tip toward her torso.

His weapon already inside her reach, she couldn’t deflect, could only try to dodge aside. She was faster than Julian expected, avoiding being scratched by the tip, but it was only a second later that he set the metal against her throat.

“You’re predictable. You do the same thing over and over until you’re punished for it.”

“Sounds like a metaphor for something.”

He sighed and pulled away, moving to sheathe his sword. The duel hadn’t quenched his feelings nearly like he thought it would. Actually, it had made them worse.

Her eyes narrowed. As soon as his gaze was turned, Luka swung her practice sword like a club, flat side down, and slammed it into his back. Julian cried out in surprise and pain, spinning on her and clutching for his own blade again, but he didn’t have time. She dropped her weapon and tackled him, sending them both rolling into the damp grass.

“I told you I’d give you a bruise,” she panted, on top of him and breathing raggedly. He could hear the pain in her lungs, the remnants of the disease she was still shaking.

He didn’t respond, pushing his feet off the dirt and reversing their position. Now, he was straddling her. Luka’s hands fell limply on the ground. She wasn’t fighting.

“Well? What’s it going to be, pretty boy?” Her eyes were challenging.

Julian angrily forced down his irritation and arousal. How did she get to him so easily?

“You are a fucking mess,” he said, climbing off of her and standing. “Get up.”

Luka stood slowly, holding her chest and wheezing a little. This time, it was a pang of guilt he had to fight off. He forced it back, grabbed onto his anger, sharpened it.

The merc tossed her sword at her feet. “Take it. We’re not done training.” He put his hand on the hilt of his weapon. “You want to rest, fucking earn it.”