Kol’s Honor (Barbarians of the Dust #4)

Chapter 1

I HAVE THIS COMPLETELY UNDER CONTROL

ERIKA

It is barely dawn, but the cavern is already warm, the air thick with the smell of warming dust and crushed firebloom. I kneel by the shallow edge of the drinking pool, my knees aching against the hard, uneven stone as I pull another woven filter from the water.

A thin film of red algae coats the thick fibers. It smells sharp, like rusted iron, and it leaves a thin, burning residue on my hands every time I plunge them back into the water. I grimace, ignoring the sting in my raw knuckles as I begin to tease apart a stubborn knot in the weave.

If I do not clear this algae by midday, the toxin will build up and the drinking water will sour.

And if the water sours, twenty human women who are already weak, already frightened, will fall violently ill with fever and vomiting.

Our transport ship was destroyed in the crash and there is no way to go back.

We have lost our home. I am not going to let us lose anyone else to something as preventable as contaminated water.

I can bear the stinging in my hands. It is a small price for that little bit of certainty.

The cavern behind me is already awake. A dozen massive Drakav move around the central fire pit, checking their bone weapons and preparing for the morning hunt.

They are enormous creatures, their pale golden skin marked with thick, curving ridges along their shoulders and entirely bare of clothing save for leather weapon harnesses.

When they found us, the sheer, overpowering sight of so much exposed, muscular alien male had been dizzying.

But months have passed, and survival has stripped away my modesty.

Now, I simply accept that we share a living space with actual naked giants.

What still unsettles me, though, is the silence. So many massive bodies moving over the stone, and yet there is no clatter, no shouted greetings. Only the low crackle of the firestones and the quiet scrape of sharpening stones.

Which makes it incredibly jarring when a voice speaks directly beside me.

“Eh...rih-?”

I flinch, my hands jerking. A splash of acidic water hits my chest.

I look up. Kelvan stands right next to my shoulder. I did not even hear him approach. He is recovering from a severe tear to his leg, which means he moves with a slow, careful limp, but he is still silent.

He gestures wordlessly toward the heavy, dripping basket of wet weave beside my knee, then reaches down with one enormous, clawed hand to gently pull it away from me.

I do not want him to take it. The filters are my task. If I do not have a task to complete, if I do not have something vital to occupy my hands and my racing mind, I fear the crushing weight of our situation will finally break me.

“Krah,” I say firmly, holding up one red-stained hand to block him.

Kelvan freezes. He drops his hand and tilts his head, his golden eyes sweeping over my face and my shoulders, as if searching for an injury or an explanation.

I am fairly certain I just used the wrong word. I meant to say ‘no,’ but my grasp of the harsh Drakav language is still severely lacking.

“Krah,” I repeat, pointing at the wet basket so there could be no misunderstanding. “Mine.”

A soft rustle of movement draws my attention. Jacqui steps away from the bright, radiating heat of the fire pit and heads toward us. She pauses beside me, her expression soft as she tilts her head the way she always does when listening to the telepathic mindspace.

“She means Kah, Kelvan,” Jacqui says gently. “No.” She looks at me. “Not Krah. She isn’t challenging you for dominance. Leave the basket. She wishes to tend to it herself.”

Kelvan looks at my dripping hands, then at the basket, seeming deeply bewildered that I would fight to keep such a painful, foul-smelling burden. But he gives a slow, respectful nod and backs away, his limp pronounced as he returns to the fire.

“Empire help me, they are like enormous, anxious hounds,” I sigh softly, plunging my fingers back into the stubborn, slick fibers. “He saves my life, and now he wishes to do my chores.”

The wet weave chooses that exact moment to stick. I pull harder, the wet fiber snaps free, and the back of my hand slams hard against the rough edge of the stone pool.

“Ah!” I hiss, pulling my hand to my chest. The skin on my knuckles tears, a bright line of crimson welling up to mix with the red algae.

I curse under my breath, an angry string of Spanish leaving my lips before I can stop it. “Me cago en la leche.”

Beside me, Jacqui winces. She presses the heel of her hand firmly against her temple, squeezing her eyes shut, obviously receiving something loud within the mindspace.

“What is it?” I ask, wiping my bleeding knuckle against the rough fabric of my cargo pants.

Jacqui exhales a shaky breath. “Tharn is...very confused,” she murmurs.

“About what?”

“He just projected to the entire cavern to ask what ‘milk’ is.” Jacqui rubs her forehead. “And why a female would threaten to defecate in it because she hurt her hand.”

I stare at her, heat rushing to my cheeks. I just cursed about milk. But it was a common, utterly meaningless Spanish oath.

“Justine is over by the far wall,” Jacqui continues, her voice weary but lined with genuine affection. “She is trying to explain the concept of human lactation to them. They are taking it very seriously.”

I close my eyes. “Oh, no.”

“Yes,” Jacqui says, a small smile touching her lips. “Haroth wishes to know if he must squeeze you to help you produce it. And Zan is aggressively arguing that it must be a lie, because creatures as small and fragile as us could not possibly generate such a valuable resource.”

I go still. The acidic water drips from my fingertips.

“Please,” I plead softly, opening my eyes to look at her. “Tell Haroth that if he comes near me, I will hit him with a wet filter. And tell Zan that no one is getting a demonstration.”

Jacqui sighs. “I will not translate that. It is entirely too loud in my head already. The sheer intensity of their arguing is giving me a migraine.”

She turns away, seeking the quieter shadows near the far tunnel.

I watch her go, a pang of something tight and lonely aching in my chest. Jacqui is mated.

She belongs here, anchored to this world by the protective presence of her warrior.

I am just a stranded human, scrubbing algae until my hands bleed, trying to keep my people alive.

I turn back to the water, scrubbing harder, ignoring the sting in my hands. The water isn’t going to filter itself. That’s when a sudden, suffocating weight drops over the cavern.

It happens so fast the air itself feels heavy to breathe. The noise of scraping bone and shuffling feet vanishes instantly. I look up.

Every warrior near the fire has stopped moving. All of them are looking at me.

Beside the far wall, Justine stiffens. Her hands grip the stone fiercely.

I wipe the algae residue off onto a discarded dry weave. “Justine?” I ask quietly. “What happened?”

Justine looks directly at my hands. “Rok just projected to Kol. He informed Kol that the females are struggling to clean the sharp weaves.”

My heart gives an involuntary, frantic flutter at the sound of the dra-dam’s name. I ruthlessly suppress it. “And?”

“And Kol demanded to know if your hands are bleeding,” Justine says softly. The cavern remains terrifyingly silent. “Rok confirmed that they are.”

“I am fine,” I say quickly, tucking my scraped hands tight against my stomach.

“You are bleeding,” Justine corrects, her voice gentle but firm. “And Kol just informed the entire clan that the warriors will scrub the filtration weaves from now on. He added that if anyone allows you to bleed on one again, he will personally snap their wrists.”

“That is ridiculous,” I breathe, my heart hammering a rapid rhythm against my ribs. “I do not need them to do this for me. I am capable of doing it myself.”

I turn back to the pool, reaching for the handles of the dripping basket.

That is when a shadow falls across the stone right over me. I look up.

Zan towers above me. His amber eyes are wide, the dark centers blown out. He looks down at my hands, his face completely unreadable, and then he reaches out to grip the handle of my basket.

“No,” I say, my voice trembling slightly.

He reaches again.

“No, Zan,” I say, putting my own hands firmly over his. “Kah!”

From her place by the wall, Justine speaks again. “Zan is projecting,” she says, her voice strained. “He says Kol commanded him to take the basket because human females have bones like brittle stone. He is terrified of failing the dra-dam. Please, Erika. Let him take it.”

“I can carry my own basket,” I say fiercely.

It is not just pride. Giving him the basket means giving up my usefulness. It means standing idle while these massive creatures manage our entire survival.

I grip the wet fibers and pull the basket closer to my chest. It is incredibly heavy, the wet weave adding significant weight, but I do not care.

Zan’s huge hand drops over the rim.

We engage in the most absurd struggle imaginable.

Zan is a mountain of coiled muscle. He could easily rip the basket from my grasp.

Yet he is gripping it with only two fingers, rigid with terror, his claws completely retracted.

His body language screams that he believes if he pulls with even a fraction of his strength, my arms will snap clean off my body, and Kol will destroy him.

I dig my boots into the wet stone and lean back, throwing my entire weight into the pull. My muscles scream in protest.

“Kah,” Zan grunts. The sound scrapes from his throat, a hesitant, desperate noise.

I know he does not just mean ‘no’. I know he means ‘release it, frail one.’

“Go away, Zan,” I pant.

He shifts his grip, trying to gently slide his fingers beneath the basket to lift the weight without pulling against my arms. It is such a thoughtful, protective gesture that it makes my chest ache, but I refuse to let go.

The damp fibers squish against my palm, reopening the small crack in my skin.

“Eh-ree-kah,” he whispers miserably. He throws a desperate, panicked look over his shoulder toward the central fire. His eyes plead for intervention.

“Kol is watching,” Justine rasps from the shadows, the words forced out on a tight, painful wheeze.

She is braced heavily against the rock wall, a bead of sweat tracing down her pale temple as if she is being crushed.

“Kol’s frequency in the mindspace... it is like an immovable stone pressing on the skull. Nobody is daring to breathe.”

I feel it then. The consuming, heavy pressure of a golden stare.

I look past Zan.

Kol sits by the fire, a gourd resting forgotten on his thigh.

He is motionless, his amber eyes locked onto me.

He tracks every detail: my white-knuckled grip on the basket, my braced boots, the stubborn set of my jaw.

The sheer intensity of his focus feels physical, tangible, a searing heat that sinks deep into my chest and pools warmly in my belly. My breath hitches.

I do not want to feel this pull. I do not want to want the attention of a ferocious alien warlord with a glowing chest. It terrifies me.

I grip the basket tighter. I anchor myself in the frustration of the moment, seeking any distraction from Kol’s heavy stare. I lean back as hard as I can, jerking the basket.

Zan, clearly convinced that this sudden motion will shatter my spine, immediately lets go.

The sudden lack of resistance sends me flying backward. I hit the stone floor with a dull thud, the heavy basket tumbling squarely into my lap. I wheeze, the breath knocked from my lungs. But I hold the basket.

I scramble swiftly to my feet, ignoring the horrified, deafening silence from the massive warrior who just dropped me.

I hug the wet basket tightly against my chest and begin the trembling walk toward the drying ledge.

My arms shake with the effort, and my boots slip on the damp stone, but I keep walking.

I will not let them take this from me.