61 A.D. (Bachiyr, Book 2) (23 page)

Give them credit for that, at least,
she thought.
For all their faults, these men are not cowards.

Lannosea turned her horse around, intending to run back into the battle and cut down as many legionaries as she could before Roman steel found her flesh. Now that her decision had been made, she felt no qualms about charging into the thickest knot of Romans she could see. They scattered before her like leaves in the wind, yet her sword still managed to bite into them again and again.

After several minutes, she was exhausted, and splattered with the blood of her enemies, but no Roman sword had touched her. She did not want to make it easy for them, but still, this wouldn’t do. Someone in this blasted city had to be strong enough to kill her, otherwise her plan would fail.

She rode through another group of legionaries, singling out one who stood a head taller than most, and nearly cut him in half with a downward swipe of her sword. Her momentum carried her through the knot of people and a short way down the street. Now she was near the wall again, far away from the heaviest fighting. She stared back over the rubble at the advancing Iceni infantry. General Cyric marched at the head of the group. Her heart, which had been so tortured of late, swelled with pride at the sight of her people’s might and glory. This was it, the end of the city.

The infantry was the real strength of her army. Cavalry charges, while devastating, were not thorough enough to destroy an enemy. They could not go everywhere and root out enemies from their hiding places, but the infantry could storm in and flow into every nook and cranny the town had to offer, exposing every hiding place and every survivor. It would be like a black tide washing in from the sea to engulf the people of Londinium.

And good riddance to them.

She wheeled her horse around, putting her back to the advancing army, and prepared to fight off another Roman. Any Roman would do, so long as he presented a challenge. This time, she would find one who could finish the job and send her to her death with all the honor accorded to those who died on the battlefield. But instead of a Roman, she saw a single woman walking toward her, hands upraised in supplication.

Lannosea could not determine the woman’s age, but the stranger was lovely. Dark of hair and pale of skin, with sharp, exquisite features. She wore plain, dark clothing; a blouse and simple breeches that hid her in the shadows, and soft leather boots that muffled the sound of her feet. Her eyes sparkled in the light of the many nearby fires, and Lannosea found she could not look away from them. She swayed in her saddle, suddenly unable to keep her balance, and the woman smiled.

Lannosea smiled back. “Good evening to you,” she said. Her tongue felt thick and heavy, and words blended together, making her sound like she had gotten into the wine.

“Greetings, Lady,” the woman said. “My apologies, but I have need of your horse.”

“Of course,” Lannosea replied, and dismounted. She handed over the reins, which the newcomer took in her soft hands. Lannosea’s hand brushed the woman’s and she drew back. The skin of her hand was as cold as snow and as dry as parchment. What manner of person…

The woman smiled, and Lannosea forgot about her unnatural chill. “My horse is yours,” she said. “Is there anything else I can offer you?”

“No, Lady,” the woman said. “A horse is all I require.”

Lannosea watched the strange woman lead her horse away toward the crumbling remains of the wall. In the light of so many fires, it was easy enough to see her lift an unconscious man onto the back of the horse, securing him to the beast with rope. Then she mounted the horse and set off through the city.

Lannosea watched her vanish around a corner, then she shook her head. What had she just done? Why did she give her horse away?

She was just about to run after the woman when rough, strong hands grabbed her from behind.

“Look, boys,” a gravelly voice said behind her. “An Iceni woman. A princess, no less.”

Lannosea struggled, but the man was too strong. Raucous laughter erupted all around her, and she turned her head to see half a dozen ragged, filthy men standing nearby. They did not wear the armor of legionaries, nor were they Iceni. Rouges. Probably intent on looting the city. Rats with human faces.

One of the men bound her hands behind her as she spat curses at them. Pain erupted from her lower jaw as he struck her. Then someone put a coarse brown bag over her head and cinched it so tight around her neck she had trouble drawing a breath. She staggered, but remained on her feet, kicking her legs and flailing until the men wrestled her to the ground and tied her ankles together.

Strong hands squeezed her breasts hard enough to hurt, and the men laughed again. She twisted, trying to free herself. This was not her plan. She was supposed to die in battle, with honor. She was not supposed to fall into the hands of brigands. She could not escape. She felt someone’s hand grope between her legs, while the others grabbed her ankles. She struggled and twisted and tried to fight back, but the men only laughed harder as they lifted her off the street and started walking. With the bag on her head she could not tell where they were taking her.

“Looks like tonight will be fun,” one of the men said.

***

The soot and smoke from Londinium stung his eyes, so Theron closed them. Even from this distance, the sounds of battle in the city reached his ears. Every scream of pain brought the Iceni that much closer to victory, and kept the Iceni princess from coming to him. She wanted to, that much was certain, but he needed a backup plan in case she didn’t make it. Theron concentrated.

How had Taras escaped the chains earlier? Theron, bent into the stocks, didn’t see how the northerner broke free of his chains. When Taras came around where Theron could see him, it looked as though his wrists and hands had gotten smaller. In his nine hundred years among the Bachiyr, Theron had never seen such a thing done. To the best of his knowledge, no one, not even the Councilors, possessed that ability.

So how had Taras done it? Could he be more powerful than he had a right to be? More powerful than Theron, Ramah, and even Herris?
Not likely,
he thought. A far better explanation would be that the Council did not know as much as they pretended. That in itself was interesting enough, but to think that a
neonite
with no training had been able to figure out a trick that no other Bachiyr could do told him that it had to be fairly simple, but no one had thought of it before.

When he wanted to extend his claws, he simply visualized his nails growing and lengthening. After some practice, the effect became instantaneous, almost involuntary. Danger would appear and his claws would grow. Unfortunately the Iceni had tied his wrists so that his nails dug into his palms. If he let his claws grow now, it would likely sever his fingers. If he lost his fingers he would lose his claws and his ability to wield a sword. But if he could make his hands smaller, he could slip the rope.

Of course, he was still locked in the cage with forty arrows pointed at his chest, but one thing at a time.

He pictured his hands, willing the image of them to shrink. In his mind, he saw the hands getting smaller, more delicate. Children’s hands. The wrists, too. He forced some of his remaining blood into them, trying to use the latent energy inherent in the liquid to force his flesh to comply, and only succeeded in poking his palms with his nails as they tried to grow.

How was it done? He had to find out. It could mean the difference between escape and dying in the morning sun. He opened his eyes and scanned the eastern horizon. Plenty dark for now, but it would only be an hour or so before it began to
pinken
with the approaching dawn. When that happened, he would be finished. A pile of ash to be swept away by some Iceni woman the next day.

An hour or two. That didn’t leave him much time to get out of this cage and into a secure location. He pictured himself as a glowing mound of dusty ash in the middle of this cursed cage. The Council would be pleased to know he died an animal’s death.

No!
Focus,
he told himself.
You are better than this.

He closed his eyes again, bringing the image of his wrists back into his mind and willing them to shrink. This time, he thought he felt a tingle in his wrist. Elated, he forced blood into his hands and wrists again, but more than last time, hoping the added energy would finish the job.

Immediately the tingle stopped, and his claws dug into his palms again, dripping precious blood onto the floor of the cage.

“Damn,” he whispered. He’d been trying for over an hour, and every time with the same result. Each time he thought he might be getting somewhere, the effect slammed shut on him, usually right when he tried to send blood to his…

Wait. I’ve been forcing blood
into
my wrists. Could that be the problem?

Theron had used his blood in the same manner for nine hundred years. When he needed to run faster, he sent additional blood to his legs. When he needed extra strength in his arms, he charged them with blood. That is the power that all Bachiyr are taught from their very first night. They use their blood to enhance their abilities and to metabolize into mystical energy for Psalms and the like. But what if there was another way? One that no normal Bachiyr would think of on their own?

Theron tried again. This time, when he started to feel his wrists tingle, he pulled blood
out
of his hands rather than forcing it in. After a few moments, the rope around his wrist went slack.

Theron was so surprised he opened his eyes and lost his focus, and his wrists reverted back to normal. But he’d felt it. He knew it was true. What’s more, he could do it again. The knowledge brought him a small measure of comfort as he stared out at the archers lined up around his cage. He could shrink his wrists and free himself, but it would not change the forty or so arrows that would pierce his flesh afterward. They wouldn’t kill him, of course. Not unless one of the archers got a very lucky shot and pierced his heart. Even then, he would only be incapacitated until someone withdrew the arrow from his chest. Still, it wasn’t a chance worth taking. Not yet, at any rate. When the dawn came closer, he would take his chances with the archers.

For now, he would trust his earlier instincts about the queen’s daughter. Sooner or later she would come, and then he would be free.

If he felt generous, she might even live through it.

***

Baella galloped through the city, headed for her escape. Her portal was not far, but several of the streets were too choked with rubble and debris to be passable, so she had to skirt around them and find an alternate route. She swore an oath as she rounded another corner and found her way blocked by the smoking remains of a building. Behind her, she could feel the dawn approaching. She had an hour, perhaps less, before the cursed sun crested the eastern horizon. She needed to be gone by then, if for no other reason than to escape from the burning hell that had once been the proud city of Londinium.

All around her the once prosperous city had been reduced to ash and rubble. Londinium was not as large as some of its counterparts in Rome, but thousands of bodies littered the streets, nonetheless. Some of them still smoldered, while others twitched or whined feebly. A small handful crawled on their hands and knees, unable to stand. They looked around at the remains of their city with dazed, unseeing eyes. If there were any survivors who were still of sound body, they hid themselves well.

They would not be able to hide for much longer, she knew. The Iceni foot soldiers had entered the city not far behind her, and would soon begin the task of ferreting out any survivors. Those who yet lived would soon be put to the sword. The Iceni had invaded the city of Camulodunum earlier that month and reduced it to a pile of ash, killing every man, woman, and child they encountered within her walls. Baella had no reason to believe the people of Londinium would be spared the same fate.

She turned the horse away from the rubble and back out into the street, where she urged it into a gallop. Her stolen beast was a slow, clumsy animal, far more suited to a battle than a race. At least it was strong enough to bear two riders, although Ramah technically was not riding the horse, strapped as he was to the saddle behind her.

She hadn’t gone far before she was accosted by several Roman legionaries who, upon recognizing the horse’s armor as belonging to the Iceni, tried to drag her from the saddle. Half a dozen pairs of hands grabbed her by her legs, her boots, her breeches, anywhere they could lay hands. A quick boot to the face of the closest opponent sent him sprawling backwards into the dusty street, clutching his broken nose and screaming in pain. But where he fell, two more took his place, clawing at her clothing and pulling her down. Baella soon found herself unable to fend off her attackers while maintaining her grip on the reins. They grabbed her by her cloak and pulled her backward, bending her over her saddle. One of the men grabbed a burning piece of wood and slapped the horse in the rump. The animal reared, throwing her from the saddle, and galloped away with Ramah still tied to its saddle.