61 A.D.

28

Lannosea’s screams mingled with those of the dying as she was dragged through the city streets. She kicked and clawed and twisted her body, but it was no use. Her captors had bound her hands well, and did not hesitate to administer punishment of their own in between removing her boots and armor and unstrapping her sword belt. One hard punch to her solar plexus caused her to double over in pain, gasping for breath. She vomited into the bag, tasting blood as well as bile. The men laughed, yanked her upright and pulled her on.

After what felt like hours, she felt the ground beneath her change. It was no longer pebbles and dirt under her bare feet, but solid wood. They had dragged her into a building. Knowing what would come next, she redoubled her efforts to kick and punch her way free. Another solid punch to her abdomen sent her to the floor.

“Here now, princess,” a voice said. “Just be calm and this will be over soon. Or you can struggle and fight back if you prefer. The result will be the same. In any case, some of us like it better that way.” His words left little doubt as to their intentions. Already they had stripped her of her armor, leaving her clad only in a loose sleeveless blouse and soft breeches.

Several of the men grunted in laughter. The bag came off her head, spraying her vomit all over the floor and her chest.

She was surrounded by six grinning men dressed in dirty rags. None of them were legionaries, but their intent was the same. These were the brigands who stayed in the city despite the threat of an invading army, probably planning to steal everything the people who fled left behind. Little did they know the invading Iceni would not take prisoners or bribes. Lannosea took a small amount of satisfaction in that knowledge as two of the men pinned her legs to the floor, while another held her wrists above her head, leaving three of them to fondle her any way they pleased.

“Her blouse is dirty,” one said. She tried to turn her body away and get loose, but the man holding her wrists pulled hard, sending a wave of pain into her shoulders. The first man reached down and ripped the blouse open, revealing her bare breasts. The other men sucked in their breath. She had forgone wearing any undergarments in an attempt to fit into her armor.

“How about a kiss, princess?” the man who’d ripped her blouse open said, and leaned over to plant his filthy lips on her face.

She spat at him.

He wiped the spittle from his eye and grinned, then he punched her in the belly hard enough for her vision to fade for a moment as she struggled to breathe. The pain was intense. White hot and angry, much worse than anything she’d ever felt before. She gasped as she tried to feed air to her starving lungs, but she couldn’t suck it in fast enough. She groaned, and blackness gathered around the edges of her vision.

“That’s right, princess,” the man said. “Dago can be rough, too. Now let’s have that kiss.”

Dago straddled her, placing one hand on the floor and the other on her crotch. His fingers rubbed and pinched as he leaned in for another attempt at a kiss. She turned her face to the side and felt his lips on her neck, followed by a sharp pain. He was biting her! Like an animal! She shuddered and tried to shove him off her, but he was too heavy and she was too weak. Lannosea stopped fighting, praying only that it would be over quick.

“You like that, pri-”

Dago’s arms stiffened as his question cut off into a gurgle, and something warm and wet sprayed her face. At first she thought he had spit on her, but then his whole body went limp. Suddenly the pressure on her feet and wrists was gone, and the room around her erupted into angry shouts. She opened her eyes to see Dago, still straddling her, looking down at his torso.

Blood poured from four holes in the middle of his chest. It flowed into the dirty cloth of his shirt and rolled downward in a great red stain that grew larger as she watched. Lannosea wasted no time scooting out from under him and rising to her feet. He never seemed to notice. His dazed eyes remained focused on his ruined chest, watching as his life’s blood dripped onto the floor. He reached his hand to the wound and touched one of the holes. His fingers came away red with blood. He brought the hand to his face and stared at it for a moment, his expression confused. Then he looked up at Lannosea, coughed twice, and fell face first to the floor.

That’s one, she thought.

Around her, the other men shouted and shuffled around. To her left, one of them shouted a curse that turned into a long, pain-filled scream, which then cut off in a wet gurgle. Something round and heavy rolled by Lannosea’s feet, leaving a trail of sticky red blood behind it. When it came to a stop, still dripping blood from the shredded neck, she recognized the head as one of her attackers.

That’s two.

Lannosea crawled backward into the shadows of the room, unable to regain her feet due to the searing pain in her belly. Dago had punched her, but it felt like he’d left a blade in her flesh. Looking down, she was amazed to find the flesh unbroken and bloodless, if a bit bruised. She couldn’t see much else, but she heard the sound of fighting all around her. Her attackers fought with sword and fist, but seemed to be losing. Had some Iceni come upon the scene and decided to rescue their princess? She clutched the torn edges of her blouse and tied them together, covering her breasts. When she realized what she was doing, she chuckled. What good was modesty at a time like this? Still, she knotted the ends together before planting her palms on the floor and pushing herself up.

She rose on unsteady legs, trying to get a better look. Her knees wobbled, and she grabbed the nearest wall to steady herself. The pain in her belly flared, and the darkness crept back into the edges of her sight. She shut her eyes and breathed deep, willing the pain to fade. After a time, she was able to open her eyes, but the room was just as lightless as it had been before. For the first time, she noticed that something warm and wet was running down her legs. Had Dago bled that much on her?

Another grunt of pain and another body thumped to the floor, this time falling into the small pool of light in the center of the room. Lannosea gasped. His throat had been ripped open, and a thin trickle of blood pooled underneath. Worse yet, he was still alive, watching as his blood poured from his ruined throat. For a moment, she felt a twinge of pity. Then she remembered what the man and his cohorts were going to do to her.

That’s three.

She fought against the pain and stumbled through the room, clutching the wall and looking for an exit. The bag on her head had blocked her view when they came in, but even without it she could not see much. There were no windows in the building that she could see, and the ballistae attack had not touched this place, so no fire or starlight showed her the way. Instead, she followed the sounds of fighting. If General Cyric or her mother had sent men to help her, they would know the way out.

She found the doorway and stepped through it, nearly tripping over a man lying prone in the hallway. The body was barely visible as a dark lump across her path. He wheezed when her foot brushed against him, and lifted a shadowy arm off the floor. He reached for her with shaking fingers. She couldn’t help but notice the droplets of blood that fell from his hand to the floor.

“Please…” he whispered, his voice weak and hoarse. “Please help me, good Lady.”

She spat on his outstretched hand. “Die slow, bastard.”

That’s four. Only two left.

As she passed by the dying man in the hall, she noticed a glint of steel in his hand. Lannosea reached down. Any weapon is better than no weapon. When her fingers closed around the hilt of her own sword, she could hardly believe her luck. So this was the man who’d taken off her belt. Lannosea spat on him again and gripped her sword as tight as she could, taking it from his weakening fingers. He never flinched or made a sound.

She continued down the hall, regaining enough of her strength to walk through the hall without using the wall for support. Her sword had restored a measure of her confidence, as well, though she was not even close to battle ready. The pain in her belly had subsided to a low, dull ache, dimmed to a tolerable level by adrenaline and fear, but it was still present. She recalled the warm, wet feeling on her thighs.

The baby. It had to be the baby. Dago had punched her hard in the gut more than once. Had he succeeded in doing what her own nurse could not? If so, her fate was sealed. She had seen enough instances of this during her years with the Iceni healers. If the baby died, so would she.

But wasn’t that what she had wanted? Why did the thought fill her with such sadness?

Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this, she realized. I was supposed to die honorably in battle. Not far away from the field with my breasts in the breeze and blood between my legs. Worse, it would not be an easy death. Likely she would linger for days as infection set in, devouring her from the inside. By then her people will have found her and it would be too late to hide her shame. They would look at the blood between her legs and they would know she died with child.

Maybe it’s not too late, she thought. If she could somehow escape this building, she might be able to meet a more honorable death outside. She still had her sword, after all. If she attacked a legionary with it, might be he would simply kill her. Her people would find her dead by sword thrust, and would think the blood on her thighs due to being ravished by her killer. She hoped.

She stumbled through the building, following the sounds of pain and steel ringing on wood, until she rounded a corner into a small room. This room did have a window, and light shone through, illuminating the middle of the space but making the shadows seem all the more dark. She came into the room just in time to see a tall, fair-haired man rip into the chest of one of her attackers with some kind of bladed glove.

Four sharp points pierced the flesh of his victim’s back as he grunted, then went limp. The newcomer pulled his hand back. It came free with a wet, sucking sound, and blood sprayed across the wall as the body fell to the floor. The newcomer wore no armor that she could see, and clearly did not belong to the Iceni or Trinovante. A resident of the city, perhaps? If so, he had not improved his lot by saving her life. Her people would kill him when they found him. She could vouch for him, of course, telling them how he saved her life, but she did not plan to live through the night. Bad luck for him, he should have found someone worth rescuing.

That’s five.

“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know who you are, but-”

The tall stranger looked up and the light from the small window shone on his face. Lannosea nearly lost her grip on her sword. Cyric had not sent this thing to rescue her. No one had. Somehow, it had found her on its own.

A Bachiyr.

She would have preferred to take her chances with Dago and his companions. Lannosea had heard about the Bachiyr from her mother. Legends of the beings who drank the blood of their victims had passed along through the tribes for centuries. Until this moment, Lannosea had always considered the legends humorous. But now, standing not ten paces from one of them, it was difficult to find the humor.

Blood ringed the thing’s mouth and covered its clothes. The tips of two sharp fangs glinted red in the shifting light from the window. The image of the victim in the other room came to her mind. His throat had been torn out, but he hadn’t been bleeding as much as he should have been. Now she knew why. She took a few steps backward, waiting for the right moment to turn and run.

The Bachiyr shook its long hair out of its face, reaching across with its left hand to move a few stray locks that had stuck to the blood on its cheek. It eyed her with pale blue eyes, and she realized it was a northerner. Probably from the cold lands north of Rome. What the hell was it doing in Londinium?

Lannosea had no desire to find out. She turned her back on the Bachiyr and sped back the way she had come, her fear lending her the strength to run. She hadn’t gone more than two steps when she slammed into the last of her kidnappers.

Outside the city, far from the fighting but not far enough that she could not hear the sounds of battle, Heanua approached the group of archers guarding the Bachiyr. Their captain, a short, homely man named Haegre, met her twenty feet from the Bachiyr’s cage. He walked up to her, stepped in her path, and saluted. “I’m sorry, Princess Heanua, but I cannot let you get any closer.”

She had known he would. Her mother had ordered as much.“Is that so?” she asked. Haegre was young, and not especially useful to the campaign, else her mother would not have left him in charge of the Bachiyr, who seemed secure enough. By the look on his face, the fact that he’d been left behind to watch over a caged animal while his comrades found their glory on the battlefield did not sit well with him. Heanua could use that. “You would presume to stop me?”

Haegre nodded. “Your mother has commanded that no one be allowed to approach the creature, including you. It will meet its fate at sunrise.”

“I am not here for the creature,” she said, “I am here for you. You and your men are needed at the northern wall of the city. The Romans have proven stronger than we thought, and the northern wall still holds strong.” In truth, the northern wall had fallen an hour ago, but Heanua doubted the captain would know that. “My mother bade me to send you there right away.”

“She sent you? A princess? To deliver such a message? Does the queen use her daughters for clerks now?”

“You dare to question me?” Heanua felt the blood rush to her face. “My word is the queen’s word.”

“I’m sorry, princess,” he replied. “But I will need more than your word to disobey the queen’s command. If you have an official message, then please share it.”

Heanua fumed, but she reached into her tunic. She had expected this and come prepared, but the fact that Haegre had balked at her instructions irritated her. She pulled out a rolled piece of parchment, sealed with the queen’s brand, and handed it over, doing her best to keep her face even and calm.

Haegre examined the seal, then broke it and read the missive. He nodded, and turned to his men. “To the north wall, all of you. Quickly, now. The queen needs us.”

The men cheered. Apparently Haegre was not the only one who sought his glory on the field.

He turned to Heanua and saluted again. “My apologies, princess. A man in my position must be careful, you understand.”

“Of course. Now go. For the Iceni.”

“For the Iceni.” He saluted, then moved to the head of his men. After a few minutes, she stood alone by the Bachiyr’s cage.

Heanua sighed in relief. Haegre had not examined the wax seal closely, or he would have noticed it was made from the larger seal in the queen’s tent rather than the small one on her ring. Both were official, but in times of battle the queen often used the ring to save time. He undoubtedly knew as much, but had missed the detail in his eagerness to join the battle. No wonder her mother had left him behind. His lust for battle overruled his attention to detail. When I am queen I will have him sent to the farthest reaches of the Iceni lands.

Heanua watched them go, then turned back to the cage, where she found the Bachiyr eyeing her, its face a mixture of anger and curiosity. She stepped up to the bars and placed her hands on the wooden floor. In her right hand was a set of keys. Heanua made certain to jangle them, just to get the thing’s attention. In her left hand was a crossbow, its bolt tipped with pitch. She wanted the Bachiyr to know from the start of their conversation that she could offer him freedom or death.

“Well, now,” she said to the thing. “You are in a bad place.”

“You speak Roman,” it said in perfect Iceni. “That’s interesting.”

So the creature spoke their language. It didn’t surprise her, the Bachiyr had been paying a great deal of attention to the comings and goings around the cage, especially the orders from the queen. No one listened that intently to conversations they couldn’t understand. “It is wise to know your enemy’s language,” she replied, switching to Iceni.

“More likely you were taught Roman before Nero broke his treaty,” it replied.

She nodded. It was smart. Good. “My name is-”

“Princess Heanua,” he interrupted, smiling. “Greetings, Princess.”

“I am here because-”

“You want something from me,” he finished for her. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. Despite what you told our slow-witted friend, the north wall has already fallen, as you well know. I must admit I am curious. Why would a princess lie? Not that I am complaining, mind you.”

How the hell did he know about the northern wall? No matter. “I would make a bargain with you,” she said. “I will release you from this cage and from my mother’s sentence. In return you must perform a task for me. Do you agree to my terms, Bachiyr?”

“My name is-”

“I care not for your name, only for your answer.” She raised both hands, showing him the keys and the crossbow again. “I can kill you or set you free, the choice is yours.”

“What task do you require?” he asked. “Do you still wish to throw me back into the city to fight for your cause?”

Damn him. The Bachiyr had good ears. “I will tell you after you agree.”

“I should like to know to what I am agreeing to before I agree to it.”

“That is not the deal,” she said, jangling the keys for effect. “Agree to my terms or die with the sun. You choose.”

The Bachiyr turned his head toward the eastern horizon. The sky had begun to lighten slightly. It had not turned pink yet, but the black of night no longer reached the ground. Sunrise was an hour away at the most. He turned his face back to her, his thin lips tightened into a grin.

“It would seem I have little choice,” he said.

“I’ll have your word, Bachiyr.”

“You have it,” he replied. “Release me and I will perform any task you require of me.”

“Swear it.”

“By The Father, I swear it,” he replied. “What would you have me do?”

Heanua didn’t know what ‘By The Father’ meant, but it would have to do. She stepped up to the cage door and inserted the key into the lock, checking behind her to make sure no one was looking. Then she unlocked the cage door and stepped inside, setting the crossbow on the floor and pulling her dagger from her belt.

The Bachiyr eyed the dagger. “I have agreed to your terms princess,” he said. “There is no need for that.”

“It’s for the ropes, not you,” she said.

The Bachiyr laughed, then slid his hands from behind his back. The wrists and palms were so thin they looked almost delicate. She stared, her eyes wide, as they filled out, thickening to their normal girth in a matter of seconds.

“As I said, there is no need for that,” the Bachiyr stated, pointing at the dagger.

“You could have walked away at any time,” Heanua noted.

“Not quite. The archers, you see.”

Heanua nodded. The archers would have filled his body with arrows the moment he twitched. “Then you did need my help. So to our bargain.”

“Indeed,” the Bachiyr said. “What does a princess of the Iceni wish of me? You want me to steal into the city and slaughter the Roman guards there?”

“No,” Heanua said. “That will not be necessary. The battle for Londinium is well in hand.”

“I hear the other princess is lost somewhere inside the city. Do you want me to find her and bring her back?”

Damn him, how did he know all this? He must have ears like a bat! “My sister has made her choice,” she said. “She will turn up or not, as she sees fit.”

“Then what-”

“I want you to kill my mother.”

Baella removed her claws from the throat of her last opponent, sending a spray of blood in the air. The body slid to the street and landed in the sticky dirt with a wet thump. All around her lay the torn corpses of the men who had accosted her and cost Baella her prize. They got what they deserved. Of the dozen or so men that attacked her, eight now lay dead at her feet. The other four had come to their senses and left to find easier sport elsewhere. But the damage was done.

Ramah was gone.

“Damn you,” she kicked the body of her last victim, hearing the satisfying crack as his ribcage shattered. “You cost me everything!” The unfortunate man groaned in pain, but it was weak and shallow. He would be dead before she left the street. Now that the battle was over, she wished she could prolong his life, that she might make him endure more pain than he already had.

But there wasn’t time. To the east, the sky had begun to lighten. She had an hour at the most before the sun peeked over the horizon. If she was not in a safe place by then, it would no longer matter where Ramah had gone.

Ramah! The sun might kill him, too. If he did not regain consciousness before the sunrise, he would be stuck on the back of that horse while the sunlight turned him into ashes. She couldn’t allow that. He was too valuable.

Her portal was in the center of the city, which had not yet been destroyed by the Iceni attack. As it happened, the Council of Thirteen maintained a similar portal nearby, which is where Ramah would go if he did awaken in time.

Baella set off down the street, trying to determine which way the horse had gone. Both portals were close at hand, so she could spare a little time to try and find him. She would have to be careful around the Council’s portal; no telling who would emerge from that dark hole. With such a great prize at stake, however, she would risk it.

Ramah, the great Ramah. Second of the Council of Thirteen. Inside his head lurked all the secrets of her race. Four thousand years of history and conquest could be hers, and the information in his head could be used to bring the Council of Thirteen to its knees and end, once and for all, The Father’s influence in the world of the Bachiyr. Truly, he was a great and valuable prize, indeed.

Yet for Baella, Ramah’s greatest value lay in what he didn’t know.