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.
“No!” Baella shot to her feet and started to give chase, but a dozen legionaries stood in her way. She hacked at them with her claws and drove her fists into their torsos, but she could not break through fast enough.
She watched helplessly as the horse disappeared around a corner, carrying all her plans with it.
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.
