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
