David McAfee - 61 A.D.

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.