Kat Bastion - Forged in Dreams and Magick

The men had shed their clothes. Many held spears in one hand and a small shield in the other. Some had no personal weapons at all, but worked in teams to ready the larger weapons integral to our strategic attack. Uncertain as to what I should be doing, I began unfastening my clothes.

Velloc’s hand stayed my action, and I glanced up at him. My dark warrior, wearing a gleaming gold torque around his neck, shook his head.

His lips crushed down onto mine, urgency and passion flowing between us. I melted into his body, returning my feelings in our hard kiss. He broke contact and gripped my shoulders, pulling back before we got carried away. A hard stare straight to my soul branded his love into my heart without him ever uttering a word. My eyes blurred from tears, my love for him burning through every pore in my body. He nodded, my unspoken reply having been received.

“Stay to the back.” He repeated things we’d discussed throughout the tense day: we wanted both of us to remain safe and alive; our focus had to be on the task at hand; my cooperation in following his orders eased his mind, ensuring our safety.

“Yes. I’ll shift to keep our men between us and the enemy. I’ll move with the speed and agility of a cat.” I spoke with the confidence of my training.

Velloc laughed. Pride settled onto his features, the smile lingering on his face and in his eyes. The backs of his fingers caressed my cheek, and I closed my eyes, relishing the gentle touch.

“You be the cat. Anyone comes too close, bare your claws and rip their throat out with your teeth.” He grinned, clearly pleased with the idea of my viciousness.

“I’ll deliver their heart to you, my love, for attempting to touch your woman.”

He snorted. “You should be at the front. The Romans won’t have any idea the most beautiful is the deadliest.”

Velloc clapped my shoulder harder than I’d expected. I stumbled forward and laughed, watching him walk away as he checked the readiness of his men. The rough gesture served as a sober reminder; I stood among strong men about to fight to the death for their home and freedom. Weakness had no place here. Only the strong would survive.

Every action on our field of battle reminded me of my place. Each Caledonian descending from the mountains today, versus any other day, had come because of me. Were it not for the information I’d provided—Roman propaganda of their supposed glorious battle and victory—the encounter unfolding before my eyes would not exist.

My inner scientist thrilled at the chance to participate in perhaps the greatest mysterious battle in Highland historical record. Morality about having influenced a defense-turned-offense scattered into the cold wind.

A hush fell across the masses gathered in the forest. Our men remained together—one tribe among dozens, hundreds of men among thousands—as we closed in on the enemy.

Guided by Roman campfires that blanketed the black canvas as beacons, we crept our way along the edge of the forest, across the open plain, and to the perimeter of their camp. No alarm sounded. No one stood guard, which surprised me given the many recent tribal attacks. Complacency bred folly. Their faith in the night being like any other was severely misguided.

Velloc remained glued to my side the entire advance. Sennian led the group. Upon some sign I hadn’t picked up on, Velloc squeezed my forearm and left me buried deep in their protection. He worked his way to the edge as everyone fanned around the encampment. We floated through the night under the camouflage of darkness while our enemy remained blinded by firelight.

The scent of smoke drifted into my nostrils, and I turned my head toward fresher air; not a twig had snapped, no rustle had been heard, no way in hell would I give us away with a cough.

A hawk’s cry sounded into the still night. Our sea of men flooded into the shallow tide pool. As agreed, I held a defensive position in the center of our assault team.

Through the wide angle of an observer’s lens, I watched as hundreds of our men worked in swift unison, dispatching their prey. Guerilla warfare at its finest played out before my eyes. The Picts attacked in a blur as Romans were stabbed faster than my eyes could follow. Our Caereni moved in unison, seemingly protecting me no matter where I advanced.

My gaze shifted, focusing on Velloc. He wiped his bloodied blade on the pants of one dead man, sliced the throat of another by the fire, and thrust a spear through a third man’s chest before I inhaled my next breath.

Nothing went exactly the way we planned, however, just like the way all events had unfolded in my recent life. With Roman numbers far greater than ours, alarm shouts rang out from the Roman mouths we couldn’t silence in time. The true fight began.

Like a wildfire spreading, mayhem erupted everywhere. Soldiers swarmed forward from the center of the Roman encampment. I whirled around to find more of them behind us. We were surrounded. Our surprise attack on the outskirts had done nothing to prevent an obviously prepared enemy from outmaneuvering us.

Velloc bolted to my side. He shoved me behind him, facing the closest enemy attacking. His tribesmen fanned out in a loose circle, protecting us in the center. I watched a shadowed kaleidoscope of movement as our warriors ebbed and flowed, attacking and retreating, picking off Roman soldiers as they advanced and tightening back to protect the tribe as a unit.

I clutched a shield, holding it to my forearm, protecting my chest. My other hand loosely gripped a spear, balancing the weight, ready to tighten and thrust in muscle memory of Velloc’s rigorous training.

I rotated with Velloc, scanning the deadly rapid-fire activity happening around us. Grunts of exertion and cries of pain tortured my ears. The putrid smell of death and kicked-up dust filled my nostrils. I quelled my innate gag reflex; the battlefield was no time to get sick. Velloc safeguarded me as his men fought in a defensive formation to protect their leader.

Without warning, half a dozen Romans burst through the protective line. Velloc turned, knocking one attacker hard with his shield. The man’s own velocity turned him abruptly. A flash of metal later, the soldier crumpled to the ground, his throat slit.

An influx of Picts from other tribes helped to a degree, but did nothing to balance the sliding odds as more and more Romans pressed into the fray. Velloc’s men, and every additional Pict, had their hands full defending against strikes and blows.

Three soldiers rushed Velloc, one from behind. A cry of warning stuck in my throat as two Romans stepped between us, stealing my attention. Their evil smiles told me my woad-painted face and tangled hair did nothing to hide the fact that a woman stood before them on a field of battle. Hungry eyes traveled down my body as they advanced in gradual steps, holding their shields, but not raising their weapons.

I gripped my spear and aimed it dead center at the one to the left. He paused. The other took a step forward, and I moved the razor-sharp iron tip, pointing it at the one advancing.

My heart raced. Adrenaline pumped. I stood amid chaos and carnage, facing men who obviously wanted to capture me if they could, but would kill me without thought if I forced their hand. No part of me allowed either scenario, but my training would take me only so far. The opponents I faced had lived and breathed a life of war.

Advantage always fell on the shoulders of the one underestimated, though. If they thought my hesitancy a weakness, their choice to capture a woman would be their last mistake.

One leapt at me. I thrust my spear, lunging into his center mass as I threw my shoulder and arm into the motion. The strike would’ve made solid contact had my target not turned and grabbed the spear, yanking me forward. I stumbled into him. In reflex, I whirled around as his arm snaked around me from behind. My hand shot to my thigh, unsheathing my sword. His friend came closer, an evil grin on his face.