Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends #1)(95)

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.

I raised my hand and jabbed backward. The blade sank into my captor’s midsection, and his hold on me loosened. In fluid seconds, I twisted the hilt as I bent and grasped the ax at my ankle, arced it up, and buried it into the heart of his friend. Shocked eyes stared back at me as drops of blood trickled out of his gaping mouth. I yanked both weapons tightly into my chest, ready to defend myself, as my two victims fell to the ground.

More Romans poured in all around us. We were in over our head. The Picts needed to pull back; a continued presence would be mass suicide. Our warriors had no pride getting in the way of self-preservation, and neither did I.

I searched for Velloc. We locked gazes. He had blood spattered across his blue-tattooed face and chest, strands of his long, dark hair stuck to his neck, and I thought he’d never looked more beautiful—a brave warrior fighting to protect his homeland, his people . . . me.

He shoved through fighting men, making his way toward me. I took a path of least resistance, angling between pairs of combatants, running in Velloc’s direction.

Suddenly, terror spread across Velloc’s face. I followed his gaze, spinning around.

A Roman launched my own spear into the air. The weapon flew with straight precision, exactly as it had been designed. I froze as the spear sailed toward me, my brain failing to send messages fast enough to make my muscles move.

The world spun. I landed hard on the ground, my face hitting the dirt. A crushing heaviness lay across my back. Breath was impossible. I pushed, squirming, trying to escape the suffocating confinement. The weight lifted and a strong grip on either arm pulled me from the ground. Sennian held me.

Sennian’s lips pressed into a grim line as he glanced behind me. I panicked, whirling around. Another tribesman held a limp body in his arms.

Velloc!

Bright blood covered his chest.

My heart stopped.

I struggled in Sennian’s hold, but his impenetrable arms locked down around me. A burning ache flooded my chest, scorching a hole with every beat as I looked at the lifeless form of the man I loved. A sob escaped, and I gasped for oxygen.

Every Caereni warrior around us cleared a path, hacking through the enemy with a renewed force fueled from anger. A few of our tribe were injured, some had died, but none had impacted them like the loss of their leader.

Sennian maintained a protective hold on me, guiding me behind those that rushed Velloc off the battlefield. I clung to the hope that he’d only been injured. The fierceness of the battle on open ground allowed no time or shelter for first aid.

Two Romans stepped into our path. The tribesmen leading our escape slashed into them as if they’d sliced heated blades into soft butter. After a few hundred feet, we met no further resistance. The enemy had their wounds to lick; we had ours.

The moment we breached the protection of the forest, Sennian released me as Velloc’s body was gently laid upon the ground. Velloc didn’t move. Tears streamed down my face, and my fingers trembled uncontrollably as I approached him. Dark red covered the center of a chest that failed to rise. The spear must have pierced his heart from the back when he tackled me to save me. Its iron tip broke no skin on my body, yet had struck a deadly blow to my heart all the same.

I collapsed onto him, racked with sobs. My carelessness, my very presence on the battlefield, had cost the man I loved his life. Jumbled emotions—regret, anger, sadness—caused me such heart-wrenching pain, I wished I’d been the one to take the spear.