The Valiant (The Valiant #1)(12)

I crouched in the darkness of the hold, the mingled stench of fish-rot, mildew, sweat, and fear clogging my nostrils. My boots were soaked through with river water, and my feet had gone numb because of it. I slid the boots off and put them aside, rubbing my cramped toes between my palms. By the light of a single, swinging lantern that guttered and smoked, I could make out a handful of others chained, like I was, to posts. Men and women, most of them young or at least not old, all of them able-bodied. The dark-haired man was clearly a discerning trader. And a thief. The people in the hold of that ship—myself included—hadn’t been bartered for or bought in Durovernum. We’d just been taken, like cattle in a raid. But by the time the sun rose and any of their masters noticed they were missing, the slave galley would be safely down the river and sailing out to sea, on its way to make the channel crossing to Gaul.

And taking me along with it.

I stared at the swinging lantern and thought of the ones hanging in my house. Just like one of Sorcha’s lamps, I was about to travel across the world, to a place where I would be sold for a handful of coins. Something brushed against my ankle, and I jumped, shuddering, as the eyes of a rat flashed up at me, red and gleaming in the dimness. I tucked my cloak tighter around my legs and feet. Time passed with the rocking of the ship and the stink of rank seawater sloshing. I heard the hard snap of canvas sails in a freshening wind, and a leaden weight of despair made my heart sink. I knew we must have reached the mouth of the river where it emptied into the sea.

I thought of Maelgwyn, dead in the fog.

I’m never going to see him again, I thought, and the realization hit me like a killing blow. I’d only just begun to see Mael as something more than a brother or friend, and suddenly he was gone. Gone from me forever—and not just him. My father, my tribe . . . they were all as good as dead to me. I squeezed my eyes shut, but everyone and everything I was leaving behind were there, floating like ghosts in my mind. I didn’t know what else to do, so I whispered a prayer to the Morrigan, the triple goddess of blood and battles. Maybe not the most appropriate deity, under the circumstances, but the one to whom I most often prayed. My throat was parched, and my voice, when I tried to say the first of the three names of the Raven Goddess, came out as a crow’s rasp.

“Macha . . .” I licked my lips and tried again. “Macha. Red Nemain. Badb Catha . . . hear me. Wind, carry my words. Shadows and darkness, see my plight. Let the Morrigan hear my plea. Give me strength to vanquish my enemies and wreak my vengeance . . .”

I whispered the prayer over and over again until finally I slipped into a deep, exhausted sleep.

? ? ?

Thin beams of sunlight crept through the cracks between the deck planks and pierced the gloom. I blinked blearily in confusion for a moment before I was able to figure out where I was and what had woken me. Odd Eyes crouched on his haunches in front of me, grinning. His mismatched gaze raked my face and limbs.

“Not too ugly,” he said again, as he had on the skiff. But he spoke not in Latin this time but in the language of my own people. His accent told me he was Catuvellauni, and the sound of it turned my fear to anger. The slaver was a Celt. But from a tribe notorious for their sly, thieving ways. I decided once I escaped—and I would escape—I would cut his throat in vengeance for this affront to the Cantii and the house of my father.

He must have seen the defiance flare in my eyes.

“Prickly Cantii bitch. Think you’re better’n me?”

“I know I am,” I said.

“Ha!” he barked. “I’m not the one with the collar around my neck.”

“No,” I said. “I suspect your thieving kind wouldn’t know the feel of metal around your neck.”

He grabbed a handful of my hair and forced my head back, thrusting his face so close that I could feel his hot, sour breath in my ear. “Don’t insult my honor, little thrall,” he growled. “You stink of the swamps and the muck of that bloody island same as I once did.”

“At least I don’t stink of Rome,” I said through gritted teeth.

The blow came almost before the hated word had left my tongue—a short, sharp jab to my stomach. Gasping for breath, I couldn’t cry out as I felt Odd Eyes grasp at me, his thick fingers fumbling at the lacing of my tunic. I kicked and swore at him, but I was chained, and he was much stronger. I didn’t know if I could fight him off. I heard the sound of my tunic ripping—

And then he was gone.

I fell forward into empty air, and my eyes flew open. Dust motes danced crazily in the slivers of sunlight through the deck planks, swirling around a silhouetted figure. It was the dark-haired slave master from the skiff. He stood above Odd Eyes—who was suddenly flat on his back—and he held a long knife in one fist. There was a moment of stillness that stretched out between the two men, broken only by the hitching sounds in my throat as I tried to catch my breath.

“Get up, Hafgan,” the slave master said calmly.

“I was only—”

“I said, get up.”

Odd Eyes lurched to his feet. “Wasn’t doing anything with the little slave that hasn’t been done a hundred times, I’d wager.”

“Enough, Hafgan.” The slave master turned to me and said, “Did he hurt you, girl?”

I shook my head, tugging my tunic down where it was ruched halfway up my thigh.