by Aiken G. A.
The man fell and Keran quickly rolled over him. She got to her feet, clearly surprising the men as they stopped their attacks to gawk.
She grinned. From her first time in the pit she’d been beaten nearly every day, by men and women mightier and meaner than this lot.
Lifting her foot, she rammed it into the face of the man she’d climbed over, enjoying the sound of the crunch and the gurgling that followed.
“All right, lads,” she said, pushing a slightly battered Samuel behind her. “Who’s first?”
* * *
Emma ran to the table and yanked free one of the two short swords she’d strapped to the bottom of it.
The soldiers were just attempting to get out from under it, so she stepped on the wood, pressing it down to pin them there—at least for a few more seconds—and swung her weapon. She cut the throat of one, hacked off the arm and part of the scalp of another.
The last had gotten to his feet. Emma spun and swung her weapon again. The steel blade she’d created herself years ago imbedded itself in his skin, and fresh blood spurted out, hitting her across the face and bare breast.
She wrenched the sword out and he dropped to his knees, staring up at her as his life’s blood flowed down his surcoat.
He would die soon and she turned to go out the back door, to her children. But she stopped short, realized she couldn’t let it go and spun back, gave one more strong swing of her arm. The soldier’s head flew across her kitchen, landing on the counter where she’d been kneading bread that morning.
There. Emma always liked when things were complete.
* * *
Angus swung the cast-iron trough to the right and into an archer’s head. He swung it left, ramming it into the shoulder of another. He sensed someone behind him, turned, and quickly jerked to the side. A blade slid by, just missing his gut, where it had been aimed.
He gave a growl and tossed the trough, making sure it hit another man coming up behind him, and reached out to the one with the sword. Angus’s fingers slid around the man’s throat and grasped his neck, squeezing until he felt bones break under his fingers like kindling.
Dropping the body in his hands, Angus stared at his family home. He knew his children and wife were somewhere, but he made the excruciating decision not to go to them. Not to help them. Instead, he did what he knew he had to do and ran behind the pigsty.
* * *
“Not only did you strike the wrong family,” Keeley went on, “but you killed this beautiful animal.” She pointed at the gray stallion. “That was a very tragic mistake. For you.”
“Your horse, was he?” one of them asked.
“No. But he was her son.”
The men frowned, temporarily confused, but the one on the far left, sensing something, quickly turned in time to see the front hooves of the gray mare come down onto him, forcing him to the ground and crushing his ribs into his chest.
Keeley grabbed her hammer, spun, and threw. It collided with the face of one soldier, sinking into the flesh and staying there.
She ran toward it, pulled the hammer out before the body could fall. A sword slashed toward her and she fell to the ground, rolling away from the weapon, but quickly jumped back to her feet.
Flipping the hammer around, so the head faced her, she used the handle to strike the soldier in the throat. Then she pressed a metal lever that rested by the head. A narrow blade burst from the handle and tore past soft flesh and out the other side.
Keeley released the lever, letting the blade retract into the handle, flipped the hammer again, and slammed the side of the last soldier’s head. He went down to the ground and Keeley followed up with another strike to the front, burying her weapon so deep, she finally hit dirt.
Panting, she yanked her weapon out. She walked to the gray mare, facing her head on. She carefully reached up, pressed her hand to the horse’s massive jaw, and rested her head against the mare’s nose.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she whispered.
The mare let out a long sigh that Keeley felt to her bones, but then the mare was scrambling back and Keeley spun around, faced a new group of soldiers running toward her.
“Run!” she ordered the mare as she raised her weapon once more. But the horse stood her ground, refusing to move.
* * *
Every time the two men moved closer, Gemma and the children backed up. She did it again and again until her mother finally ran out of the house, a sword in each hand.
“Where have you been?” Gemma demanded, her gaze locked on the two men. The others on horseback stayed by the tree line, in no apparent rush to move things along. They assumed they had all the time in the world to entertain themselves with Gemma’s family.
“I couldn’t leave until I was done. You know that.”
She did. Her mother was nothing if not obsessive. It could be irritating on a day-to-day basis, but at times like these . . . Gemma loved her for it.
Reaching back with one arm, Gemma wiggled her fingers. Her mother placed one of the swords into Gemma’s hand and the men, who at this point were only a few feet away, grinned.
“You and your mum going to challenge us, Sister? Do you think that’s wise with the child—”
Gemma cut off the head of one soldier, the one that wouldn’t shut up. Then she removed the head of the other while he was still trying to pull his sword from its sheath.
She heard the surprised gasps and cries of her siblings and the startled stomping of the mercenaries’ horses, but she ignored it all.
Even as the mercenaries yelled at her, even as they readied their attack, she kept her focus and tossed the sword back to her mother.
Gemma crouched down and turned the headless bodies over so that both were chest down. She pressed a hand on the back of each, lowered her body a bit, and kept her gaze focused on the grass beneath them. With a growl, she began the chant.
“Gemma,” her mother urged. “Get on with it.”
But Gemma blocked her out. She had to. Even as she heard the hooves powering nearer, she kept her focus.
The chant completed, she quickly got to her feet and faced the killers riding toward her.
Closer and closer they got until the headless bodies moved....
The horses reacted before the men riding them, rearing up, and colliding into one another as they attempted to get away; fighting their riders’ demands to move forward.
As the mercenaries fought to stay on their mounts, Gemma reached for the collar of her white robe and untied it. Loosening it, she grabbed the two sides and pulled hard, ripping the garment in two.
She stepped out of it, and the first mercenary who managed to get his horse under control saw her . . . and stared. In horror.
After a few seconds, he began screaming. Loud enough that everyone could hear. Everyone would know.
“War Monk! She’s a War Monk! WAR MONK!”
* * *
The first of the new soldiers came at her, his sword raised. Keeley gripped the end of her hammer with one hand, and the head with the other. She lifted her hammer up. The soldier began to bring the sword down, but then he screamed out, his back arching, his eyes going wide as a blade tore through his chest, and blood splattered Keeley’s startled face.
The sword was torn out and the body fell, revealing Caid the Amichai.
He barely glanced at her before he slaughtered the other soldiers who’d come for her. Slashing and stabbing with brutal efficiency. When the soldiers lay dead or dying, he returned to her and the gray mare.
He glanced at the gray stallion. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
Keeley nodded. “Are there more?” she asked, pointing to the soldiers at their feet.
“Many more.”
“I see. All for my sister?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
“They’ve sent smaller units to surround your family’s farm. But the main force is marching head-on. They’ll be coming over that hill.”
&
nbsp; Keeley hefted the head of her hammer onto her shoulder. “All right then.”
She started off toward the hill, but Caid’s voice followed her.
“I thought you wanted to see.”
“Wanted to see what?”
“What I really look like.”
Keeley stopped, realizing the gray mare was right beside her. Together they faced Caid.
He still appeared as a human but already she saw that his eyes were different. Glowing gold in the morning suns that had come up over the hill.
Then he began to grow . . . up. His torso lifted tall, stretching a bit, even widening. And beneath his torso, his legs went from human to horse. Even his kilt turned into a horse’s bridle seconds before two more legs appeared as that part of his body stretched and grew massive. Bigger than any warhorse she’d ever seen.
The gray mare pawed the ground with one hoof and her head swung hard, her long hair hitting Keeley in the face. But it didn’t stop her from seeing.
His body stopped growing, finally. But then, from the sides of his head . . . antlers. Not massive ones to herald he was a male, but big and strong enough to be weapons.
His mouth relaxed a bit and she saw white and long powerful fangs.
Caid stared at her with those golden eyes and waited. If he was expecting her to run from him—she didn’t have time.
“I have to do something,” she told him, starting again toward the hill. “I hope you don’t hate me when I’m done.”
She patted the gray mare’s neck. “And you too, my friend.”
* * *
Laila and her unit had gotten up before the suns rose. Together, they’d silently made their way to a nearby lake that Caid knew about. There, they’d discussed next moves. Especially if the family decided to fight them on taking Beatrix to the witches.
Her father’s original plan had been to just take the young woman, but her mother had stomped that decision into the ground. And Laila had agreed. Morally.
Now, though, as she moved through the crowd of mercenaries on horseback, she realized that to have just grabbed Beatrix would have been a very foolish thing indeed.
Not when the mother stood in front of her children covered in someone else’s blood and there were already two headless bodies stretched out in front of her nun daughter. The nun was taking the time to kindly—although stupidly—pray over them. Bad timing, but she was a nun, after all. Maybe she was required to do so by her sect.
The mercenaries began to ride forward and she went along. It was a gift given to her kind by the horse gods. They could blend into any herd of horses without being seen by human eyes. If they were smart. Sometimes her brothers . . . not so smart.
Laila pulled out her bow and quickly nocked three arrows, but before she could use them, the horses surrounding her suddenly reared up and began to panic. Had the nun cast a spell? Did nuns cast spells? Laila had thought all they did was pray and not have sex. And sometimes help the poor.
Confused, she kept her bow at the ready but moved along with the herd. It was when she was jostled to the left that she saw those headless bodies moving. Not the final death throes of men who hadn’t realized their heads were no longer attached to their bodies but moving . . . with purpose. Slowly, but surely, getting to their feet.
Then the nun ripped off her white robes and Laila took in a startled breath.
Oh, it had been a very good thing they hadn’t taken that girl.
Laila didn’t even need to hear the men screaming to know what she was looking at. To fully understand. What the “nun” now wore told her everything she needed to know—and what the woman had been hiding.
The full-length chainmail hauberk with that wide skirt, slit up the front and back for fighting and horse riding. Iron chausses on her legs and chainmail boots with iron spurs. And a black woolen cappa over the chainmail, slit in the front and rear like the hauberk. But on the front and back was a blood-red rune that revealed all.
Gemma Smythe was no chunky nun. She was a War Monk. A knight who’d dedicated her entire life and soul to one of the mighty war gods. Morthwyl, based on her runes. Not only making the woman a trained and very deadly warrior, but one who could also raise the dead to attack their enemies during battle.
The headless bodies pulled their swords from their sheaths and rushed their former compatriots, running toward them at full speed and attacking as soon as they were near. As if they could see them despite the loss of their heads.
They struck the horses nearest first, so that the poor animals dropped and the men on the ground were immediately torn open by the swords of the headless.
The other horses wanted nothing to do with those that were once dead and they immediately backed up and turned away from the running bodies, attempting to charge off but, in their panic, colliding with one another or with the trees.
A few of the soldiers, knowing the War Monk was behind the attack, forced their horses to move forward, their swords pulled.
Gemma yanked a long sword she had sheathed at her side, gripped the handle with both hands, and raised it high over her left shoulder.
Laila released her three arrows, taking out three of the mercenaries in the process. She moved forward, nocking three more arrows, but she was no longer part of the herd. Another scream went out from the mounted men.
“Centaur!”
One of them blew a horn that would call to others and Laila quickly spun around, using her now much-bigger ass to knock the horse that had been beside her to the ground. She raised her bow and let the arrows fly, taking out the horn blower in mid-blast and two other men in the process.
She walked backward until she stood beside Gemma. She glanced down at her, nodded her head. “Monk.”
Gemma gazed up at her with wide eyes. “Centaur?” She shook her head. “I can’t believe Keeley was right.”
“She was right about you too,” Laila admitted. “You’re quite the little liar.”
* * *
Caid ran after Keeley through the woods, briefly pausing when he heard the screamed “War Monk!” coming from off in the distance.
Keeley stopped, too, at that yell, and looked over her shoulder. But then she gave a short head shake and continued running. A few minutes later, “Centaur!” was screamed out, making Caid smirk, and then came the sound of a war horn. Keeley’s speed somehow increased as she suddenly veered off.
Caid was right behind her, until she reached a large tree and took a position there. Waiting.
Under his hooves, the earth moved and he knew more soldiers were coming.
Gods, had the princes sent an entire battalion to take down the family? That seemed . . . excessive.
Then again, all he’d heard for the last five minutes were the dying screams of men. None of women and children. So perhaps they knew something Caid and his cohorts did not.
The first of the mounted soldiers came over the ridge and that’s when Keeley moved, running out.
Caid went to grab her, but she was already gone. Thankfully, she didn’t jump in front of them. She ran out so that she was lined up with the first horse.
She raised her hammer high, pulling it back over her shoulder. Then, with a mighty swing, she brought the weapon down and into. . . the side of the closest horse. With a horrid scream, the horse’s hooves left the ground and its entire body slammed into the horse next to it. They both went down and the horses behind didn’t have time to stop. Instead they stumbled over the pair and fell, forcing others to do the same.
But none of that stopped the rest of the mounted riders. There were more coming over that ridge and riding straight for the house.
Keeley used her hammer to finish off the men whose horses had gone down, but quickly pulled back before any of the soldiers could come for her. She stood by that tree again, staring down the hill. Watching as the soldiers rode into the valley, over the small white fence, and into the first field.
The first group of mounted soldiers made it as far as the middle of that fiel
d . . . and then were gone. The healthy-looking crop they’d been trampling disappeared completely, the mounted riders and their steeds falling into the camouflaged pit.
Again, those coming in behind couldn’t stop in time and half the mounted platoon disappeared into the same hole.
Keeley went up on her toes and yelled out, “Da! Nowwwwwwwww!”
Caid came around the tree so that he could clearly see what Keeley was calling for. He heard it first. The counterweight, then the snap of the casting arm being released, and over the pigpen a large ball of fire flew into the pit of mounted soldiers.
The pit exploded into flames and the terrified screams of dying men and horses.
“You have a trebuchet?” Caid asked . . . because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Mum made it. She gets bored when she’s pregnant.”
“Huh.”
“It’s very handy.” Keeley gave a sad sigh. “But I hate hurting the horses.”
She hefted her hammer onto her shoulder. “All right then. Let’s go kill the rest so we can get the children to safety.”
* * *
Gemma had put away her long sword and pulled out her two short swords. She ran at the mercenaries, hacking and slashing her way through them. Laila used her arrows until a few of the men got close. Then she switched to the steel spear she had strapped to her back.
Gemma was just holding these men off until her mother, Beatrix, and the children could slip away. But every time they tried to run, mercenaries moved in front of them. Blocked them.
Getting frustrated but not sure what to do about it, she simply kept fighting. Until Laila suddenly sent out a whistle call.
Gemma didn’t know why until Cadell and Farlan rode into view. There was a lot of blood on them, but nothing that had her too worried.
Farlan immediately leaped into the fray, using a large axe to chop away the mercenaries attacking her. He used his back legs to strike at any men or horses behind him. The strength of his kicks knocked the horses back and killed the men outright from blows to their chests or heads.
“Go!” he finally yelled when he was right in front of her. “Now!”
Gemma ran toward her mother and siblings.