Poseidon’s Legion

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “I am sure he will not see it that way.”

  “Do you wish to reconsider?”

  Lyonette shook her head. “Never,” she said. “Let us depart, my love. Rhodes de Leybourne may, indeed, marry someday. But it will not be to me!”

  With that, they turned their horses and bolted into the trees to the east, losing themselves in the foliage as Tavish used the sun to find his bearings and take them on a southerly direction. They rode as hard as they could, for as long as they could, until the village of Truro, nestled against the green hills of Cornwall with the jewel of the Truro River glistening in the distance.

  They were never missed.

  Relieved that his petulant, weeping daughter had gone off to leave him in peace, de Sansen rode the rest of the way to St. Agnes feeling a good deal of relief now that his daughter wasn’t howling in his ear. He was so glad to be rid of her, in fact, that he never even noticed she was missing until reaching the village of St. Agnes. Only then did he realize that somewhere along the afternoon, his daughter had disappeared.

  De Sansen sent out search parties well into the night, but something told him that Lyonette would not be found. It was just a hunch he had. That stubborn, petulant daughter had disappeared, he suspected, for good, probably straight into the arms of St. Erth. In fact, the more de Sansen thought on it, the more he realized that St. Erth must have been somewhere nearby the entire journey to St. Agnes. Lyonette was too much of a coward to have gone off alone, even in her anger.

  De Sansen had no idea what he was going to tell de Leybourne, but whatever it was, it would be from the safety of a missive. He wrote one out, quickly, and left it at a tavern on the edge of town before fleeing the way he had come, back to Larrigan Castle to hide from Henry de Leybourne’s anger.

  Chapter Six

  Later that day, near the village of Blackwater

  ½ mile south of the village of Three Burrows

  “That is a fine horse you are riding,” Rhodes said. “Did you steal him or was he given to you in payment?”

  It was nearing noon as Rhodes and nine mercenaries neared the village of Blackwater, quite possibly the most crime-ridden village in all of Cornwall. Since departing the forest near the tavern where Samarra and Rhodes has met and, consequently, where Rhodes had been captured by her men, the travel north had been quiet if not a bit strange. It was clear Samarra had no desire to speak to Rhodes and her men kept eyeing him like he was fresh meat.

  He didn’t like the feeling that he was about to be devoured by men who were more scarred and battered than any men he’d ever seen in his life. To realize that these were men Samarra trusted brought on an entirely new respect for her. The woman dealt in the dregs of society and managed to make it all work. That, in and of itself, was impressive.

  But it was like being surrounded by a pack of wild dogs. Without his weapons or any way to protect himself, Rhodes kept his attention away from them and on the road, the landscape, or Samarra as she rode up ahead of everyone. As the morning passed and he grew weary of being eyeballed by the hyenas, he spurred his silver horse forward so that he was nearly parallel with Samarra.

  The first words out of his mouth weren’t particularly flattering but he wanted a reaction from her; any reaction. He didn’t like the fact that she seemed to be ignoring him. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought last night had seen her somehow become enamored with him. He’d been around enough women to know when they had a spark of interest and if she didn’t speak with him further, that spark couldn’t turn into a blaze. And a blaze might find him released.

  As he’d hoped, the comment about the horse brought her around. She glanced at him over her shoulder.

  “Did you come to insult me?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Nay,” he said, although it was a lie. He rather liked her reaction when he insulted her. “It was simply a question.”

  “It did not sound like a question.”

  “It was.”

  She sighed and looked away. “I do not steal.”

  “Then he was given to you?”

  “You could say that.”

  “How did you acquire him?”

  She looked at him again. “Are you always so prying?”

  Rhodes nodded. “I am when I am bored, and this journey has been exceedingly boring. I would be most willing to discuss anything else if you wish.”

  “I do not.”

  He looked at her, wondering why she seemed so standoffish. “Last night, you were quite willing to talk to me. What has happened?”

  What has happened? If only she could tell him the truth. If only she could tell him that every word spoken between them was somehow causing her to feel more and more attraction to him. She loved the tone of his voice, the way his eyes glimmered at her. She loved everything about their conversations, more than she could express. But she was also terrified of it for reasons she couldn’t begin to understand. There was great confusion in her heart.

  “Nothing has happened,” she said, trying to sound convincing. “I told you who I was and what my purpose is. There is nothing more to say.”

  Rhodes considered that. It sounded cold to him and he didn’t like cold, not from her. “Mayhap, there is not any more to say as to why you’ve abducted me, but there is always more to say about any number of subjects,” he said. “In fact, let me tell you more about London and the entertainment they have there. You seemed interested in that. Last year, I was in London and I saw a great wagon with a stage built atop it. It was really very clever; the stage could be moved anywhere so that people could enjoy the performance. Or, it could be taken swiftly out of town should the church become wise to it.”

  Much to Samarra’s dismay, his talk of plays and entertainment had her interest again. “Does that church disapprove, then?”

  He snorted. “In a big way,” he said. “Depending on the message of the play, they send their guards to run the performers out of town. But last year, I saw a play called The Summoning of Everyman, which is a story of a man who is summoned by the devil at the end of his life. The church approves of that play because it has a moral message.”

  Samarra thought on movable stages and plays of devils. “It sounds rather frightening.”

  Rhodes grinned. “Mayhap for children. The devil wears a painted mask on his face that is terrifying to look at.”

  It all seemed fascinating and she struggled not to become too swept up in the subject of plays again. “Mayhap one day I shall see it for myself,” she said. “Quiet, now. We are entering the Blackwater bog. This is an ugly place, day or night, and we must be vigilant.”

  Around them the landscape began to change – heavily foliaged, with the smell of standing, rancid water, indicative of a swamp. The road dipped ahead and Rhodes could see that it went underwater slightly, enough to make for mucky, wet travel for the horses or for those on foot. His gaze then moved up into the trees, hearing the distant call of birds but sensing something eerie about the place, whether it was by Samarra’s suggestion or simply because it was a truly spooky locale, he couldn’t be sure. But something told him to be on his guard.

  “You know this area,” he said, although his voice was substantially softer. “Surely the criminals around here know you.”

  “Mostly, they do.”

  “It would seem to me that they would not attack you, knowing who you are.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, looking at the swamp on the side of the road. “Do you know they call this the Land of Bats?”

  He looked at her curiously. He didn’t remember that from the years when he lived here. “Why?”

  Samarra’s hazel eyes were fixed on the dark recesses of the bog. “Because there is a band of outlaws that live in this bog who dress in hides that have been blackened with soot. The way they wear them makes it appear as if they are wearing bat’s wings. Hence, the Land of Bats.”

  Rhodes cocked a wry eyebrow. “Charming,” he said. “Hopefully we will not run into an
y of them, as my sword has been kept from me. I would not be of much use in that case.”

  It was a dig at her, for stripping of his weapons and leaving him as defenseless as a knight considered himself to be, but she fired a volley right back at him.

  “If you are as good a knight as you say you are, then surely you do not need your weapon,” she said.

  He puckered his lips at her in a sardonic gesture. “And if you were as good a mercenary as you profess to be, you would not need to bind me. Your great skills of combat and submission should be more than a match for any attempts I make against you.”

  Samarra was trying very hard not to grin at his sarcasm. “That is true but, in your case, I need the insurance of the ropes. But mayhap you are so strong and powerful that you can simply tear them away.”

  “I could if I wanted to.”

  “I am waiting for that moment.”

  “It may come sooner than you think. So will my hands wrapped around your throat.”

  Samarra bit her lip as laughter threatened. “You would not be the first man who tried that.”

  “But I will be the last because I will get the job done.”

  She had to turn her head away because she could no longer stop from grinning. “My, you are confident.”

  “And better than you are. Do not forget it.”

  “I will not.”

  “I could best you in my sleep, woman.”

  “I do not doubt that.”

  “You say that, but these ropes around my wrists prove that you are quite cowardly when it comes to me.”

  Samarra rolled her eyes at his boast. “I am not cowardly. I am smart.”

  “So you say.”

  “I was smart enough to capture you… and you were not smart enough to see it before it was too late. I wonder who is the most intelligent now?”

  It was the ultimate insult, one that shot an arrow right into Rhodes’ pride and he had no witty retort immediately forthcoming. Samarra was considering it a small victory when a great yelling rose up off to her right and, suddenly, men were bursting through the trees, charging towards her and her men.

  In a sweet instant, they found themselves in a fight.

  Samarra’s first reaction was that of every warrior; she reached for her sword and out came the short, sharp blade she always carried. She was very good with it. The rest of her men did the same, producing weapons and gathering around her and Rhodes to form a shield wall of sorts. They were stronger together than strung out, banding together to protect themselves.

  Quickly, the situation turned deadly as they were swarmed by men at least twice their number. While Samarra and her men had weapons, Rhodes not only didn’t have a weapon, but his wrists were bound, making it very difficult to not only defend himself but to fight back. Sizing up the situation in a hurry, Rhodes realized that he would have no other choice than to fight off these outlaws the only way he could – hands, feet, and head. Around him, Samarra’s men were quickly engaging in combat and he knew they would be of no protection.

  He was on his own.

  Rather than become angry that his weapons had been taken from him, Rhodes simply focused on what he needed to do in order to survive. Soot-covered men charged at him with crude weapons and he kicked them away even as his horse, the mighty silver beast he had named Taran, sensed the battle and began to fight back. Taran lashed out with hooves and big teeth, making contact and disabling men as Rhodes lashed out feet or big hands. Between the two of them, they were doing a substantial amount of damage. One man with an ax barely missed Rhodes’ right thigh, hitting the saddle instead, and Rhodes looped his hands over the man’s head and strangled him with the ropes that bound him.

  As he held a dead man between his hands, he used the body like a shield as more men charged at him. Knives or axes hit the body instead of Rhodes or his horse. Taran did his best to keep men away from his master and, in the process, ended up bowling over at least three of Samarra’s men on horseback. Rhodes’ horse was twice the size of their horses and they were no match for that big, silver arse as it swung around and butted people.

  Rhodes wasn’t having any difficulty staying mounted as the horse danced about in the brackish water of the road, trying to keep himself and his master alive. Taran had been in enough battles to know how to fight. In fact, Rhodes was very grateful for his instinctive horse because he was fairly certain his horse, in a few instances, had kept him alive.

  More waves of men attacked him, only to be fended off by not only the horse, but also by the body of their dead comrade as Rhodes continued to use the man as a shield. The sight of their dead compatriot seemed to discourage the enemy greatly and they refocused on Samarra and her men because they were making more suitable targets. When Rhodes realized that they were easing off of him somewhat, his gaze instinctively went to Samarra to see how she was faring.

  It took him a half-second to realize that she was missing.

  An odd sense of panic swept him. He saw Samarra’s horse, but no Samarra, and as he spurred Taran out of the mass of fighting men, he could see that Samarra was down on the ground, using two blades to try to fend off a rather large bandit who seemed intent on pummeling her with his fists and the hilt of his sword. As Rhodes watched, the man brought the hilt of the sword down on the side of her face, knocking her over. When she went down into the nasty water, the big bandit jumped on top of her and pushed her face underwater.

  Rhodes leapt off of his horse, hands still bound, plowing through the combatants until he reached the man who was clearly trying to drown Samarra. Leaping on the man’s back, he looped his bound hands over the man’s head and, with the rope that bound his wrists together, pulled back on the man’s neck, both strangling him and pulling him off of Samarra in one swift movement.

  Rhodes was an exceptionally strong man, even stronger when he was filled with rage or panic, and he yanked the man off of Samarra as easily as one would have dislodged a child. The man went flying backward, a rope around his neck as Rhodes pulled and twisted, bracing himself against his opponent as he slowly squeezed the life from the bandit. He could hear the man gasping for air, his body twitching as he could no longer get air into his lungs or blood to his head, and Rhodes held that tight and powerful twist on the rope until the man finally went limp and all of his struggles ceased. Then, and only then, did he let up. Breathing heavily with exertion, he tossed the body aside, his gaze hunting for Samarra to see how she had fared only to realize that she was still in the water, face-down.

  Rhodes rushed to Samarra, pulling her out of the muck and being greeted with her ghostly pale face. His bound wrists made it extremely awkward to help her, but he quickly went down on one knee, throwing her over his other knee, propped up out of the water, and pounding on her back to evacuate any water she might have inhaled.

  “Breathe, Samarra,” he hissed, pounding on her back again as he tried to pull the hair out of her face. “Breathe, love, breathe!”

  He had to hit her twice more before she suddenly gasped and began coughing violently, spewing dirty water out of her lungs. She also began thrashing about because her last memory was of her fighting someone who was trying to kill her, so Rhodes put his bound arms around her and tried to hold her still.

  “Stop fighting,” he said steadily, calmly. “You are safe. I have you; you are safe.”

  Samarra wasn’t particularly lucid but she heard his soft plea and, instinctively, it helped calm her. It was a sweet, deep voice that could have moved mountains in her world. It spoke to her heart. Her eyes flew open and she drew in raspy, painful breaths as she looked around, seeing the bog, her horse, and hearing sounds of a fading fight.

  But she didn’t speak, her mind still a bit too muddled, and Rhodes stood up, lifting her up with him. He couldn’t pick her up with the way his hands were tied so he simply put his arms under her arms, lifting her up and helping her to walk away from the remains of the fighting.

  “My… my men!” Samarra gasped, trying to turn ar
ound even as he moved her away from the fighting. “I must help my men!”

  Rhodes turned around because she was, her concern for her men evident. They could both see that there were at least four dead bandits on the ground and the rest were fleeing, but not before stealing one of Samarra’s horses. That meant one of her men would have no mount.

  “The horse!” she gasped, coughing. “They are taking my man’s horse!”

  Rhodes watched the soot-covered outlaws fade back into the bog. He could see that her men were intact for the most part, now stealing what they could off of the dead bandits. The outlaws may have taken a horse, but Samarra’s men were going to pick the dead clean. It was payback, in a sense.

  “I think it is a small price to pay,” Rhodes said quietly. “It could have been much worse. We could have lost you.”

  She really had no idea what he meant as he smiled faintly at her and removed his arms from her so she was no longer in his embrace. As she gazed at him, confused, Whitty and Howler ran up to her.

  “Are ye well, Missy?” Howler asked, terror in his voice. “He didn’t hurt ye, did he?”

  Samarra had no idea what he meant. She simply started shaking her head as a reflex reaction; of course no one could hurt her. Why would Howler ask such a foolish question?

  “I am not injured,” she said, although her voice was quivering. “I am utterly fine. How are the men? Was anyone injured?”

  She was shaky, speaking rapidly, and Rhodes reached out to steady her because she couldn’t seem to walk a straight line. She was rattled and struggling to appear like she was in perfect control. He admired the fact that she didn’t want anyone to see any weakness about her.

  “Easy, love,” he said quietly. “Just breathe. You’ve had a good scare.”

  Samarra took a deep breath, trying to calm down just as he had suggested. That gentle, deep voice resonated with her yet again. She would do anything for him if he spoke to her in that tone. She didn’t even notice that Howler was looking at her with a rather wild-eyed expression.