The Phantom Queen Awakes

by Mark S. Deniz

  Her expression was unreadable as she murmured, “You have your job and I have mine.” Then she turned and walked into the forest in a direction that led away from the camp.

  Stunned, Severus stood for a moment, and then went after her. He told himself he was following her to make sure the fool female made it back home unmolested, yet the truth was that he simply wanted another look at her. Her presence was almost intoxicating.

  Yet once he stepped back into the tree line he could see no one. Only a raven sat silently on a tree limb above his head, watching him with eyes as dark as the woman’s.

  ****

  The roar of dying men filled Severus’ ears. His horse leapt over a dead Roman, a spear still clutched in Severus’ bloody hand. The man had not even had time to release it before he’d been cut down by the sword of their enemy.

  One couldn’t tell mud from blood now.

  Across from him, Paetus swung down from his injured horse and entered the fray. Digging his heels into his mount, Severus surged forth past his men and the enemy tribesmen who fought so passionately to defend what was theirs.

  They hadn’t a prayer.

  Not against the Roman battalion of archers who had already laid a carpet of bodies for his mount to dance around. Not against the first wave of spear-wielding soldiers who, more often than not, laid down their lives and took one or more of their enemies with them. Surely not against the cavalry who cut a bloody swath through them, all the while mounted far above them.

  A bearded barbarian came from his left, teeth bared and sword cleaving through the air. It bit into his mount’s flank and Severus went down with equine screams echoing in his ears. He hit hard, narrowly missing the heavy weight of his horse and rolled away, colliding with the dead body of a fellow Roman. A blade ripped through the air above him and Severus leapt to his feet, dodging the tip and swinging his shield around to catch the man in his throat. The edge of his shield connected with soft flesh and the man made a gagging sound, falling backward with blood coursing over the hands he held to his injured neck.

  Severus only had a moment before the next barbarian was upon him. A blade hit his cuirass and sent him stumbling forward. He touched a hand to the ground, pushed up and whirled around, cutting upward with his sword in a deadly arc and slicing through the muscle and tendon of the man’s unprotected throat.

  The lifeless body of the attacking barbarian fell to the ground and Severus stared down at the half headless man, at the pool of spreading blood. There was something familiar about him, something...

  The tunic.

  He’d seen it the night before. It had been the article of clothing the beautiful woman at the river had been washing. It was a deep green, woven with the pattern of a hawk at the hem. He remembered it well, because it seemed as though a woman had spent much time on the piece, someone who had loved the man enough to make it for him.

  Had it been the same woman he’d encountered last evening? Had Severus just killed her husband?

  Severus only had a moment to wonder at the coincidence before the battle forced his mind away from the river’s bank and back to the field.

  ****

  Severus stepped up to the river and knelt, plunging his hands into the water and bringing it to his face. The cold woke him from the stupor he’d found himself in after the battle. He’d slipped into the forest as soon as he could, as the slaves rushed around tending the wounded and dying, fetching water and keeping the fires stoked.

  Paetus had returned to the camp victorious and flushed with the power of a conqueror. The day had been a rout. They’d squashed their opponents into the bloody earth with the heels of their sandals and were that much closer to taking this entire region for the glory of Rome.

  He tipped his head toward the star strewn sky. Mars Gradivus. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

  The man with the green tunic he’d killed today had been the husband or the brother of the woman he’d met at the river the night before. He could find no other explanation for what had happened.

  Severus killed because that was what was required of him. At first, he had always come back from battle flush with triumph and pride of his country, a quality that Paetus had not yet lost. But now, after seeing the bravery of the barbarians they had come to slaughter, seeing the honor and passion with which they defended their hearth and home, now...

  Suffice to say that he’d never wished for nor wanted any sort of a personal connection with those he slew. He lowered his head and plunged his hands deeper into the water, atonement for being one of the deadliest warriors in his legion. He was their pride, but he took no joy of it.

  A soft weeping met his ears and he opened his eyes, looking for the source. The washer woman knelt not far away, a pile of clothing on the icy bank next to her and that same dark shroud-like hood half covering her beautiful hair.

  Severus had not expected to encounter her again this evening. He’d only been seeking serenity and quiet away from the camp. Seeing her again and knowing what he’d done, made him repeat his words. They came out ragged and low. “Forgive me.”

  She turned her face toward him for only a moment. “There’s nothing to forgive. It is what it is. Bad men must die and so must good men.”

  “I killed your man today. I know it because I saw you washing his tunic last night.”

  She took a piece of laundry up and calmly dunked it beneath the black water. “So it was you who killed him.” Her tone of voice was eerily calm. It had to be from the grief.

  He made a low sound of misery and turned on his knees to face her. “I cannot sit here on this beach near you and say other than the truth. It would dishonor us both.” He paused. “Who was he to you?” He wasn’t sure why he asked. Perhaps it was better if he didn’t know.

  The woman continued to wash her clothes without a word, until she finally put aside her work and stood. “What does it matter? He was my brother, son, husband, father. They are all my men.”

  Severus pushed to his feet, feeling his gut clench with the agony of the thousand deaths he’d caused her people.

  She took a step toward him, her eyes shining bright with tears. “They are ― all of them ― mine.”

  Dear gods, she was so beautiful.

  She walked up to him boldly, her face tipped up, the gentle curve limned by silver moonlight. “Do you want to kiss me?”

  Severus blinked. “I don’t deserve a kiss.”

  Her face drifted closer to his. “I didn’t ask whether or not you deserved a kiss. I asked if you wanted one.”

  He hesitated only a moment, his mind filling with thoughts of his wife. Sweet Aelia with her hair so long and thick like honey, her eyes such a pleasing, light shade of blue. Physically she looked nothing like this woman, yet they shared a strong common quality. It was almost as if he faced Aelia on this river’s shore. This woman seemed suddenly like home. Like everything he wanted and needed. He melted into her presence the way he would melt into his wife’s, took comfort in it.

  Her lips touched his and brushed. She didn’t seem to care that he was covered with other men’s blood, perhaps even her kin’s. Instead, she seemed to revel in the taste of it on his lips, running her tongue slowly over his mouth. In acceptance of him. In his head it was like forgiveness.

  Absolution.

  He needed more. Making a low sound in the back of his throat, he pulled the woman against him. Crushing his mouth to hers, he forced her lips to part and slid his tongue within. He wanted to drink her, consume her, take all she offered him and then more. He wanted to sink himself into the feel and taste of her and forget the events of the day. She was seductive darkness, the kind he could lose himself in ― dangerously addictive, but hopelessly alluring.

  If he could, Severus would have lowered her to the icy bank of the river, lifted her skirts and lost himself even further. He would have slaked his guilt between her pale thighs and spilled his sorrow within her womb.

  Instead, she pushed away from him.

  Shadow
s hid her expression. Severus could only see her mouth. A smear of blood from his kiss marked her lower lip. “You are one of mine too, warrior.”

  The woman turned and scooped up her laundry. On the top of the pile Severus glimpsed a muddy colored lacerna that looked familiar to him. If the woman came from one of the local tribes, what was she doing with a Roman soldier’s cloak?

  Especially one that looked like it belonged to Paetus.

  She could not have plucked it like a vulture from the dead man on the battlefield since Paetus had not perished in the day’s fighting. Severus had seen him in the camp before he’d left for the river.

  Severus started toward her as she disappeared past the tree line, but by the time he reached it, she was already gone. Only the night misted through the leafless trees.

  ****

  Severus stayed closer to Paetus than usual as they entered the fray. A damp chill had clung to him ever since he’d glimpsed his friend’s lacerna by the riverside. Foolishness on his part, surely. The constant battles were finally breaking through the iron-strong grip he’d kept on his emotions, that was certain enough.

  Still, he had an uneasy feeling about the skirmish today and the fate of his friend in it. Severus would stay close to his comrade and watch out for him, as Paetus had always done for Severus. It was what brothers did.

  The hooves of his new mount pounded the ground as they entered on the second wave of the attack, battling Britons that seemed to never give up and never seemed to dwindle in number. They were less numerous than the Romans, yet they fought with a passion that made up for the difference. Never in Severus’ life had he met an opponent as worthy as these uncivilized people and that earned them his grudging respect.

  Paetus’ blade soared through the air in a bloody arc out of the corner of Severus’ eye. Together they cut through the foot soldiers, taking down one after another. The Britons had charged their chariots through the cavalry line, leaving behind a cluttered mess of overturned and half-shattered vehicles that Severus’ horse danced to avoid.

  “Watch out!” Severus yelled as Paetus’ mount backed into the broken end of a spear lodged in the ground.

  His friend’s horse bolted, throwing Paetus to the ground. He let loose his shield and it rolled away, though he kept a tight grip on his sword handle. Not far away, a Briton spotted Severus’ brother. The barbarian ran toward him, arms flailing and a cry tearing from his throat.

  Severus leapt from his mount, scooping another shield as he did so, and stopped the man with a heavy clang of blade on blade. The lengths of metal kissed and locked at the grip. Severus swung his shield around and took the man in the head with the edge. He fell to the ground with a yell of pain.

  By then Paetus was up, but they were quickly surrounded in a pocket devoid of Romans. His sword swinging hard to the right, Severus connected with a heavy bearded Briton, catching him in the stomach with the tip of his blade and spraying blood. Pivoting on his foot, he blocked another blow, the force of the hit reverberating down his arm and through his armored chest.

  Sweat pooled in Severus’ navel and coated his face and neck under his helmet as he and Paetus took on the barbarians around them while standing back-to-back. Three Britons approached from their right, hands tight on their sword grips and ready to strike.

  Paetus let out a roar and attacked, sword and shield flashing in the sunlight. One of the Briton’s launched toward Severus, who slashed downward, penetrating the barbarian’s thigh, before pivoting to meet the next-comer. A tall, well-muscled Briton struck Severus’ shield, clashed with his blade, and then pushed him back.

  Severus stumbled, tripped over a body and went down hard. The Briton loomed over him. Then Paetus was there, beating the Briton back before he could pounce. The Briton pivoted at a crucial moment, and went for the unprotected area of Paetus’ neck, where his helmet did not touch his cuirass.

  “No!”

  Severus lunged to his feet and speared the barbarian in the stomach. But it was too late. Just as the barbarian fell, so too did Paetus, his eyes wide and surprised as blood poured forth like the dark waters of the river, over his hands and down his chest.

  Severus stared at the fallen body of his friend, numb to the core of his bones, while the fighting raged on around him. He plunged the tip of his sword into the ground beside Paetus’ head and knelt beside his brother in the war-churned earth.

  Paetus’ black eyes stared at the sky, seeing not clouds but the Afterlife.

  ****

  Severus lurched toward a tree and rested heavily against the trunk, bloody sword falling from his lax fingers. He’d crashed through the forest to the river as soon he’d returned from the battle. She was there, just as he’d known she would be ― kneeling at the water’s edge and washing her laundry.

  Was he going insane? Had the battle finally grasped him in its clutches and was it pushing him towards madness?

  Or maybe it wasn’t madness at all. Perhaps the gods had sent him a messenger in the form of this woman. Perhaps he was being punished for something.

  “You!” He stumbled towards her and came down heavily on his knees, ridges of frozen earth piercing through his blood stained leather bracae. He couldn’t get the sweet, sick smell of death to leave his nostrils, not even long draughts of the frigid night air could banish it. “Tell me who you are.”

  She only continued to dunk and scrub a tunic under the swirling cold, black water.

  He reached out to touch her shoulder, to whirl her toward him so he could see her face, but some unknown impulse stopped him. Like a primal instinct. Fear welled, as though it wasn’t a simple woman kneeling before him, but a wolf.

  In his mind, suddenly she was the warrior and he was the prey.

  He made a fist, the skin cracking, causing the blood to well and drip to the shore of the river. “Please,” he entreated, his voice a low rasp. “Tell me what you are.”

  “I am nothing but a woman,” she answered, continuing to wash the clothes that lay in a pile beside her.

  “You lie. You are more than that.”

  “I am woman and I am everything you should fear. I am fate. I am prophecy. I am war. I am destruction. And I am death.”

  Severus could feel that she spoke the truth.

  “He’s dead: the one who wore the woolen lacerna that you washed on this river bank last night. His name was Paetus and he was a good man, a man with children and a wife.”

  “So many of them are good men, the ones who fall.”

  The incessant washing made anger pound in his head in a low staccato. Still he didn’t touch her, every survival instinct he had kept him from doing it. “Why did you kill him?”

  She stood and looked at him with eyes darker than the cloudless skies above and just as cold and unreachable. “Death is a part of life. Everything that is born and all that thrives will one day pass away. It will go better for you if you simply accept fate, Severus.” She looked down at her laundry and his gaze followed.

  There, in the cold black water, floated the same tunic he wore. It had the same tears, the same rust-colored stains. His blood icy and his limbs paralyzed, he watched it swirl for a moment and then disappear, pulled under by the inexorable current.

  ****

  Afterword

  I was immediately intrigued with the idea of writing a story about the Morrigan, a figure in Irish myth that has long captured my imagination. I have always seen the Morrigan as having a lot in common with, say, the vulture. She’s doing a dark job that needs to be done and she’s got a bad rep for doing it well. I chose to depict her as the Bean-nighe ― the washer woman ― in my story, because I love the idea of her as a harbinger of death, especially as it is such a seemingly innocuous guise.

  ****

  Biography

  Anya Bast is the national bestselling author of numerous works of romantic fiction, mostly all paranormal and mostly all scorching hot. She lives in the country with her husband, daughter, and an odd assortment of rescued animals
. To read more about Anya and to find out more information about her books, please visit http://www.anyabast.com/.

  ****

  Lynne Lumsden Green

  I Guard Your Death

  Maiden

  Hidden, Pwyll watched a young woman as she washed clothes in the stream. Her hair was the color of a newly-forged copper shield, with deep crimson shadows. Every time she bent forward to scrub, her tunic gaped to reveal her perfect, pink-tipped breasts. Her skin was a smooth, lustrous cream, and her wet hair draped across her thighs, making the cloth cling.

  The singular beauty of the washerwoman stirred his blood, tugging at him; he was the compass and she was the North Star. Pwyll made certain the girl was alone before he stepped out from behind the rock. The woman stopped scrubbing when his shadow fell across her and she looked up, but her eyes held no fear. “Who are you?” she asked.

  Pwyll didn’t answer. Instead, he bent and grabbed a double handful of her hair, pulling her to her feet. She didn’t scream or struggle as he dragged her from the stream to a grassy cleft. He nudged her behind the knees with his leg, while pushing on her shoulders, and together they fell to the ground.

  With one hand firmly entangled in her hair, Pwyll reached into her tunic and groped her breasts. Still, she didn’t fight but remained strangely, regally calm. He shoved her onto her back and slid her skirt up to her waist, and their eyes met. For a moment Pwyll hesitated, for through her eyes he could see past eternity and into the infinite. Momentarily dizzy, he dropped his gaze and his desire was renewed.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” she warned him. Pwyll ignored her. Her thighs were as rounded and ripe as he had imagined them and his need roared through him, stronger than before.