“Here,” Caratacus grunted, tossing the spear to Malcolm, who caught it easily with one hand. The warrior picked up a second javelin and grinned. “Which of the dogs do you want?”
Malcolm gestured to the rider on his right, who’d just run a Cimbri warrior through and was struggling to pull his spear out of the man’s sagging body. “That one.”
“Fair enough,” Caratacus grunted. He drew his arm back, focusing on the second eques, then let fly. The javelin hissed through the air over the heads of the battling factions before striking the rider squarely in the chest. Caratacus grinned proudly as the man slid sideways and fell from his saddle. “Try to beat that, old friend.”
Malcolm grimaced, then hefted the javelin, allowing Artturi to take control as he focused on the eques that was still trying to pry his spear free from the corpse. Malcolm paused for a heartbeat, then threw with all his strength, watching as the javelin spun unerringly toward his target. The Roman stopped tugging for a moment and looked up, perhaps sensing his danger, but it was far too late as the iron tip took him in the throat. Malcolm glanced at Caratacus and grinned as the eques flopped from his saddle. He’d been aiming for the man’s chest all along, but Caratacus didn’t know that.
“Not bad,” Caratacus conceded. “Not bad at all.”
Malcolm lost track of time after that as he and Caratacus forged their way back to the front lines. He let his mind go blank, allowing Artturi to do what he did best. Occasionally, Malcolm would notice the face or eyes of the man opposite him before the Cimbri warrior cut him down, though, after a while, they all started to look the same to him. At some point, dark, menacing clouds had rolled in while men fought and died beneath them, and the killing grounds were now swathed in an eerie semi-darkness as the wind began to pick up.
Carbo’s last two legions had finally reached the battle, led by their centurions and the signifers carrying the legions’ standards. The infantry looked unscathed and confident, Malcolm thought, feeling sudden doubt as he watched their practiced movements. The fresh troops were quickly making their way toward the battling lines while the remnants of the first two legions began a cautious, disciplined retreat to allow them past. Well-rested hastati were taking the places of the legionnaires Malcolm and his men had been fighting all along the line, and it wasn’t long before the weary warriors in the first ranks realized that they were in trouble. The fresh troops were energized and focused, cutting exhausted warriors down in droves with calm precision, just as Malcolm had warned Caratacus that they would. He could see the enthusiasm for the fight was quickly waning in the fatigued migrants, with several of them suddenly turning and running back toward the caravan.
“Cowards!” Caratacus screamed in fury as he watched them leave. He raised his bloody axe and pointed the dripping head toward the retreating men. “When I’m done with these Roman dogs, you bastards, I’ll find you. The gods help you when I do.” Caratacus turned back to the battle then, still muttering to himself as he started to hammer away at a Roman shield in front of him. An hour ago, several blows from Caratacus’ axe would have shredded that shield into pieces, but now, his tired muscles were doing very little damage despite his obvious anger. The Cimbri had to suddenly dodge out of the way or chance getting disemboweled by his opponent’s sword. He slipped on the gore-soaked grass, almost falling before righting himself, then glowered at the Roman opposite him, who laughed, urging the big warrior on to his death.
Careful what you wish for, Malcolm thought as he glanced to the north. What the hell were Boiorix and Teutobod waiting for? Blow the goddamn carnyx! He could feel his arms shaking with fatigue, for even Artturi was human it seemed, and could sense the warriors around him slowing down even more, their cries not as exuberant now as they tried to conserve energy.
Artturi lifted his shield, his arm feeling leaden as he deflected the point of a gladius, then rammed the rigid edge of the shield into his opponent’s face. The Roman fell back, his nose spurting blood, leaving open his guard. Artturi kicked the man in the stomach and he fell to his knees, gasping for air with his head lowered as the Cimbri warrior raised his sword and stabbed downward, cutting through the base of the man’s neck. Malcolm stepped back, fighting for air himself just as a haunting sound echoed across the valley. It was the carnyx, signaling the warriors in the trees forward. Malcolm closed his weary eyes in thanks.
The trap had finally been sprung.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CLAIRE: Migrant Caravan
Claire was furious with her husband. She couldn’t believe that he’d done it to her again, fluffing her off to fight some silly battle just like he’d done in 1718. It was infuriating beyond belief, and she couldn’t for the life of her understand what was wrong with him. Where were the man’s priorities? Changing the future to save Julie should be all he cared about, not acting like Conan the Barbarian. Gerald was a pacifist, for God’s sake, and nothing about this made any sense to her. They should have ridden away from this place and gone somewhere safe where they could finally talk and plan. But no, Gerald had chosen instead to leave her alone again and fight in a battle that meant nothing.
Claire frowned, wondering if Artturi was somehow influencing her husband in all of this. But even as the thought crossed her mind, she discarded the idea as unlikely. Gerald’s experience in his past lives would be no different than hers, which meant he could control his host just like she could, not the other way around. No, there had to be some other explanation for what he was doing. One that she was missing somehow. Claire watched her husband ride away with bitter eyes, wishing that she could shout out loud just once to the skies to vent her anger. After spending so many years suffering and trying to find Gerald, the thanks she got when they finally met was to be set aside like an afterthought—for a second time. It was beyond maddening!
She turned away with a snort as Gerald disappeared from sight, lost within a press of screaming, frenzied warriors, wondering what she should do next. A part of her mind was whispering to her that her husband had risked his life to save her and that she should be grateful. But she was too angry to listen to that voice at the moment. Claire hadn’t failed to notice the look of pure joy on Gerald’s face while he was fighting Sextus Acte, and she knew it had nothing to do with her being there. The man liked to fight now, pure and simple. It was a startling revelation after everything she thought she knew about Gerald Blackwood. Could living in the past have changed him that much so soon—turning him from a preaching pacifist into a blood-thirsty killer in only a few short years? It seemed hard to believe.
Claire heard a sudden gasp and she glanced toward the carts, remembering who it was that stood there. Alodia was staring at her with an odd expression on her face, looking both confused and hopeful at the same time.
“Frida?” the woman finally said in a hesitant voice. She took several steps toward Claire, her hand reaching out uncertainly. “By the gods, child, is that really you?”
Claire felt a sudden stirring of emotion rise in her chest and she swallowed, overwhelmed by the sensation of love and need erupting from somewhere deep inside of her. Frida had been a newborn when Claire had taken over her body, and the baby’s mind hadn’t had a chance to develop like the other past lives she had lived. Claire hadn’t even been certain the Teutone child still existed anymore somewhere inside her until now, as it had been years since she’d felt even the most basic of emotions coming from her.
Alodia hurried forward, putting her hands on Claire’s shoulders as she peered down into her face. “Frida?” she said again, her face twisted in puzzlement.
Claire could see equal parts hope and disbelief fighting for dominance in the woman’s eyes. She knew Frida had changed enough in the last five years that all it would take was a simple shake of her head to quell that hope. But something stopped her. Her host had asked for nothing all this time, despite having her body and mind taken from her against her will almost from the moment she’d been born. But for the first time since Claire had arr
ived in this timeline, she felt the child’s desperate, crushing need to be held and comforted by the woman who had given birth to her. It was a call that only the most callous of people could ignore, and Claire could not—would not take that away from the child after everything she’d put her through.
Claire spread her arms, allowing Frida’s tears to roll down her face as she hugged Alodia tightly.
“Oh, my dear child,” Alodia said, her voice quivering as she wrapped her arms around the girl protectively. “I can’t believe it.” Alodia pressed her face against the top of Claire’s head, her own tears falling now as the two clutched at each other. “I thought you long dead and gone to Asgard,” Alodia said through her tears. “But the gods have returned you to me. It truly is a miracle.”
Claire felt a warmness spreading throughout her entire body, a feeling of deep contentment as they held each other for long minutes.
Alodia finally broke the embrace, cupping her hands around Claire’s face as she studied her with tear-filled eyes. “Where have you been all this time, child?” she whispered. Claire could only look back helplessly, unable to explain, until finally, Alodia drew her to her bosom again. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is we are together again.”
Mother and child held each other a second time, neither one wanting to let go, until suddenly their reunion was interrupted by high-pitched screams coming from the children watching beneath the cart nearby. Claire could see the dark form of a man wriggling across the ground in the shadows like a snake as he scurried past the terrified children. The man ignored the children and dragged himself out into the daylight ten feet away from where Claire and Alodia stood. He forced himself to his feet, hissing in pain, his ravaged face twisted with hatred as he focused a single eye on Claire. It was Sextus Acte.
“I knew I’d find you here somewhere, you little bitch,” Sextus said in a hoarse voice, taking a step forward. The big man seemed unsteady on his feet, the gaping wound on his face still seeping dark blood. The slavecatcher’s right eye was gone, now nothing but a dark maw of torn flesh and mucus, and his ear hung from the side of his head, dangling grotesquely by a thin flap of skin.
Alodia pulled her knife as she pushed Claire behind her. “Stay back,” she warned, crouching as she watched Sextus warily.
Heads poked out from beneath the carts all along the road at the commotion, curious to see what was happening. An old man with a long white beard crawled out twenty feet away from Alodia and Claire on his hands and knees, then struggled to stand using a spear. Claire realized in surprise that she knew him. His name was Odo, and he’d been a sheepherder back in Jutland. Claire remembered he had always been kind to her when she was a toddler trying to walk with her mother alongside the caravan. She was amazed that he was still alive at all, considering his age.
Odo shuffled forward with the spear lowered threateningly as he focused on Sextus. “Go away, whoever you are,” the old man grunted in a gruff voice, motioning west with the spear. “Go crawl back under whatever rock you came out from.”
Sextus didn’t move, his destroyed face burning with rage. “You’ll have to make me, old man,” he finally said.
“I hoped you’d say that, you ugly bastard,” Odo replied. Despite his fierce words, the sheepherder came on unsteadily, blinking watery eyes as he moved across the ground. Claire wasn’t even sure he’d be able to cross the short distance without falling down. The old man paused five feet from the slavecatcher, the tip of his spear only inches from the other man’s chest. He glared up at Sextus, resting the gleaming point against his tunic, just above his heart. “Now, let’s try this again, youngster,” Odo said, his weathered face twisted in fierce determination. “You leave right now, or the ravens will be feasting on that asshole you call a face before sundown.”
Sextus glanced at the spear pressing against his tunic and he slowly raised his hands away from his sides. “Very well,” he said. “There’s no need for anyone to get hurt.” He glanced at Claire and smiled, revealing crooked teeth stained red with blood. “This is just a big misunderstanding anyway.”
Claire felt her insides go cold. She’d seen that smile before, and she knew nothing good ever came of it. She started to grunt and wave her arms at the old man in warning, but it was much too late. The slavecatcher turned away with a shrug and Odo relaxed slightly. It wasn’t much, but the spear lowered just a fraction, which was more than enough for a man like Sextus Acte. The slavecatcher whirled, grabbing the spear just below the head as he easily ripped it free from the old man’s hands. Odo gasped in surprise, his mouth hanging open as Sextus twirled the weapon in his hands expertly, then in one smooth motion rammed the tip upward into the soft flesh beneath Odo’s chin. The old sheepherder’s eyes widened and he gurgled, his arms spread wide as Sextus laughed, holding the old man elevated on his toes as he thrust the spear even deeper.
“Stop it!” Alodia screamed as she pounced forward.
The blonde woman’s knife hissed through the air, aimed for Sextus’ kidneys. But the big man blocked the attack effortlessly, then wrapped his hand around her wrist. He grinned mockingly at Alodia as she fought to free herself, then laughed as he squeezed and she screamed in pain. Alodia finally dropped the knife as Sextus continued to squeeze, then he wrenched her arm behind her back, pinning her to his body. He ignored her cries of agony as he yanked the spear from Odo’s flesh with his other hand, releasing the tiny corpse to fall to the ground. The big man didn’t even glance at the dead sheepherder as he shoved Alodia away, then slammed the butt end of the spear into her stomach when she turned to face him. Claire felt hatred explode inside her as Alodia cried out, falling to the ground on her side, clutching at her midsection.
Claire ran toward Sextus, her hands extended in front of her like claws, intent on ripping the rest of the bastard’s face off as Alodia forced herself weakly to her hands and knees. Frida’s mother was gasping for air and retching as Sextus moved to stand over her, the spear poised to strike. That’s when Claire leaped onto his back. She dug the fingers of her right hand into the hideous rip in his face, gratified to hear his shriek of pain while pressing the fingers of her left hand as hard as she could against his remaining eye. She could feel the eyeball resisting her and she pushed harder, wishing her nails were longer as Sextus twirled around and around, howling as he tried to pry her off his back. But Claire was like a spitting wildcat and her grip was made of iron—forged by desperation—and he couldn’t dislodge her.
A crowd of older tribesmen, younger women, and even children were coming out from under the carts now, many of them armed with clubs and spears as they shouted in anger. Claire knew she only had to hold on for a moment longer, then the others would reach them and it would be over. Sextus saw his danger and desperate to be free of the girl, he propelled himself backward, smashing Claire against the nearest cart. She felt the air explode from her lungs at the impact and fought to stay on the man’s back even as he slammed his body backward a second time. Claire felt her arms go weak and she slipped downward, grasping wildly at the slavecatcher’s long hair and missing, only to latch onto the dangling ear instead. The thin flap of skin stretched impossibly long, then finally snapped as Sextus howled while Claire tumbled to the ground, banging her head against one of the wooden wheels.
Claire felt suddenly light-headed, her vision going in and out as Sextus Acte began flailing about him with the spear he held as Cimbri and Teutone men and women surged toward him. But despite their anger, the tribesmen were old and well past their prime, and the women young and inexperienced compared to a man like Sextus Acte. The slavecatcher seemed to move in a blur, stabbing with the iron tip of the spear at his adversaries or using the butt end to crack open heads, break noses, and shatter jaws. Within minutes, twisted bodies were piled up all around Sextus, with the big man cursing and screaming the entire time, showing no signs of tiring. The Cimbri and Teutones quickly began to lose their enthusiasm for the fight, reluctant now to throw away their lives against th
e huge madman with the ravaged face.
“Come on!” Sextus screamed in contempt as his assailants warily retreated. The slavecatcher glanced toward Alodia, who had found her knife again and was getting unsteadily to her feet, her face white and set in determination. Sextus snorted as she rose and he took several steps forward, then stabbed with his spear. Claire could do nothing but stare in horror as the iron head ripped into Alodia’s stomach. The blonde woman grunted in surprise, then dropped her knife as she sagged and fell in a heap with a pool of dark blood quickly spreading beneath her still body.
No! No! No! Claire screamed in her head as she tried to force herself to her feet. But her arms wouldn’t do what she wanted and the earth was twisting crazily all around her. Finally, Claire managed to drag herself upright, swaying as she used the cart beside her to steady herself.
Sextus Acte suddenly appeared, towering over her, his destroyed face twisted with hatred as he looked down at her. “No, you don’t, you little bitch,” he growled as he drew his clenched hand back. “You’re not going anywhere. I’ve got plans for you.”
Then the big man’s fist struck Claire’s chin and she knew nothing more.
Claire awoke to a sharp ache in her jaw. She shook her head, regretting it instantly as pain exploded along her temples. She blinked in confusion, trying to focus, but everything around her seemed dark, muted, and fuzzy. Was it nighttime already? Her body felt limp and weak, and she realized that her cheeks and nose were rubbing against something damp that reeked of sweat and blood. She shook her head again without thinking, gasping as pain shot upward from her jawline to her temples for a second time.
“Stay still, bitch,” a gruff voice commanded.
Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1) Page 19