Forged in Dreams and Magick hl-1

by Kat Bastion

  I whispered, “Talorcan, are we friends with that tribe?”

  He grunted. Either he didn’t know, had just shared a strong opinion, or didn’t want to talk about it. Talorcan’s closed demeanor confused me. Velloc had openly shared things. We were mated, however, and we also had an unusual understanding and respect born from circumstance.

  “Have you been this way before? Do you know where you’re going?” I asked.

  “Velloc went to raid the Decantae tribe. Velloc’s stories described the place well enough.” He shrugged.

  Well, damn. Thank God for nightly oral history. The men sharing adventures while the tribe hung on every detail—Talorcan in particular—served as the perfect mental map for our journey.

  Talorcan’s keen awareness of potential dangers made him a natural guide. My budding appreciation of his instinctive abilities grew as I realized that his field skills vastly outweighed any perceived immaturity.

  We traveled in a southeasterly direction until he gradually slowed the pace of our horses. Our approach brought us alongside a steep cliff face on our left and a drop off on our right—with little room for error in between. Talorcan concentrated, and I joined him, my senses reaching out to the environment around us. Every sound filtered into my ears. Scents carried messages on the wind. I twisted around, sharp eyes scanning our exposed flank, searching for any movement that might indicate a threat.

  We negotiated the harrowing stretch in about ten minutes and entered dense forest, no longer exposed. Talorcan stayed on high alert, however, causing me to do the same. Tension filled the silence, but I focused on my breaths and maintaining a connection with everything around us.

  We emerged from the tree cover and veered left, keeping our horses a few feet below a rise. Talorcan stopped, dismounted, and climbed up a rocky outcropping. He dropped his body lower and lower as he neared the crest until he belly crawled along the ground.

  I slid from my horse and followed him, mimicking every movement he’d made until we both hugged the ground together as if sprouted from the same root. We overlooked another tribe. Below, a village with teepee structures, horses, and people carried on various daily chores much like our own tribe. Uncertain what information we’d glean, but not seeing any men or horses I recognized, I remained quiet and observed, waiting for a sign from my guide.

  Talorcan glanced over at me, the first acknowledgement of my presence beside him, and laughed quietly, slinking backward, tugging on my hand to do the same. His sudden sense of humor surprised me. The cultural wall of ice between us appeared to be melting, boding well for conversation. As we walked back to the horses grazing on soft grasses, I dipped a toe into the frigid, thawing water, testing the theory.

  “Talorcan, why were we looking over the ridge? What did you see?”

  He regarded me while pressing his hands on his horse, swinging his agile body onto its back. I mounted Malibu, and we rode a good distance, carefully working our way across and around fast-flowing tributaries, distancing ourselves from the subjects of our spying. Finally, he replied.

  “They are the Smertae,” he said.

  “Are the Smertae our friend or enemy?” I asked.

  “They are sometimes friend, sometimes enemy. The others that rode past us this morning were Cornavii. The number of horses and men of Smertae are down by more than half.”

  That meant their men were gone too. “Did they fight in a battle?”

  He shook his head. “Not here. I’ve been tracking the Smertae. They’ve traveled in our same direction. Soon, we’ll meet up with them all.”

  “Including Velloc?” I asked.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes. Velloc will be there.”

  Rather than pepper him with questions on how he knew everyone would be there, or what he expected to find when we arrived, I let the discussion settle. The man of little conversation had offered more information in one exchange than on our whole journey thus far.

  The tribal names rang an academic bell. Ptolemy’s ancient and begrudged map—thanks to the Roman geographer torquing the top half of Scotland onto its ear—had listed them all. Hearing the names gave greater meaning to our northerly location.

  “Talorcan, what is our tribe called?”

  “Caereni,” he said.

  Caereni. Mental gears fell into place right as he spoke the word. The sheep people—herders.

  As silence wrapped around us like a comfortable blanket, my stomach growled. Brilliant Isobel hadn’t thought to pack food. At least we’d found abundant clean water sources, enabling me to save my filled waterskin for emergency use.

  We journeyed across rocky mountainous terrain, around tributaries and streams, and through dense and sparse forests. Gloaming dusted the clouded sky in hues of gray and midnight blue as Talorcan led us up a steep rise. The air chilled as we dismounted to survey the landscape from the top of the ridge.

  When we reached the crest, the magnitude of what we saw ahead robbed me of my next breath. A massive invading army pressed through the southeastern Highlands, its metal scales undulating like a dragon stretching from head to tail before its next meal. Soldiers made camp across the land as far as my eye could see . . . numbering in the tens of thousands.

  The unfolding historical event gave me my first solid time stamp for the period. The Roman army had marched into the Highlands in the later part of the first century, with true military campaigns happening from around AD 80 to 84. The Roman governor Agricola’s battle occurred around AD 83 or 84. What scarred the expanse of ground ahead had to be his army or a close predecessor. Tacitus, the venerated historian for the Romans, had called Picts . . . Caledonians.

  A hand on my wrist yanked me from my awestruck historical reflection back into the reality. Talorcan led us with haste back to the horses. We rode them as hard as the difficult terrain would allow, skirting exposure along the ridge, picking our way down to the shelter of wooded areas between the legions of soldiers and our recent overlook.

  Darkness fully fell by the time we reached a more dense cover of trees. The shroud of thick foliage brought forth an entirely new adventure. Varied animal calls that cried and howled into the night in random intervals became a tribal roll call. I identified ours for the first time when Talorcan replied to a shout-out.

  In the span of a few slow breaths, shadows materialized from the night, surrounding us. I recognized the men from our tribe but remained on horseback, scanning their faces, searching for Velloc.

  Our gazes locked at the same moment. By the time I slid from my horse, I landed within his hard embrace. We stood there for an eternity, tightening our hold and gently releasing, inhaling each other. Velloc gripped me against his chest, our heartbeats falling into sync.

  Talorcan tethered the horses. In hushed tones, he regaled the tribesmen with all we’d seen along our travels. The quiet chatter faded with the men into the night, leaving me alone with Velloc.

  He pulled back, tilted his head, and crashed into my lips with a hard, possessive kiss. Our hungry mouths fought for supremacy. His hands roamed across my back, around my hips, and up my chest, tugging at fabric until his callused fingers touched my skin. I cried out softly when he pinched my nipple, my hand dropping to the heavy bulge in his leather pants. Nimble fingers tore through the laces, releasing his hardened shaft. I caught it in my hand, stroking once from base to tip. He growled low against my neck.

  Velloc backed me into a tree, pinning me. The fur hanging from my shoulders protected my back from the rough bark. He ran his hands down my thighs, squatting slowly as he pulled the deerskin pants to my ankles.

  I couldn’t see anything . . . but felt everything.

  Hot breath fogged the sensitive skin at the juncture between my thighs. A single lick made me gasp. His lips and tongue assaulted the throbbing nerve center, sucking hard. My hand flew over my mouth to muffle a scream I couldn’t harness. He growled, vibrations inciting a riot against the tender flesh, and I moaned as a deep ache filled my depths.

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nbsp; Velloc shot up and pressed into me, stepping inside my bound ankles. Firm hands gripped under my thighs, lifting my hips. I clamped my legs around his waist, and in a fluid movement, he impaled me. I bit down on my lip, drawing coppery-tasting blood as I silenced a scream.

  Deliberate thrusts met curving hips. Every movement pulled him ever deeper inside. The primal coupling fired my arousal toward total meltdown as a devastating ache consumed me. I moaned, hovering over the brink, each slight movement taunting a climax just out of reach.

  Velloc’s hands gripped my ass, pulling me hard into his forceful plunge. I hissed at the intensity. Ache turned nearly unbearable until a single spasm lit me up—causing my loud gasp—then detonated, exploding through every nerve ending. My body jerked forward, and I threw my face into the fur on his shoulder, burying my scream.

  He staked his claim, driving harder, while erotic pulses spiraled through me, firing hotter. My every exhalation came with a low moan in utter pleasure. I gripped his shoulders as he hardened and swelled further. He gasped, his body going rigid. On a low growl he gave a final thrust, his release overtaking him. He slowly dropped his face into the crook of my neck.

  Time stopped. Breaths panted. Pulses raced.

  We simply clung to each other, actions speaking in wordless beauty our desire: we never wanted to let go.

  Reunited in body and spirit, my heart ached as it rejoiced. I pressed my lips to his ear. Not another minute would be wasted on my twisted journey. With no guarantee of a tomorrow, whispered words tumbled from my lips sent from the depths of my soul.

  “I love you, Velloc.”

  My words were spoken in English, but he knew. Heavy emotion misted around us through our hearts, binding our souls. The small phrase culminated our experience with meaning so vast, it stretched to the ends of the glittering night sky.

  Commotion behind Velloc prompted him to drop me. His hands shot up as an afterthought, grabbing my shoulders so I didn’t land on my ass. Animal calls from the tribes fired out, one after another. Velloc tugged my arm once then released it, running off. I quickly fastened my pants and bolted after him, a waning gibbous moon casting plenty of silvery light to guide my way.

  Every movement Velloc made, I copied. We traveled in the shadows of trees, darting from trunk to trunk. A gathering of hundreds of men from dozens of tribes rippled under the cover of night. I hugged into Velloc’s side, slipping my hand in his. He grasped it firmly, squeezing.

  Most of the men had stripped their bodies, baring inked symbols on their skin in armored protection by their gods. Many, like Velloc, had brass or golden torques around their necks.

  Velloc dropped his skins and fur at the base of the tree behind me. He lifted his hands to my face, cupping my cheeks gently. “Stay here, Isobel. Find a place to hide. Our return will be quick.” Velloc said the words in hushed tones, sealing his promise with a passionate kiss.

  I nodded, agreeing. Before my next blink, he vanished, and everyone disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER Twenty-four

  The field around me, littered with molted skins off the backs of all the tribesmen, hadn’t been completely abandoned. Talorcan, my former guide, and two men from other tribes remained. They all stalked after their counterparts to watch. In the darkest part of the night, the Romans were about to get a very unwelcomed awakening.

  I grinned. The archaeological historian in me didn’t want to sit out on all the fun either. The protective company seemed like a heaven-sent favor as we followed to observe history.

  We snuck up the rise of a hill and all became clear. Down the opposing slope, our tribesmen crept closer to their prey by hiding behind trees and scrub. My elevation afforded a panoramic, moonlit view.

  An entire Roman legion camped in small groups along the other side of a North Sea inlet. Flickering lights illuminated their supply ship anchored offshore. The second sighting of Roman soldiers blew my now-habitually blown mind. Their bold exposure in the wide open stated the confidence they had. I smiled. Only fools boast before an unknown enemy, and they had no idea their adversary followed no rules of warfare.

  We had a commanding vantage point of the unfolding scene. My fingers gripped the alligatored bark of a pine tree as I peered around its wide trunk. Three Roman soldiers scouted the fringes of their encampment, one squinting toward our location. My fingers instinctively flew to the blade strapped to my thigh. The hard wooden handle grazed the palm of my hand, soothing my anxiety.

  A hawk’s cry marked the start of the raid. Subtle movements occurred at the corner points and sides of the nearest encampment as our tribesmen seized upon unguarded fronts.

  Like water spilling over a cliff, a silent river of men descended, incapacitated, and pirated. One soldier had his throat slit. Another was stabbed from behind. A spear flew through the air, piercing an unarmored chest. Every tent was entered and exited without incident. A single Roman let loose a shout seconds before being silenced with two daggers to his lungs. Several soldiers turned heel and ran, only to be chased down by their Pict attackers. The entire scuffle ended before it began.

  Neighboring fires marked the location of the rest of the Roman legion. I searched for a sign of retaliation, but I saw no reaction. No alarm had been sounded. The space between camps must have appeared smaller than actual size. The Roman’s loss of men and weapons wouldn’t be discovered until later, morning perhaps.

  The action slowed as Picts scoured the soldiers’ bodies and belongings for loot. A few Picts led dozens of plundered horses into our forested protection.

  Images whirled in my head. My memory banks imprinted a beautiful firsthand account of an undocumented event. Too distant to see or smell any of the bloodshed, the violence left me unfazed. Were it not for the cold breeze feathering across my arms and the scent of smoke from the fires, I would’ve thought I’d watched a well-choreographed movie scene.

  All of a sudden, a dark shadow crossed my vision. I gasped as hard arms clamped around me from behind, pinning my hands to my thighs. The man in front stepped closer, and the stench from their unwashed bodies made me gag. A large, blond-bearded man lifted my ponytail and sniffed it, holding it between filthy fingers.

  “Ahhh, look vhat vhe found: a fehr, golden-haired beauty dressed like zhe zavages. Are you zheir prisoner?” He spoke English in a thick, Germanic accent.

  No, master-of-the-obvious. I’m yours. The man held his mouth inches away, suffocating me with his putrid breath. He crushed his offensive mouth on mine in a disgusting, bruising kiss. I bit down hard on his lip.

  “Bitch! You’re vild like all zhe heazhen Caledonians. Let’s zee just how vild you ahr.” He tore at the cloth covering my breasts.

  I spit on his face, struggling in the vice-grip hold of his friend. My jailor shifted his hands up my arms, thinking it gained him more control over his prisoner. With my hands unbound, I gripped the handle of the short sword strapped to my thigh. I unsheathed and plunged the blade into the thigh of the man behind me. He screamed, releasing his hold.

  I pulled the weapon out, reached up, and slashed forward. My forceful side arc met flesh, ripping through the midsection of the soldier below the lone armor over his chest.

  A foot swept my ankle from behind, and I toppled sideways to the ground. My attacker jumped on me, his hand clamping onto my wrist, his body pinning me down. His weight shifted over my chest, pressing the air from my lungs, making me work for every cubic inch of oxygen.

  With crushing force, his hand squeezed my wrist until blinding pain forced me to drop the sword. Colored dots spotted my vision while he wedged my legs apart, his hips snaking his body between them. A hard erection pressed into my groin. The brute drew his weight off, brought a hand down, and yanked my pants down to mid thigh.

  As he fumbled with the front of his clothing, my freed lungs gasped for air, firing more oxygen to my brain to think. No amount of wriggling bought me enough leeway to reach the discarded blade or the ax strapped to my ankle. With my legs pinned and h
is weighted leverage, I couldn’t even bring a knee to his groin. I bucked and squirmed, trying to gain breathing space any way I could, until a pressure at my entrance stopped me, fearing any more movement would only further his cause, not mine.

  I sucked in a lungful of air and ripped out a piercing scream. My attacker went rigid. He gasped and fell forward. A wooden spear protruded from his back at a low, sideways angle. Dead weight collapsed onto my chest, knocking the wind out of me. Again.

  The body was dragged off, and strong arms lifted me from the ground. I stared into Velloc’s wide, wild eyes. He banded his arms around me, hugging me so hard I found it difficult to breathe for the third time. Though, nothing in the world, not even the need for oxygen, would’ve had me push his loving protection away.

  Velloc released me. His quick, thorough hands skimmed my body, moving clothing aside, confirming I hadn’t been harmed. He pulled my pants up and fastened them. Suddenly exhausted, I rested my forehead on his broad chest, encased in his protective hold, just breathing.

  His finger lifted my chin, forcing me to look up into eyes shadowed by deeply furrowed brows. “Isobel, did he . . . did they . . .”

  My heavy blinks moistened eyes dry from a shock-filled stupor. I shook my head.

  On a slow exhalation, I pressed trembling hands into Velloc’s lower back, clinging to him. Disturbing, gruesome images tortured my mind like a broken record, the scene replaying against my will. I’d killed a man—disemboweled him. Another died on me. The repulsive, metallic scent of blood mixed with other putrid odors assaulted my nostrils.

  I spun around, gripping Velloc’s forearm, pulling us away from the stench of death. With deep breaths, I sucked in every cool, fresh lungful of air possible. He ran a hand up my arm, spreading his comforting touch across my shoulders. His quiet strength held me together like the binding of a book.

  Without warning, I doubled over, dry heaving over a patch of barren ground at the base of a tree. My empty stomach clenched in protest. Velloc’s hands rubbed up and down the length of my back, his voice murmuring soothing, unintelligible words. After a few minutes, I stood again, leaning into his side, feeling a yellowed shade of green.