Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  Battleaxes and broadswords smashed off the locks and chopped through the welds of the iron manacles, freeing the prisoners.

  Greum stretched his arms, pulling the chain between them taut. He turned his head and cringed. “Mind yer aim.”

  “Would ye not rather have a bludgeoned arm than hang in the Roman gallows?” Drust chuckled and swung back his axe. With one swift strike, Greum was free.

  Taran peered through the window at the growing flames. “What’s happening up there? It sounds like the whole fort’s under siege.”

  “’Tis not just Vindolanda, ʼtis all of Hadrian’s Wall. We’re taking back our lands. Father’s made a temporary truce with the Attacotti and the Gaels. The Saxons have sailed to Gaul to reclaim their lands as well. The entire Empire is under attack.”

  “The Attacotti? Oisean made a truce with those cannibalistic bastards?”

  Drust kicked Greum’s leg shackles aside. “Only to drive the Romans out, and as long as they keep their thieving hands off our own. If they cross the line, we’ll hunt them down and show no mercy.”

  Taran grasped his shoulder. “I must know. How is me uncle?”

  “He’s well enough to worry about you—he loves ye more than me, ye bastard. I swear if ye died, he’d pine forever.” Drust inclined his head toward the stairs. “Hurry.”

  Though there was no time for questions, Taran didn’t miss the grim line of his cousin’s frown. Oisean was dying. Before his uncle passed, he must return to Dunpelder, the Pict stronghold in the region of Gododdin, land of Taran’s birthright.

  Taking charge, he raced ahead. “Ye’re all free men,” his bellow echoed across the dungeon. “Ye can follow us to Gododdin, or be on yer way.”

  Greum crept in behind him. “Let’s go.”

  Barreling up the gaol stairs, Taran snatched the short sword of a fallen Roman.

  “This way,” Drust roared.

  Taran’s gaze swept across the burning compound and stopped at the commandant’s home. Flames of a bonfire illuminated the courtyard. Unshaven Attacotti heathens forced Argus Fullofaudes to his knees in front of the stone portico. From the uncontrolled listing of his body, the Roman general had survived a brutal beating. His hands were bound behind his back, and his chest heaved while the savages shouted and danced around him.

  Taran’s insides froze. Valeria!

  In the mayhem, a battle-axe swung with rapid precision, severing the head of the Dux Britanniarum. With a spray of blood, the lifeless body of the most powerful Roman in Britannia flopped forward.

  A marauding Attacotti snatched the general’s head by the hair. Holding it high, he roared an animalistic battle cry as he puffed out his chest and strutted in a circle. The savages around him danced and shoved their bloodied swords and axes in the air. Cheering their victory, each one took their turn to mutilate the fallen corpse.

  Taran charged toward the mass of frenzied men, only to be stopped by Greum, who clamped both hands around his arm. “Ye want yer throat cut?”

  Taran backed slowly and scanned the riotous anarchy. Where was Valeria? She’d tried to save him. She’d given him a knife. Was she already dead? He clenched his teeth, his gut churning. He owed the lass a debt of honor. Had the Roman soldiers spirited her away? Greum was right. Fighting through a mob of crazed Attacotti was no way to find out. He’d end up with his head on a spike like Fullofaudes and could be of no use to her.

  Clutching the Roman sword he’d taken at the gaol, Taran raced beside Drust through the shadows of the barracks. Quickly, they slipped out the north gates toward a group of tethered horses.

  Taran jumped when a wolf moved in the shadows. That was no wolf. A twinge of recognition tickled his nape. “Stag?”

  The grey, rough-coated deerhound stepped closer. “Stag!” The massive deerhound bounded up to him and his large paws crashed into his chest, nearly knocking him flat. Raising his chin to avoid the slurp of Stag’s tongue, Taran ran his hand over the dog’s head. “Och, ʼtis good to see you.”

  “We’ve no time for sappy reunions. Mount yer horse and let’s ride,” Drust snapped.

  Taran released his beloved dog and grasped the reins of a black steed. He leapt astride, but the mount reared before he could settle. Clamping his knees, he yanked hard on the left rein, pulling the beast in a tight circle. “Did ye expect me to break him on the run? What sort of mule did ye stick me with?”

  Drust’s rolling laughter faded into the night while he and five other Picts sped north. Taran grumbled under his breath. The horse bucked twice before finally straightening out. They galloped toward the others, Stag on his flank. The horse’s gait smoothed. With the wind in his face, for the first time in years, Taran enjoyed the immense power beneath his legs. He’d broken enough horses to know he rode a stallion with heart, one that could carry him into battle without fear.

  It didn’t take long to catch up to Drust. “I see ye haven’t forgotten how to ride.”

  “Blackie’s a powerful beast.”

  “Blackie is it now? He’s not let a man stay on his back for more than a five-count. He must like ye.”

  Miserable heartless cousin. Comes to break me out of the Roman gaol, and then tries to kill me.

  Before they continued north, Taran turned back. The flames from tar-soaked arrows leapt above Houseteads’ stone ramparts. His eyes panned the line of the wall. “Ye weren’t jesting. The whole border’s ablaze.”

  “After three hundred years of tyranny, it was time we united and took a stand.”

  In the distance, a mob of Attacotti galloped northward on their heavy-boned horses, their silhouettes illuminated by the fire. Taran leaned forward in his saddle. His gut clenched with recognition. Valeria rode in front of a vile Attacotti, her head bobbing, her body limp.

  “Valeria,” he whispered. With a sharp jab of his heels, he spurred Blackie toward them.

  Drust raced beside him, trying to match the stallion’s pace. “What the…?”

  “The Attacotti have Valeria,” Taran shouted over his shoulder. Urging his horse faster, he leaned forward and drew his sword. Drust managed to keep pace. His hand reached out and jerked Taran’s rein. Blackie’s head whipped to the side, his hindquarters bucked out of sync with the front. Taran tumbled through the air and landed on his arse in a muddy bog.

  There was no time for a fight with kin. He jumped up and grabbed Blackie’s reins. “What did ye do that for?”

  “Ye want to die this night? ʼCause that’s not what I sprung ye for, now let’s go.”

  Greum trotted up beside them. “The Attacotti have taken Valeria.”

  Taran nodded at his friend, then glared at his cousin. “We’ve no choice. We have to go after her. Ye’re either with me or no.”

  “What is she to you? She’s Roman, yes?”

  “She doesn’t deserve a fate with the Attacotti. They’ll sell her to the highest bidder or worse.”

  “She helped us at the gaol. Taran’s enraptured with her,” Greum said.

  “Shut it.” He couldn’t allow himself the luxury of heartfelt feelings for the woman. But he knew one thing. The Pictish vow of honor and duty prevented him from ignoring her plight and heading for the safety of Dunpelder’s stronghold. He could not live with himself while the only person who’d shown him a sliver of kindness was spirited away by a pack of marauding cannibals. It didn’t matter if the king had formed an alliance with the Attacotti to overthrow the Romans. This was different.

  Taran faced down the stern countenance of his younger cousin. “If ye’ll not help me, I’ll do it alone.”

  Greum led his gelding forward. “I cannot live with meself knowing we’ve let her fall into the hands of those bastards.”

  Drust shook his head. “All for the likes of a woman.” He turned to the men. “Engus, ride ahead to Dunpelder and tell the king we’ve been waylaid. Fionn, Seumas, we’ve no choice but to keep our reckless prince alive.”

  During the time it took for Taran to convince the others to follow him,
the band of Attacotti had disappeared behind Hadrian’s Wall. No doubt they headed to the northern Highlands where the vermin had an impenetrable stronghold. He must reach them before they set foot on their lands, else Valeria would be lost forever.

  ****

  Valeria’s head throbbed. The pain was made worse by bouncing in the saddle, squished in front of a vile man. Not only did he smell of a swine’s bog, the sour odor of his hot breath on her neck was enough to cause her to retch. Each time she involuntarily heaved, she swallowed hard, willing herself to remain strong. Her escort’s reeking body pressed against hers. When she tried to pull away, his hand would whip around her waist and jerk her against him, grumbling something imperceptible in an undeniably unpleasant tone.

  They spoke in a guttural, foreign tongue. Valeria could only read their expressions, and she did not like what she saw. Their eyes leered at her as if she were a horse upon an auction block. She glanced to her side. Pia’s voluminous frame was hunched over, plastered to a shirtless savage man. They cantered through the black of night, beyond the forbidden wall, beyond the Roman Empire, to a land Quintus had warned was hostile and primitive.

  Gaining her senses, Valeria inhaled. Her gaze darted to the others, seeking to glimpse her father on one of the horses. He wasn’t with them. Aside from Pia, all others were barbarians, angrily driving their horses.

  She straightened with a jerk. “What have you done with my father?”

  The arm squeezed her abdomen and forced the breath to whoosh from her lungs. God save us.

  They rode endlessly until her captor held up his hand. Valeria’s head still ached when the golden glow of the sunrise kissed the horizon. The band stopped and her captor barked orders. They dismounted at his command. He must be their leader.

  He jumped off his horse and yanked Valeria down with unnecessary force, making her ankle twist. She fell with a gasp and reached to rub the pain away. He grabbed her arm and dragged her toward a dense thicket. Pain wrenched up her leg as she limped behind him, his fingers digging into her arm. She tried to pull away, but he rounded on her with slap to the side of her head.

  She jerked away. “Do not strike me. I shall follow, but you must slow down, my feet are bare.”

  No inkling of comprehension crossed his face. She thrust her finger downward and pointed to her toes. He grunted and strengthened his grip around her arm, pulling her into a clearing shaded by a canopy of willow trees. The moss on the ground provided some cushion against the forest floor. He shoved her down and held up his palms in a command to stay. Pia was thrust beside Valeria.

  The two women clung to each other.

  Valeria wasn’t sure who trembled more. Perspiration soaked the veil covering Pia’s head. The warmth of another comforting soul emboldened her. Valeria’s gaze darted in every direction. Could they escape?

  The sun had risen enough to make out their captors’ bedraggled forms. They were the most unkempt men she’d ever seen, with hair matted like bird’s nests. They wore their dark beards long with unshaven necks.

  “We have been cast into the lair of the barbarians,” Valeria whispered, eyeing the sword swinging from the leader’s belt.

  “Cast into the fires of hell.” Pia’s teeth rattled as she hissed the words.

  A younger man with a scraggly beard like it was just coming in, crouched in front of them, his eyes mocking. He grinned and reached out. Valeria scooted back but his fingers still brushed her breast. The leader leapt across the clearing and knocked the young man on his backside. He pointed to Valeria and rubbed his fingers together. He seemed to growl his words, but she could not mistake his gesture. He meant to receive payment for her.

  Valeria gasped. Would he ransom them to her father? She prayed it would be so, and soon. She would marry Quintus on the morrow if she could spirit away from these abhorrent creatures who could not possibly be made in God’s own image.

  The boy clamped onto Pia’s wrist and wrenched her from Valeria’s arms. “No! What are you doing with her?”

  Pia shrieked and used her weight against him, but a savage fist to the jaw silenced her. Valeria leapt up and dug her fingernails into the boy’s shoulder. Dashing across the clearing, the leader wrapped his arms around her waist and threw her back down. Valeria shook, and her heart slammed against her chest as she watched the younger man drag Pia away. The leader stood over her, glaring, running his fingers across the hilt of his sword.

  “Where is he taking her?” she hissed through clenched teeth.

  The man’s expression twisted in question while his intelligent eyes raked along her body. He pointed to his sternum. “Enom Runan.” His face grizzled with a matted black beard, and by the lines etched around his eyes, she guessed him much older than Taran. He was vile in comparison as well.

  He pointed to her, but she said nothing, her blood roiling under her skin. With a jolt, she lurched forward. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword.

  He latched onto her wrist and twisted it back. Valeria cringed and strengthened her grip. Her flesh stung, every sinew strained, burned in a battle of strength. If she didn’t release, her wrist would snap. Emitting a frustrated screech, she unclasped the blade.

  Narrowing his hateful eyes, he twisted her arm harder, baring his teeth. Valeria couldn’t help but turn with his force, else her arm would be ruined. He finally released her with a shove and slammed his finger into her chest. Panting, she cradled her throbbing wrist. He bent down and bashed her shoulder with a garbled roar.

  “Valeria,” she said, hating him, rubbing her wrist, watching his sword swing in its scabbard.

  “Val-er-i-a.” He folded his arms as if he’d just solved the mystery of the missing link.

  Bravo, Socrates. Now take me back to Vindolanda and ransom me to my father. He will gladly pay you in silver so you and your apes can return to the hole from whence you came.

  He left her alone with no place to run. Her mind raced. How far had they gone in the night? Would they sleep? Could she slip away then?

  A shriek came from the woods. “Pia!” Valeria jumped up and marched toward Runan. “I demand you return her to me at once.”

  Runan smirked and pinched her shoulder. The pain forced her to the ground. He clasped his palms together beside his head and motioned for her to sleep.

  Valeria’s gaze shifted to the brush. Was Pia all right? She held her breath but heard nothing more from her slave. Only the sounds of birds and rustling leaves overhead filled the air. She was trapped.

  Runan glared and gestured for her to sleep again. Valeria reached to pull her cloak across her body, but Runan shoved her shoulder, grunting in his obscure tongue.

  “I shall lie down,” she snapped. “Just wait a moment while I arrange my cloak.”

  Watching her prepare, he appeared to understand. Valeria’s head still pounded, and resting, even on the forest floor, provided comfort, though it was little repose from the anxiety she felt at Pia’s absence. Curled under her cloak, she assessed the weapons. Each man had a sword in his belt and a knife tied to his calf. A battleax lay across the clearing. Runan watched her. There was no way to reach it. Not now. Oh God, please save us.

  If she were a man as large as Taran, she would fight them all and flee with Pia. How could she stand up against them now, seven men to one small woman? She didn’t even have slippers, let alone a weapon. Surely her father would send a battalion. Would they be too late? Certainly he’d send for Quintus. The legate would be eager to mount a rescue. If she could tolerate their barbaric behavior long enough for Quintus to arrive, she’d make it back to her father. Please, Quintus, come soon.

  With quick breaths, she kept her eyes wide. She watched her captors. For an instant, her mind flashed back to Taran. Her brief encounters with the Pict had shown him to be tough, in command, but more refined and educated than her kidnappers.

  Though his appearance was ragged after a week in the gaol, he still carried himself with pride and his raw good looks overshadowed any grime. Fr
om what Quintus and Bishop Elusius had told her, the Picts to the east and the Gaels to the west were the greatest threat to the wall. The Gaels wore blankets of plaid and Picts tunics and surcoats, but these men wore no shirts and woolen trousers, held up with belts, tied at their ankles with rope.

  Taran and his cellmate, Greum, had worn linen tunics beneath their rough quilted surcoats. Both were also tattooed with swirling blue markings that identified them as Picts—another discernible difference. Who were these men? Were they from some other savage tribe who roamed north of the wall?

  Fear of the unknown sent an icy chill up her spine. She was new to Britannia, and now she’d been absconded from everything Roman. There she lay in the wild, torn from her nurse. Powerless to fight, she prayed for God to give her the strength to survive.

  The sun shone bright in the sky when Pia was shoved down beside Valeria. The old woman trembled, her body racked by silent sobs.

  Valeria threw a protective arm over her round shoulders and pulled her close. “Pia, what did they do to you?” Unable to stifle her own tears, she embraced the woman and buried her face into her back. Deep down she knew what had happened. These men had no honor. For the first time in her life, hatred sank its tendrils into her gut. “Father will send soldiers to our rescue and we will see them hang.”

  Pia lay silent, gently rocking, unable to calm her staccato breaths. Tears streamed from Valeria’s eyes as she gave in to exhaustion. But sleep was fleeting.

  Chapter Six

  They’d ridden all night. A sunrise of brilliant orange had come and gone. Taran’s belly groaned with hunger, and he forced his eyes to blink to maintain his focus on the path. With no food or sleep, they would have to stop soon. Those heinous Attacotti seemed to be able to ride tirelessly, hardly resting for days.

  Taran’s head swarmed with questions. A lot had changed in the two years of his absence. Oisean, the king, had formed alliances with the tribes of Britannia and mounted a rebellion that was taking place across the entire Roman Empire. His time as an oarsman had taught him the Romans would not be beaten down for long. They’d retaliate with ferocious force, their legions organized and armed beyond anything his Pict brothers could imagine.