The Songs of Slaves (30 page)

             
“Don’t drink it all.” 

             
Connor glanced up to see a young man standing above him. He realized at once that it had been the cloaked and hooded man that he had brushed past. But as he looked into that face, he recognized Merridius
–
just as the young man reared back to swing his cudgel.
             

             
Connor brought his arms up, instinctively caging his head. The wood slammed home hard, but it struck Connor’s big arms, and not his skull. The force knocked him to the ground, and Merridius leapt upon him
–
pinning him down with all his weight.

             
“Well that did not take long.”

             
Connor could not see the speaker, but he recognized the voice. It was Lorentius, approaching from the road. And Connor was aware that there were others with him.

             
Connor’s arm felt heavy and burned with pain. Merridius had driven the air from his lungs as he had crashed on to him. The young man brandished his cudgel threateningly overhead, waiting for the others to reach him. Connor looked up into the sneering face, the eyes bright with triumph and mockery; and a fire far above any pain instantly coursed through him. Merridius had failed to strike his head and steal his consciousness from him, and he had failed even to break his arm as Connor absorbed the blow. But more than all these things, Merridius had failed to realize that Connor was a warrior, and that Connor would never be taken alive again.

             
Connor grabbed Merridius’
arm. Bucking hard with his hips and rolling, he pushed Merridius off of his chest and came up on top of him. With a savage cry, Connor drove his elbow down hard
into Merridius’
face. Cartilage crushed, and blood exploded out. But there was no time to finish his enemy. Lorentius was almost upon him, sword drawn. Connor was aware that
the others
–
he knew not how many
–
were also closing in. He sprang to his feet, g
rabbing Merridius’
cudgel as he went. He could hear the whistle of the blade at his back as Lorentius swung at him. But Lorentius missed, as Connor shot i
nto a full sprint into the forest
.

             
Connor could hear the commotion behind him as his assailants became entangled with the other travelers at the spring. He could hear Lorentius cursing at him
–
though as yet he still did not dare to look behind him and see the man. Death was only a pace or two behind, striking with a bright sword, and Connor ran for all he held dear. 

             
The overconfidence of his enemies played into his hands
–
at least for this brief moment. When Merridius had pinned him, it would seem that all of them made for Connor without pulling their horses along with them. As the distance grew between Lorentius and Connor, the men had to turn back to mount. Connor could hear their cries and curses momentarily recede behind him. But then, just as his confidence began to grow, he heard the cr
ash of horses amidst the trees
.

             
Connor ran deeper into the forest. He could never outrun horses. His only chance was to find denser
thicket, or maybe even a place to hide. As Connor dared to steal a glance over his shoulder his hope suffered another kill stroke. There were seven horses behind him. His track over the difficult terrain was forcing them into a single file line, but this was little help. There would be no hope of making a stand against so many, and they were already much too close to hope to hide.

             
Connor ran faster. His heart felt like it would burst in his chest. The close branches tore at his skin. But it was all he could do.

             
“God help me!” Connor screamed with ragged breath. “For once, God, help me! For me, God! For me, just this once!
God!”

             
Laughter joined the curses and the shock of hooves behind him. This is the way it had happened, Connor suddenly remembered. The first time he had been taken had been so much like this
–
running through the woods from an invincible enemy. And with that realization, Connor screamed from the bottom of his soul
–
a wordless, violent, despairing scream. And he turned his course straight up the hill.

             
The horsemen turned to follow him. Connor turned around just
long enough to throw Merridius’
cudgel str
aight at the head of Lorentius’
horse. His aim was true, though the cudgel just glanced off of the beast’s forehead. But it was enough to cause the horse to stumble on the steep grade. The horse went down to his front knees, pitching Lorentius forward. Lorentius held fast though, and was not dismounted. But the others were soon upon him, slamming into each other and falling.

             
Connor had no time to survey the results of his attack. The screams of men and horses as they crashed together encouraged him to run faster, even as the loose stones slipped under his feet. He was now weaponless. He heard the hoof beats behind him, as those enemies that had avoided a fall continued their pursuit. The others were recovering as well, and all were again closing on him. They were angry now, so angry Connor could feel it burn. Good! H
e would die in the forest
then. He would never go back to the estate. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. He was ready. Let it happen. He saw
Lucia
’s face in his mind, and would have cried. But there was no place for that now.

             
“Come and die!” Connor screamed. As he scrambled, he found more loose stones and he threw these blindly back at his attackers. “Come and fucking
die!”

             
He was at the top of the hill. He grabbed a heavy rock and cast it down, the throw missed, and if it caused any harm as it rolled down towards the horses he did not know. Connor crashed down the other side
–
heedless of branches and slowing for nothing. He felt the force of his weight take a hold of him, dragging him down the stark angle of the hillside. He gave into it. He was speeding impossibly fast now, almost effortlessly. All he had to do was to catch
himself
with each step. He could
afford no glances behind him
. Any lack of attention would kill him, as he bounded out of control over the rocky slope.

             
“Come and fucking die!” he screamed like a madman.

             
Behind him he heard horses stumbling and sliding, but still they followed.

             
And then all at once the forest was gone and Connor was standing in the middle of a road.

             
The shock of it stopped Connor. He was back on level ground, standing on white stones that had been pounded by centuries of traffic. The forest was dense on either side of him. Connor was about to dive headlong into the forest on the other side, to regain what little
advantage there may be over the horsemen; but the ring of blade scraping on scabbard arrested him. He turned towards the north, where just a few paces away were four men on horseback. Connor found himself looking straight into the cold blue eyes of the leader. The piercing eyes were set in a face that was young but gaunt, angular, and striped with scars. The man’s blonde hair was tied back and two long, thin braids hung down at the left side of his head; but his beard was trimmed short. He wore a blue cloak, and below it was a coat of dark chain mail reaching to mid-thigh. The man’s big right fist was closed around the hilt of a drawn
spatha
, its blade chipped from heavy use; and his left hand held ready the reigns of his dark war horse. Strapped to his saddle was a long oval shield that had been dented and hacked until the blue paint was almost gone, and on the other side was a brace of short spears. Two of the other men were almost just like him
–
and like him their swords were drawn, their eyes hard, and their horses alerting on Connor like hounds waiting to attack. But the fourth man was shorter and darker, with strange almond shaped eyes and lank, black hair; and instead of a sword he had his bow drawn with a barbed arrow pointed at Connor’s chest.

             
But all of this Connor took in instantly, for in a blink all was chaos.

             
Connor’s pursuers broke through the thicket together and spilled out onto the open road. Lorentius was again in front, his sword drawn, his eyes intent on Connor. He did not yet see the four warriors who were almost right beside him.

             
Merridius was just behind Lorentius
–
until the arrow shot by the dark-eyed man took him through the throat.

             
Lorentius charged Connor, sweeping his
spatha
in a deadly arc as he came by; but Connor dove and rolled past him, reaching Merridius who struggled in his own blood on the ground. Connor seized Merridius’s short sword and rose to face Lorentius. But as Lorentius turned his horse he saw his own followers set upon by the strangers, who dashed in with their horses and swung their blades from their saddles. Only one of the warriors had grabbed hold of his shield, and he used i
t to negate the blow of Pulius’
sword. He ducked his head and thrust long with his own sword, plunging it through the rich young man’s belly. He pulled his blade free an
d slashed it across Pulius’
exposed throat before the youth could even cry out.

             
Lorentius charged Connor, but even as Connor braced for the attack he saw the first horsemen
–
the leader
–
riding hard on his position, his blade leveled. And yet, neither attack came. Connor was knocked off his feet by a fleeing horse
–
its dead rider falling from the saddle as it ran. Instinctively, Connor balled up to protect him
self from being trampled. A
s he did so, the warrior who charged him swept by and engaged another enemy.

             
Connor sprang
up, but he had lost Merridius’
sword, and was again unarmed. In his peripheral vision he could see his former attacker
–
the young man with the cold blue eyes
–
bashing into one of Lorentius’
followers. But this rider met the blow, parrying hard with his own sword as his horse turned into the warrior’s own. Connor saw the warrior’s horse begin to stumble.

             
“God damn you, Slave!” Lorentius cried.

             
Connor wheeled towards him, even as Lorentius charged him at a full gallop. Lorentius, son of Lucius Montevarius, contorted his face in murderous rage. The late sun shone on his poised blade. He rode to finish Connor.

             
With everything Connor had, he ran towards
Lorentius, screaming a soul-shattering cry as he closed. The horse was moving with the speed of death. Connor could smell the beast’s sweat, just as the slightest turn of his hips brought him past the head
–
to the stallion’s right flank. Shoving off of his back leg, Connor flew at Lorentius
–
even as the kill stroke swept in.

             
Connor reached him first.

             
Lorentius’
sword went wide as Connor closed his arms around the young man’s waist and drove his shoulder in as he sailed through the air. Connor and Lorentius fell to the ground as the horse rode on. Lorentius dropped his sword as his head hit the road stones.

             
Connor grabbed Lorentius’
spatha
and scrambled to his feet.

             
For several heartbeats time seemed to slow. Connor held the
leather-wrapped hilt in his fist
. The sunlight made the polished iron glow like fire. The jewels in the pommel were deepest red. It felt so light, so perfect. Air filled his lungs. His blood rushed through his body, at the height of arousal
–
the
furor
, the rage of the warrior. And at his feet, Lorentius
–
his deepest enemy
–
crawled to his hands and knees. Lorentius seemed lost; he seemed not to see as he
struggled to his feet. The hatred in his face was replaced by fear and confusion. But Connor was already movi
ng. His eyes were on Lorentius’
vacant stare, and for a split second he could see both Lucius and
Lucia
in their kinsman’s open face
–
but this was instantly pushed aside by the fury of Connor’s mind. And he saw only Lorentius.

             
And he swung.

             
Lorentius’
body spun as blood sprayed. His eyes stared up, as clear fluid, blood, and gray matter spread out from his shattered skull. Connor stared for a moment, and then plunged the still-vibrating blade deep into his fallen enemy’s heart. It seemed that he could feel the movement of Lorentius’s black heart shudder on the point of that sword. And then the movement stopped, and all seemed so impossibly still.