Who Watches the Watcher?
A Highlander novel by Sisiutil
This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.
Chapter 8: Deogol
"I still don't understand," Theresa said after she emerged, showered and dressed, from her room. Marcellus had suggested a break so she could prepare for the eventful day ahead. "If you fell in love with Alodia at first sight, didn't you want to make her Immortal?"
Marcellus nodded. "Of course. I was sorely tempted. But I'd seen other Immortals make that mistake, expecting to create a lover, or son or daughter, and ending up with a monster instead. There's no surer way to make someone hate you. Duncan found that out; I wish I'd been there to stop him."
Theresa had to admit he had a point. Duncan MacLeod had barely been out of his first century when he'd married Kate, a beautiful Irish seamstress and a potential Immortal. On their wedding night, he had plunged a knife into her chest to make manifest her immortality. She'd hated him ever since.
"So why not tell her? Let her decide?" Theresa asked as she entered the living room and sat back on the couch.
"Do you really think she'd have believed me?" Marcellus asked.
"Well, all you had to do was stick a knife in your heart..." Theresa countered.
"...and she'd have thought me some sort of demon," Marcellus said. "Those were different times, Theresa. Even today, people would have a hard time accepting it.
"And even if I had managed to convince her, imagine the terrible choice she would have faced. Stay mortal, and attempt to live a normal life, all the while knowing that a violent injury that would kill anyone else would give her eternal life. Or, become an Immortal, and watch everyone she loved grow old and die, all the while fighting other Immortals to stay alive." He shook his head. "I have encountered many potentials over the centuries, and hard experience has taught me it's best to leave their ultimate destiny to the Fates. Then the potential can live his life making choices that are pure and true to themselves."
"I guess I can understand that," Theresa said quietly. She glanced at him sympathetically. "That must have been hard for you, though."
"You have no idea," he said, shaking his head slowly. "But you see? Intervening would have been the height of selfishness on my part. How could I treat her with so little regard if I loved her? And I did love her. She was facing the greatest fight of her young life, and I wanted to be there to protect her, or at least teach her to protect herself."
South-West England, 878 AD
"The primary weapon of the Vikings is the battle-axe," Marcellus said, addressing the one hundred men—plus one woman—under his command, who were gathered around him on the smaller training field the next day. In his hands, he wielded one of the large, heavy weapons of the Saxons' enemy. The men eyed the broad, frighteningly effective blade of the axe warily.
"Its weight alone makes the weapon dangerous," Marcellus continued. "Combined with a sharp edge, it can easily cut a man in two."
Marcellus swung the blade over his head, then rotated it in his hands, swinging it in a vertical circle first on his left, then deftly shifting the heavy weapon and performing the same action on his right. The blade made a low whoosh as Marcellus swung it around his body. The sound and the rapidly-moving blade made many of the men shift their weight nervously. Marcellus stopped the blade as it swung down in front of his body, as if slicing an invisible opponent in half.
"Osric, come over here," Marcellus said, beckoning to one of his recruits. A large, bear-like Saxon with a sandy beard stepped forward, frowning and uncertain. Marcellus handed him the battle-axe. "Have you wielded one of these before, Osric?"
The big man nodded. "Several times, Marcellus."
The Roman smiled and drew his sword, a long, single-bladed rapier forged in Toledo. "Attack me with it."
Osric hesitated. "I...do not want to hurt you!" he objected.
Marcellus smiled broadly. "I assure you that you will not. And I won't hurt you. Come now," he said, beckoning. Still, he could see the big Saxon hesitate. "Come on, you fat, stupid ox!" Marcellus shouted.
Osric had a frightfully short temper, Marcellus had heard. The next second proved it. The huge Saxon frowned angrily at Marcellus, lifted the battle-axe back over his head, and shouted as he swung it forward towards his commander. Several of the men watching, and Alodia, gasped.
Marcellus waited until the huge blade began its forward motion. He side-stepped the blow and parried the axe with his sword, directing it away from him rather than attempting to stop it. The battle-axe struck the ground where Marcellus had been standing and became half-buried there. Marcellus swung his blade over the bent body of the big Saxon, stopping the sword just before it sliced through the man's flesh. Osric froze when he felt cold metal on the back of his neck.
"The battle-axe has two cutting edges: one is made of steel. The other is forged of fear," Marcellus declared. "The Vikings rely on the intimidation their large weapons create in their opponents as much as they rely on the blade's killing power. But the axe is heavy and awkward. Even in the hands of a strong opponent, its wielder is vulnerable to over-commitment, both before the blow and afterwards." He raised his sword from Osric's neck. "Thank you for providing a demonstration of that, Osric. I recommend you stick to a sword or spear from now on," Marcellus said, patting the huge Saxon on the back. "Oh, sorry about the insult."
"I've been called worse, Marcellus," Osric replied with a smile; the men around them laughed.
"Allow your opponent to commit himself," Marcellus went on. "Then strike immediately, on his backswing. Or, failing that, move, parry, and strike once he is off-balance and vulnerable as I just did. Do not attempt to stop the blade, not with your sword, and certainly not with your body," he said with a smile. Again, the men laughed. "Move away from the blow and redirect it with your sword or your shield. Then strike.
"The servants have prepared two piles of practice sticks for us," he went on, gesturing towards two stacks of wood nearby. "The larger, heavier sticks will be battle-axes; the smaller, lighter ones swords. Choose a partner. Each of you grab one of each type of stick to practice with. Perform the moves slowly at first, then more quickly as you get used to them. Then switch weapons. Oh, and do try not to bash each other's skulls in!"
The men laughed again at that; between his fighting prowess and his likeable manner, he was winning them over. That was important, Marcellus knew; he had very little time to train them, and he had to make sure they listened to and obeyed his every word.
Marcellus gestured for Alodia to join him as he walked around the training ground, watching the men practice. He occasionally stopped to provide directions or hints as they talked.
"I've appointed your brother Algar as my second-in-command," he told her. "I value his caution, as it tempers my own appetite for risk. I'll be dividing the men into groups of ten, each with one man in command. Alden will be one of the commanders of those smaller units—centurions, I call them." Marcellus couldn't resist using the title; it just brought back so many fond memories.
"And what of me?" Alodia asked, somewhat defensively. "Do you plan to keep me a safe distance from the enemy, washing and sewing clothes, perhaps?" Her tone indicated she would stand for no such thing.
"Of course not," Marcellus said with a smile, then addressed one of the men. "Sigewald! Keep your arm straight when you strike!" Marcellus turned back towards Alodia. "That would be a waste of a skillful warrior. You, Alodia, will be my personal bodyguard. You'll be beside me, right in the thick of the battle, swatting Vikings off of my back."
"Is that the only thing you wanted me to do with your body? Guard it?" she asked saucily as he told her of the assignment.
"There are, perhaps, some other duties you could perform," he said smoothly, his smile becoming salacious.
"I think you need some exercise," she said, one eyebrow raised in mock offense, "and I need to practice."
Marcellus nodded and gestured towards the two diminished piles of practice weapons. "Grab two sticks for us and I'll practice with you."
"Excellent," she said with a teasing smile. "I have a strong urge to try to bash your head in right now anyway."
Marcellus laughed as she ran away to obtain two practice weapons, her step light and prancing like a girl's. He watched her, delighted with her company and her spirit, and recognized that she had spoken the truth three nights before: she felt happiest and most comfortable here, on a training ground or field of battle. And yet she could shine brighter than any lady at a banquet, earning admiring glances from every man in the room. He shook his head in quiet appreciation as she ran back to him, a crudely carved stick in each hand. She threw him the larger, heavier one.
"Have at you!" she shouted, and swung her stick towards him. He barely managed to parry the blow and stepped back, laughing. She swung again, narrowly missing his head and he stopped laughing.
"I'm going to need my head intact, Alodia!" he shouted, somewhat taken aback by the ferocity of her attack.
"Then you'd better protect it!" she yelled back, smiling, and swung the stick at him again. He parried the blow and stepped backwards.
The men around them stopped their practicing to watch. Alodia continued to attack him wildly, keeping Marcellus on the defensive. She saw the reluctance in his gray eyes to strike at a woman and took advantage of it. The men began to gather around them, keeping a safe distance but watching avidly.
"She'll kill him," Alden remarked in an amused tone to his brother.
"I wouldn't bet on it," Algar remarked. "She'll make him angry—she's good at making men angry—and then she'll regret it."
"The great warrior!" Alodia shouted, mocking him. She lunged at his mid-section; he parried the blow and side-stepped. "Ha! I could take you with one hand tied behind my back!"
Marcellus' gray eyes narrowed at that. He had never been bested in battle, and wasn't about to let it happen for the first time at the hands of a woman, no matter how magnificent he thought she was. He took a step back and swung the heavy stick around his body as he had the battle-axe a few minutes before.
"Told you," Algar remarked to Alden, seeing the determined expression now on Marcellus' face. "Here it comes."
Alodia narrowed her green eyes and swung at Marcellus, a feint to his right side. He easily parried. She spun and swung her stick around with a shout. When she finished her turn, her eyes went wide. Her opponent had disappeared; Marcellus, anticipating her blow, had ducked beneath it and rolled forward. She suddenly felt a heavy stick strike her in the back of her knees. With a yelp, she fell backwards, landing ignobly on her behind, her arms flailing. Marcellus rose above her and pointed one end of his heavy stick at her throat.
Alodia's green eyes opened wide, staring up at him in surprise. Then she smiled. "You have to teach me that!" she cried. The men around them erupted in laughter, then applause. Marcellus turned and glowered at them.
"What are you festering dung-heaps looking at?" he shouted in mock offense. "I know none of you ever seen a woman flat on her back before, but that's no excuse! Get back to work!"
The men laughed loudly, and Marcellus smiled. The crowd of soldiers ambled away, back to practice their battle techniques. He reached down, grabbed Alodia's hand, and helped her to her feet. She kept hold of his hand once she was standing, her green eyes wide and staring intently into his. She leaned towards him.
"No man has bested me like that since I was fifteen," she told him breathlessly.
"Really?" Marcellus said dryly. "That's a long dry spell. No wonder you're so ferocious."
Alodia pulled her hand back abruptly. Her mouth opened in shock, but its corners remained curled upwards in a smile.
"You're terrible!" she told him.
"Yes," he agreed, smiling. "I don't know how I live with myself." Then his expression grew more serious as he remembered their purpose there and the upcoming battle. "Now, do you want me to show you that move?" She nodded her head eagerly, and they too returned to practicing their fighting skills.
For the rest of that day, Marcellus worked his force hard to prepare them for the battle with the Vikings. He covered basic technique that first day; this appealed to the Saxons' preferences. King Alfred had no standing army, and the soldiers had little formal training. They took their cues from their epic poem Beowulf, holding individual bravery in combat in the highest regard. Marcellus started with that, showing them techniques that would increase their chances against their Norse opponents. He had to win their respect and trust first, and quickly, by appealing to their cultural inclinations. He had done it before many times as a Roman general, training foreign troops by working first with their strengths and then gradually molding them into the Roman system.
On the second day, he began drilling them in marching formations and synchronized movements. He particularly wanted them to learn how to form a shield-wall like the old legions, grouping their shields together and stabbing out from behind them with spears or swords. They were reluctant at first, but he kept at them. Thane Aldred's three grown children responded enthusiastically to his guidance and helped win over the men to this strange way of fighting.
Partway through the third day of training, several of the other nobles, including King Alfred, came by to check on his progress. Marcellus had his men demonstrate the shield-wall formation. The King and several of his nobles immediately saw the wisdom of the tactic. They left and began to drill the rest of the army in its use. The shield-wall would likely have to absorb a great deal of abuse from the Vikings, but could prove effective against the Norsemen's undisciplined tactics. Marcellus knew the Saxons would not hold the formation for the entire battle, but if they used it just long enough, it might make all the difference.
He also continued to practice with Alodia during this time, honing her already-formidable fighting skills. She was an able warrior, one of the best he'd ever seen, regardless of her gender—perhaps because of it. With so many of her opponents relying on simple brute strength for victory, strength which she could not match, Alodia had compensated by developing her skill to even the odds. Marcellus had not been lying when he'd told the King he'd be willing to take on the Vikings with one hundred women like her.
His men noticed how joyously the two worked and practiced together. Talk of their growing affection was all over the camp. Marcellus knew such talk would get back to Deogol, and he drew a certain satisfaction from his rival's no-doubt growing jealousy. Neither he nor Alodia saw Deogol at all during the day, as he remained with the main force. At dinner each evening, Deogol was quiet and subdued, unwilling to engage Marcellus any further in verbal jousting. Marcellus was glad not to have to put up with the petulant Saxon's pejorative remarks; perhaps he was developing some maturity after all. Gradually, as the impending battle and his feelings for Alodia loomed larger in Marcellus' mind, Deogol faded from it, which was probably why he let his guard down.
Marcellus had a pattern he'd followed since the early days of the Republic: he was always the first man onto the field and the last man off it. At the end of each of the first three days of training, when the sun had set, he had sent the men back to the regular camp for their supper. He insisted Alodia go back with her brothers at the end of each day; he thought emerging from the copse of trees with her would appear unseemly, and he had no intention of upsetting his plan to win her now. Besides, it gave him a little quiet time to think and make plans for the next day's exercises.
At the end of the third day of preparations, two days before the battle, he sat on the side of the empty field at twilight and made notes on a strip of cloth with a quill, using pig's blood for ink.
"This is truly a dark age," he muttered to himself.
He would have given anything for clean Egyptian parchment and Octopus' ink, but had to make do with what was at hand. He also would have given anything for a proper glass of honey-sweetened wine, a plate of olives, cheese made from goat's milk, snails poached in olive oil and garlic... His mouth watered and his stomach growled; he set the quill down and gathered his meager writing materials into a bundle.
"Right. Time for supper, you old campaigner," he said to himself. The light was dying anyway.
Marcellus walked back to the row of trees that separated the two training fields. The poplars, their leaves freshly opened in the spring air, formed black silhouettes against an indigo sky; the stars had begun to appear in the darkening twilight heavens. In the distance, he could hear the dull murmur of hundreds of men gathered around campfires, preparing their evening meal. Jupiter, but that brings back memories! he thought. He almost regretted that he'd be dining in Aldred's tent instead.
He remembered marching through Britannia over eight hundred years before as a general in the Emperor Claudius' army, finally bringing the cold, rainy island into the Roman orbit. Has it really been that long? He laughed softly as he walked between the trees, remembering Claudius and how the Senate had ridiculed the stuttering, lame-footed old man when he came before them to be approved as Emperor. They had called Claudius a fool. But Claudius had proved them wrong. I chose well, Marcellus reflected, after that maniac Caligula...
The sudden snap of a twig in the darkness behind Marcellus put an end to his reminiscing. Before he could react, he felt a strong hand cover his mouth, and a sharp blade plunged into his side, a killing blow to his right kidney. His eyes went wide and he yelled angrily into the hand that covered his mouth. But his cry was muffled, and the men too far away and too preoccupied with making their supper to hear him. He felt the knife twist in his gut, his assailant taking obvious pleasure in inflicting as much pain as he could. Marcellus' knees buckled and he fell to the ground, his attacker plunging with him, the hand still over his mouth, the blade still in his side.
"We don't need you here, outsider," Deogol whispered in his ear. "We don't need you coming here, taking over our army, stealing our women." Deogol gave the knife another twist at that, and Marcellus' body jerked in pain. He could feel his blood running down his side, over his hip and thigh. His eyes rolled back in his head as consciousness left him. Marcellus drew one last, rattling breath, then slumped to the ground as Deogol released his lifeless corpse.
Deogol withdrew his knife and stood up, his heart beating rapidly. He looked around furtively. No one was nearby, no one had heard anything. He moved quietly through the woods towards a package of fresh clothing he'd stashed there. He stripped naked, threw his blood-soaked clothes, the knife, and a large rock into an oilskin bag, and changed into the fresh clothes. He walked through the trees, following a trail in the dark he'd practiced walking down so often for three days that he could have done it blindfolded. He reached a deep pond and threw the bag in, and it sank to the bottom. He smiled. Alodia was his now, as she should be. He walked back towards Aldred's tent.
A few minutes later, in the copse of trees, Marcellus revived. The Immortal's eyes opened suddenly, and his back arched as he drew a loud, painful breath. After a moment, he slowly sat up. His side, still healing, ached from the knife wound. But that would pass, and soon. He stood up, looking around to ensure neither Deogol nor anyone else had witnessed his return from the dead. He quietly cursed his carelessness. That's what thirteen hundred years of memories will get you, you old fool, he told himself.
Normally, when an Immortal died in front of witnesses, he had to disappear lest his true nature be discovered. But Marcellus was not about to ride over the hill into the next town as usual. There was only one witness this time—his murderer. The calculating Roman was determined not just to defeat this enemy, but to destroy him. Deogol had unknowingly given him the perfect opportunity to do just that. Marcellus smiled malevolently. First, he needed some fresh clothing...
An hour later, Thane Aldred, his family, and his retainers were in the midst of their supper in the large tent. Alodia and her brothers kept glancing at the entrance expectantly. Marcellus was late, and Marcellus was never late. Especially not for supper—the man ate like a horse to keep that sharp mind and active body going.
"I don't know what could be keeping him," Alodia said to her brothers, who were seated on her right, as usual. Her lovely features were drawn into a frown, a frown that grew more worried with each passing moment.
"Relax, my love," Deogol said calmly from her left. "I'm sure he'll turn up eventually."
"Maybe we should send some men back to the training field," Alden suggested. "It's dark, maybe he slipped or something."
Suddenly Alodia's frown lifted and she smiled. "Oh, there he is!"
Deogol glanced at his betrothed, sure she'd mistaken some other man for the foreign interloper. Then his eyes followed her gaze and went completely wide. The color drained from his face; his breath caught in his throat. There, entering the tent, was Marcellus, looking quite alive and healthy. His clean-shaven face beamed as he slapped men on the back as he usually did, and they called out his name boisterously. He gradually made his way through the seated throng to the main table.
"No..." Deogol muttered. He couldn't have killed the wrong man; even in the falling dark, there was no mistaking that close-cropped hair, that clean-shaven face; almost every other man in the camp had a beard. And he had killed him, had felt him go limp, he'd heard the death rattle. "No, it's not possible..." he muttered, his head shaking.
"What did you say, Deogol...?" Alodia asked, turning to her husband-to-be. She stopped short when she saw his expression; he looked as though he had seen a ghost. "Deogol? What's the matter?"
The young Saxon, his face white and a cold sweat beading on his forehead, rose slowly from his seat and pointed at Marcellus, who now stood just before the main table. "No!" he shouted, "You're dead!"
Deogol's outburst brought the entire crowd to a silent stand-still. All eyes shifted from Deogol, to Marcellus, to whom he was pointing, and back to Deogol. Marcellus looked at him and frowned. Then he looked about the tent, his face showing a rising alarm. He slapped his open hands against his chest, then turned to two men seated at a nearby table and anxiously placed his hands on each of their shoulders. The two men suddenly smiled and, as laughter began to grow, grabbed Marcellus and started patting their hands on his shoulders and back as well, ensuring that he was, indeed, alive and present. Marcellus' shoulders suddenly slumped and he mockingly blew out a relieved breath as the laughter in the room reached a crescendo. Marcellus turned back to face the main table, his arms spread wide, looked at Deogol and smiled.
"Apparently not!" he exclaimed, to more laughter and some applause. Marcellus very vigorously ran around the end of the main table and took his usual seat at Thane Aldred's right hand. "Sorry I'm late," he told his host, "slipped on the grass in the dark and had to change my clothes. Took awhile to decide what to wear," he said with a mocking smile. "Wanted to look my best to charm your beautiful wife away from you," he joked, earning a pleased laugh from Lady Audrey.
Meanwhile, Deogol, still on his feet and staring wide-eyed at Marcellus, began to notice several pairs of eyes trained on him. The faces turned towards him regarded him dubiously, as though he had suddenly gone mad—faces that included Alodia and her father. A murmur arose in the room as the laughter died down and more people began to discuss his strange behavior.
"What is the meaning of this absurd outburst, Deogol?" Aldred bellowed, silencing the room once again. All eyes now turned to the young Saxon. He looked about, eyes wild like some cornered animal. He couldn't explain it to himself, how could he explain it to them? He grasped for an explanation, and lit upon the first one that popped into his fevered mind.
"A dream," he muttered, lowering himself back to his seat. "It was a dream I had. I...I'm sorry..." His explanation caused a stir in the room, among the superstitious people gathered there.
"Well, that's hardly auspicious," Marcellus commented dryly. He turned and saw Alodia looking at him anxiously. He smiled and shook his head, holding his hand up to reassure her. She looked a little relieved, but only a little.
"We'll have no more talk of this!" Aldred shouted to the assembled crowd. He smiled and spread his arms. "Eat, drink, and be merry, my friends," he said through a forced smile.
Gradually, the noise in the tent returned to a normal conversational level, though much of the conversation concerned what had just happened and what it might mean. Thane Aldred turned to his future son-in-law and glowered at him. Things had been going so well, and now this stupid boy had blurted out some inauspicious nonsense about Marcellus—about their hope, for that is what he represented, as far as Aldred was concerned—being dead. Aldred was not a superstitious man; he believed what the bible contained, and everything else was nonsense. But most others were not so skeptical as he, and he worried about the effect this would have on their army's spirit.
Then Aldred turned to look at Marcellus, and a smile came back to his face. The man was engaged in a spirited conversation with his wife and had her laughing as though nothing had happened. Clearly he wasn't concerned, and Aldred hoped that would offset the effect of Deogol's outburst.
Aldred sat back in thought, glancing at the two men, and wondered if he hadn't made a mistake, all those years ago, promising his adopted daughter's hand to Thane Deogol. As for Marcellus, if the Saxons won this battle, the King would likely reward the foreign strategist with several acres of land. If he helped the Saxons drive the Vikings further out of Wessex, Marcellus would likely become a Thane himself, or perhaps even an Earldorman—one of the King's principal advisors. Aldred could do worse, he realized, than to align his family with the upwardly mobile Roman warrior.
Later, after dinner had ended and the guests began to file out, a still-shaken Deogol got up to leave. He hadn't spoken a word to anyone for the rest of dinner. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned back. The blood drained from his face once again when he saw Marcellus there, a concerned smile on his clean-shaven face.
"I hope you're feeling all right, Deogol," Marcellus said in a friendly voice. The other guests had moved away, heading for the exits; no one was close enough to hear their conversation.
"I'm fine," Deogol declared, and tried to turn to go, but Marcellus' firm grip held him in place.
"I'm not that easy to kill, boy," Marcellus murmured. His face was friendly, but his tone was low and threatening. "But I'll bet you are," he continued, and patted Deogol on his right side, in the exact spot where the young Saxon had driven a knife into him. Deogol's eyes went wide. "Pleasant dreams," Marcellus said as he turned to go.
As Marcellus left the tent, he recalled a line from an ancient text. "Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad," he quoted, then chuckled softly as he walked to his own small tent. He glanced at the corner where Alodia had accosted him that first night as he passed by it, recalling their clandestine conversation and stolen kiss. He stopped when he saw that Thane Aldred's daughter stood there in the dark yet again.
She stepped towards him and, as she had done that first night, looked around for other people. Seeing none, she turned to him.
"I wanted to speak with you," she said, her face serious. "I'm worried, Lucius."
Marcellus frowned. "About Deogol's dream?" he asked.
Alodia shook her head. "No. My father brought me up to disdain such things as ignorant superstition. But it made me think...made me worry. About the battle, and what will come after it."
She sighed and looked away from him. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to talk with you again, once the battle is done. If we win—and with your assistance, I think we will—I will no longer have an excuse to put off my marriage. With the Vikings in retreat, my hand will not be needed on the battlefield. Deogol will see to it that our betrothal is consummated. And then I'll never see you again," she said wistfully, returning her gaze to rest upon his face. She reached out and delicately took hold of his hand. "Deogol hates you. He hides it of late, but he is jealous. He would never allow us to have any contact."
Marcellus lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. "You assume too much, Alodia. Do not despair." He smiled at her. "I have a plan," he whispered conspiratorially.
"You always have a plan," she said, the smile returning to her lips. "What does it involve?"
"Us," Marcellus told her, his face serious. "You and I. Together. As husband and wife. Would you like that?"
Her beautiful green eyes widened at his words. She stared at him in silence a moment, then shook her head and gently removed her hand from his. "Do not tease me, Lucius. I am betrothed to another, and have been since childhood. Such things are not easily undone."
Lucius smiled gently. "You didn't answer my question. If you were free to marry whomsoever you chose, would you take me?"
Her green eyes watched him silently for a moment before she answered. "In a heartbeat," she murmured, then cast her eyes downward. "If only I could choose."
That was all he needed to hear. "Good," he said, a confident smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Let me see to it, Alodia. Trust in me." Marcellus glanced around, then leaned forward and kissed her. He took a step back and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. "We'll be together, Alodia. I promise." Then he turned and walked to his tent, leaving Alodia to return to hers with her emotions in turmoil.
The last two days before the great battle passed without incident for the most part. Marcellus saw Deogol watching him from a distance both days as he walked to the training ground in the morning. Each day, he turned and smiled at his rival and patted his lower right side, which made the young Saxon blanch and turn away.
At the end of the last day, after a shortened training session with the troops and a dinner made somewhat tense and somber by the anticipation of battle the next day, Marcellus went to the stables to see to his horse, Sulla. He'd named the steed after the ancient Roman dictator, of course. Marcellus had served under Sulla, but had never much liked the man, especially in his decrepit old age. The idea of riding his namesake, giving him orders and reigning him in, gave Marcellus a certain perverse pleasure. Nevertheless, Sulla was a good horse, a loyal companion, and a well-trained war-beast, and Marcellus felt he'd been neglecting the animal since he'd taken on the task of training the one hundred soldiers. Neither the Saxons nor the Vikings fought with cavalry, so Sulla would sit out tomorrow's battle.
A full moon hung in the dark sky as Marcellus walked to the stables. Most of the horses were in fields nearby, but those of the highest-ranking nobles had been quartered here, in a large stable that was part of an estate that bordered on the Marsh of Athelney. As a reward for his advice and leadership, Marcellus had been provided a stall for Sulla in the stables.
The stables were abandoned and quiet when he entered. The stable hands usually slept with their charges, but here they had been generously provided with their own tent. Marcellus walked to Sulla's stall, carefully placed the tallow candle he'd brought for light on the top of a thick post, and placed his sword on the straw-covered floor. He took out a curry comb and began to rub down the midnight-black horse's hide, eliciting a low, satisfied whinny from the beast, who loved the attention. Marcellus crooned to the animal in Latin and went about tending to him.
Several minutes later, Marcellus heard someone enter the stable. He could hear soft, careful footfalls on the straw, coming slowly towards Sulla's stall. Whoever it was had not brought a torch or lantern, and approached him in the dark. Marcellus immediately concluded it was Deogol, coming to make yet another attempt on his life.
He'll get much more than he bargained for this time, Marcellus thought as he silently knelt and grabbed his sword from where it lay on the straw. He listened carefully. The straw muffled the sound of the footfalls, but he could just gauge the distance if he listened carefully. Close enough, he thought, and suddenly sprang from his horse's stall, his sword held before him.
Alodia gasped loudly and leapt back when Marcellus suddenly appeared, wielding a weapon and evidently prepared to use it. The Roman's eyes went wide with surprise. He exhaled loudly and lowered his sword. He set the weapon back down on the straw and gave the young Saxon noblewoman an embarrassed look.
"I apologize, milady," he said.
Alodia, holding her right hand over her suddenly pounding heart, shook her head. "It was my fault. I should have announced my presence. Everyone is so tense, what with the battle before us tomorrow."
Marcellus nodded sagely. He'd lost count of the number of battles he'd fought in his thirteen hundred years, but he had not grown jaded about them. He always felt a nervous exhilaration the night before that robbed him of sleep but sharpened his nerves. Alodia apparently suffered from similar feelings. The sun had gone down hours before, dinner had finished and the guests gone back to their beds, but here she stood, still attired in a long white woolen dress she had worn at dinner. Over it she wore a long, dark cloak with a loose hood, evidently to hide herself in the dark on this secret visitation.
"I was just tending to Sulla," Marcellus told Alodia, pointing his thumb at the animal's stall.
Alodia nodded. "I thought as much when I saw you headed this way."
Marcellus took a step towards her. "And you followed me out here? For what purpose?" He asked, his voice low and affecting innocence.
Alodia looked at him steadily and raised her chin slightly. "Do I need a reason?" she responded confidently.
Marcellus took another step towards Alodia and smiled. "No. But if you have one, I should very much like to hear it."
He now stood directly in front of her, less than a yard away. She still regarded him haughtily, but her lips had parted and he could see her breasts rising and falling beneath her cloak and thin woolen gown as her breaths grew ever more shallow and rapid. He began to take another step. She held up her right hand in front of her, fingers spread, stopping him. He reached out with his own right hand and gently curled it behind her outstretched fingers. He slowly pressed her hand to his chest, over his own beating heart. In the dim light of the stable, her green eyes locked on to his gray ones and held them in an intense, steady gaze.
A heartbeat later, her left hand grabbed the back of his head and pulled his face towards hers. Their lips met in a hungry, passionate kiss. He released her hand and threw his arm around her slender waist, pulling her body against his. He felt her breasts crushed against his hard chest. His lips released hers and he began to plant a trail of kisses along her cheek and down her neck. Her skin tasted of lavender water and salt. Her head fell back, her long red hair sliding over her shoulders to hang down to her hips. She breathed heavily, her eyes closed, as his warm lips and hot breath caressed the white skin of her throat.
Suddenly Marcellus pulled away from her. She looked him, confused yet ardent. He stepped into the stall of his horse. He opened one of his saddlebags which hung over the side of the stall and withdrew a folded woolen blanket. He blew out the tallow candle and took her hand in his. In the near-total darkness, he led her to a ladder a few feet away. He climbed the ladder, followed by her, to a hay-loft at the end of the stable. A large, open upper door allowed the light of the full moon to enter the loft. Marcellus spread the blanket over a pile of soft, clean hay and turned back to face Alodia.
As he'd spread out the blanket, she had quickly discarded her cloak and gown and tossed them aside. She stood before him, naked in the moonlight. Marcellus froze, captivated by her bold, unabashed beauty. In the ethereal moonlight, her skin was pale and seemed to glow, as though she were an elf and not human. Her shoulders were slender but strong, her breasts full, high, and firm, a few freckles spread across and between them. His eyes traveled down over her trim abdomen to the auburn delta at the apex of her thighs. Her arms hung at her sides, her hands laid atop her milky white thighs. Her weight rested on one leg, the other bent slightly at the knee.
Marcellus kicked his soft leather shoes from his feet. He pulled off his tunic, revealing a muscular chest decorated with dark hairs; his chest hair tapered to a point on his flat stomach that drew Alodia's eyes down to his slender waist. Marcellus then stripped off his leggings. His lean, muscular legs were covered the same dark, delicate hairs as his chest. He saw Alodia's eyes drawn to his aroused sex. Her eyes flickered back to his, and he smiled.
Marcellus held out his hand to her. She took it. He led her towards the blanket and lowered her down upon it. He then gently laid his naked body on top of hers and their lips met again. As he kissed her, he ran his hands gently over her body, caressing her shoulders, her breasts, her flat abdomen and thighs. He broke the kiss and then began to explore her pale skin with his warm mouth and tongue, kissing and teasing the same places his hands had touched only a moment before.
Alodia lay back, her hands encouraging him as she caressed his strong shoulders and head of close-cropped hair, occasionally gasping and pressing his head against her body when he performed an action she enjoyed. Eventually he pressed his hands against her thighs, pushing them apart, and lowered his head to pleasure her as she watched him avidly.
She moaned and writhed in response to his skillful ministrations, and several minutes later, he felt her body tense, then shudder as she let a throaty groan escape her lips. As she lay limp and gasping, he slid his body back up to cover hers. He reached down with one hand and prepared to enter her. Alodia's green eyes flew open and stared into his as she felt him at the entrance to her womanhood. She shook her head slowly.
"I've never..." she breathed, and he caught her meaning instantly. His body froze in position.
"Do you want to stop?" he murmured, his tone gentle.
"No," she said, her eyes suddenly burning with the hard determination he had seen in them so often in the past week on the training field. She never shrunk from a challenge.
Marcellus smiled gently and his hand caressed her cheek. "I'll be gentle," he whispered. "There will be a little pain, but then it will be over, and it will soon start to feel much better." She held his gaze and nodded.
The Roman had been with many women, of course, in his thirteen hundred years on earth, and had deflowered more than his share of virgins. He had suspected that she had never known intimacy with a man; despite her boldness, or perhaps because of it, Marcellus got the sense that Alodia would have allowed no man to take her virginity unless she felt he was worthy of the honor. Hence the pleasure he had given her first to prepare her. He brushed his lips against hers now and slowly, gently, began to move into her.
Her mouth opened wide and she gulped a breath as she felt him press against her maidenhead. He hesitated, seeing if she would change her mind and ask him to stop. He would have honored such a request, but she did no such thing. He pushed, she gasped, and then turned her head. A single tear coursed down her cheek. He leaned forward and kissed it away. Slowly he began to move. She grimaced at first, her eyes clenched tight and soft whimpers escaping her lips, but she allowed him to continue.
Gradually pleasure began to overcome the pain. She wrapped her arms around his torso, then slid one hand up to hold the back of his head. She pulled his head down and their lips met in a deep, passionate kiss. He began to accelerate his tempo. She released his lips, moaned softly, and moved her hips against his, encouraging him. He pressed himself up on his elbows. She locked her eyes upon his. She reached down and squeezed his buttock, then smiled wickedly. He smiled back, then lost himself in his passion, moving his body in a quickening rhythm. She writhed and panted beneath him. Within moments, his muscles locked and he gave a strained cry of release.
A moment later he collapsed onto her; he then pulled himself out of her and rolled onto his back. Alodia shifted onto her side and lay her right arm and leg over him and placed her head on his chest. They lay together in the moonlight, their naked bodies covered with perspiration, both gulping air into their overworked lungs.
A few moments later, Marcellus felt her body shudder against his. He smiled and silently congratulated himself on his skill, but her next words dealt his male ego a hard blow.
"I hate you," she murmured. The smile left his face as he lifted his head slightly to look at her. It wasn't the sort of declaration a man expected from a woman after a bout of passionate love-making. She tilted her head up from where it lay on his chest and looked at him. "I've never been afraid. Not of fighting, or battles, or even death. But now look at me: I'm trembling like the last leaf on a tree in autumn. And it's all because of you."
Her voice was quiet and calm, but belied her body's emotional state. She held up her hand in front of his face; in the moonlight, he could see the slight tremor in it. She lowered her hand and her head and stared off into the darkness of the stables.
"If I die in battle," Alodia went on, "they'll write songs about me. They'll never rival Beowulf, but still, there would be songs. If I survive, then I shall enter a loveless marriage. I will most likely die in childbirth. Deogol will remarry, another woman will raise my children, and I will be forgotten. Tell me, Lucius, if you had my two choices, which would you prefer?"
Suddenly it all made sense to Marcellus. He had never given much thought to why she had learned sword-fighting and warcraft. He had put it down to the desperate times for the Saxons, that they needed able bodies to fight and therefore welcomed the occasional woman into the ranks. But for Alodia, destined since childhood to marry a man she despised, it had been the only alternative life open to her—even if it meant, ironically, her death. Sometimes Marcellus forgot how painfully short a mortal life could be, and how desperate they craved some form of...well, immortality.
"And now you have come into my life," she continued, her voice still even and emotionless. "And you bring another possibility I had never entertained before. You taunt me with the prospect of a marriage, filled with love, to a man who respects me for what I am. You bring me hope. And I hate you for it," she said, and her voice finally cracked; not with the hatred she spoke of, but with sorrow. "Because now I am afraid. Oh, Lucius, I am so afraid of tomorrow! If you should die..."
"Shhh," he shushed her, tilting up her chin to look at him. Tears had begun to form in those beautiful green eyes he adored. "Don't be afraid. I am not going to die. And neither are you. We cannot die, Alodia." She frowned at him, not comprehending, as she blinked away her tears.
He was tempted, right then, to tell her everything. To tell her about her Immortality, and his. To persuade her to come away with him before the battle, to abandon the Saxons, to leave behind the only home she had never known. But he knew she would not believe him, and also knew she would never leave. Her loyalty to her people and her family was one of the traits he most admired about her. And Lucius Gaius Marcellus had never run from a fight, not in all his thirteen hundred years.
"Why do you think I brought you into this special unit I'm training, my dear?" Marcellus said instead. "It wasn't just because of your fighting skills—which are formidable. And it wasn't just to have you nearby, though I have treasured the moments with you over the last few days. I brought you in so I could keep you close in the battle tomorrow—so we can fight together and protect one another. I made you my bodyguard, but I am also yours, don't you see?"
Alodia's mouth opened, but she did not speak. She frowned, realizing his words made a certain sense. But she shook her head. "But...even if we both survive, I am still betrothed..."
"...to a man whose star is in decline, while mine is in ascendance," he said, explaining the other part of his plan. "We will win tomorrow, my darling, and you and I and our hundred men will be a key part of that victory. The King will want to reward me. Your father will want to reward me. They will offer me titles and lands, but I will refuse; there will be other battles to win against the Vikings before they leave your land, other chances to win those prizes. After tomorrow, I will accept only one prize, and that is your hand," he explained, steepling his fingers against hers, then intertwining them.
Alodia closed her eyes and a sad smile appeared on her lips. She shook her head where it lay against his broad chest. "You are a confident man, Lucius, and you have good reason to be. But even the best plans have a way of going awry. So many things can go wrong..."
"Then you adjust the plan," Lucius explained patiently. "And you anticipate what can go wrong and plan contingencies. You must trust me, Alodia, I've looked at this from every angle, and it always ends the same way: with you and I together."
Alodia looked at him, her green eyes adoring but sad, and smiled. "I hope you are right, I truly do." She lifted her head, leaned forward, and kissed him softly on the lips. He reached behind her head and gently took hold of several strands of her long red hair. He pulled her head down, pressing her lips against his again. The kiss deepened, along with their breath. Her breasts pressed softly against his chest. Her hand reached down and brushed against his sex, which was already stirring with arousal once again.
Marcellus then pulled her head back, breaking the kiss. "Again?" he asked her, smiling seductively. She laughed softly and smiled. Then she nodded. And around them, for just a little while, it seemed as if the world had gone still, and was holding its breath.
Just before daybreak the next day, the army was on the move. The battlefield was not far away, a little over an hour's march. Marcellus marched at the head of the army, in front of his elite force of one hundred men.
The strategy, of necessity for such a large, relatively undisciplined force, was simple: divide and conquer. Marcellus' unit would be the spear point of the Saxon force, plunging directly into the front and center of the enemy's line. Much of the best Saxon fighters would follow behind them and on each flank. They would drive a wedge between the enemy force, cutting them in half to prevent them from functioning together. Deogol would be in the group directly behind Marcellus' force; he didn't care much for having his would-be murderer at his back, but didn't have much choice.
By the time the Saxons reached the battlefield, they could make out the huge enemy force massing across the grassy expanse from them. As near as Marcellus and the other Saxons could reckon, the Vikings appeared equal in number to their own host. The battlefield was a large, open expanse, flat and grassy, mostly bereft of trees. There were two small copses of trees in two dips in the terrain, right in between the two opposing forces.
The battle horns sounded and the drums on both sides began to pound. The Saxons could hear the loud, belligerent shouts of the Norsemen opposite and countered with war cries of their own.
Just before the battle started, a man rode forward with a message for Marcellus. He identified himself as an Earldorman, one of the high-ranking nobles advising King Alfred, and responsible for the King's intelligence. In other words, a spy.
"We've heard word of a formidable warrior the Vikings have in their force," he said. "Not enough to turn the tide of battle, of course, but the King thought you should be aware. He's likely to be in the center of their force, so you're likely to meet him."
Marcellus nodded. "Does this warrior have a name?" he asked.
"He calls himself Loki, after their pagan god of chaos and mischief," the man said.
"Charming," was Marcellus' response. Once the advisor had left, he turned to Alodia. "Are you still afraid?" he asked her quietly, so no one else could hear.
"Now that the battle is upon us, I have no time for fear," she said, her green eyes looking boldly into his. Then they softened, just for a moment. "And as long as you are near, I shall fear nothing," she said, and favored him with a fleeting smile, which he returned. At that very moment, a battle horn sounded, and their eyes turned towards the enemy. The battle was on.
The two sides approached one another across the open field, the spring sun gleaming off helmets, shields, the blades of spears, swords, and battle-axes. The beating of the war drums and the shouting voices of men filled every ear on both sides. Advancing on foot with his force, Alodia at his side, Marcellus felt the same exhilaration he'd always felt going into battle leading a force of men. There was always a chance a blow would get through his defenses and cripple him, or even decapitate him and thus end his long life. The thrill, and the fear of death, made his heart beat fiercely in his chest.
The two battle lines met and clashed. The sound of metal against metal, of swords, shields, and battleaxes clanging, reverberated across the battlefield. Men shouted as they attacked and screamed as they fell. The loamy scent of disturbed earth and the acrid smell of freshly-spilled blood filled the air. In the midst of the chaos, Marcellus' hundred men clung to a semblance of order. They kept their shields and spear-tips forward, maintaining the shield-wall for the time being. The Roman had taken five days to teach the entire group to move and fight as one, to support one another and to drive towards the same goal. Above all, they would listen for and respond instantly to his shouted orders.
Opposing them, the Vikings mostly fought with battleaxes, though some used swords. The heavy, sharp axes could deliver terrible killing blows, but their size and weight, as Marcellus had described to his troops, slowed their wielders. The Vikings swung the axes and did some damage, but not nearly as much as they were used to. The long spears of the shield-wall held them at bay, reducing the effectiveness of the axes. Viking after Viking fell to wounds inflicted by the stabbing spears when they tried to attack the bristling Saxon shield-wall. Gradually the Vikings were pushed back.
As the Saxons sensed the Viking line weakening, their exhilaration began to overcome their discipline. The shield wall began to break apart as more and more Saxons stepped out of the formation to attack individual Vikings. The Saxons began to abandon their spears, often leaving them deep in the belly of a dying Viking, and unsheathed their short, single-edged swords.
Their Norse opponents, seeing the impenetrable shield-wall opening up, began to counter-attack. The battle could have been lost at this point, but Marcellus had anticipated this course of events. The men he had trained employed his tactics against the Viking battle-axes. They struck at the Vikings on their lengthy backswings, before they could bring their weapons to bear, or side-stepped their opponents' blows and struck before the Norsemen could recover and try again. Slowly, the Viking counter-attack began to crumble and the hundred men penetrated further into the Viking line.
All this time Marcellus and Alodia fought at one another's side. They had trained for days to fight together, to watch one another's backs, and now it paid off. The Vikings spotted Alodia and sneered and shouted, desperate to strike down this impudent girl who thought she could match them in battle. Scores of the Norsemen threw themselves at the duo, and they all fell to their blades. It was as though Alodia were a bright red flame, and the Vikings were moths drawn to her, only to fall dead upon contact.
As the Viking force split into two, the Saxon's best and fiercest warriors followed the leading wedge. Now came a crucial point as Marcellus' force found itself surrounded on both flanks. This is when he knew the fiercest fighting would occur, and this is where the battle would be won or lost. The Vikings rallied yet again, and the Saxons were pushed back momentarily. But the Saxons were fighting for their adopted land, for their very way of life; a fierceness borne of desperation made them rally in turn, and the Vikings began to fall back further. The Saxon force, sensing victory, pressed on. Wave after wave of Saxons fell upon the faltering Vikings, wearing them down.
It was at this point, over three hours into the battle, that Marcellus noticed they had pushed well beyond the midway point of the battlefield. To his right, mere yards away, stood one of the two copses of trees he had spotted earlier. Men flowed around the trees, rarely venturing in between them. The foliage made visibility within the copse problematic, and the men of both sides seemed adverse to entering the trees and running the risk of being ambushed. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcellus spotted a Viking who'd apparently lost his nerve and was running back from the fighting and into the trees. He saw a Saxon run after the Viking, and instantly recognize the pursuer: Thane Deogol, the man who had tried to kill him. Marcellus smiled wolfishly. He would not get a better opportunity. He quickly dispatched two Vikings who had the temerity to challenge him and turned towards the trees.
"Wait!" Alodia shouted at him. This was not part of the plan; they were to stay together. "Where are you going?"
"Wait here," Marcellus told her. "Fight alongside Algar. I'll be back!" Alodia shouted an objection, but Marcellus turned as he ran and shouted, "Follow my orders!"
Marcellus entered the copse of trees through some tall bushes that surrounded it. When he entered, it seemed as though he had entered another world. The sounds of the battle surrounded him but were muffled by the leaves on the bushes and the tree canopy. The copse was perhaps thirty yards in diameter, and it would provide perfect cover for what he wanted to do. He heard a shout within the trees and ran towards it, ducking around tree trunks and jumping over their gnarled roots. Within seconds he found Deogol, his sword embedded in the cowardly Viking's back.
Deogol pulled his sword from the dying Norse warrior and turned, intending to return to the battle. He saw Marcellus waiting for him and froze in his tracks. His eyes went wide at the still-impossible sight of the man he thought he had stabbed and left for dead. The blood drained from his face. Marcellus, for his part, smiled and stepped forward casually.
"Deogol, my friend," Marcellus said. "stabbing someone else in the back. How do you think you'd do in fair fight?" He raised his sword and beckoned the Saxon towards him.
"You should be dead!" Deogol shouted, but made no move to attack.
"Prove it, boy," Marcellus snarled.
Whether it was through fear, or anger, or desperation, Deogol found the courage to attack. He shouted and charged towards Marcellus. He drew back his sword and swung it at the Roman. Marcellus stood his ground, then pivoted backwards and to his right. He swatted away Deogol's desperate blow with his own sword, then contemptuously drove his sword hilt into the Saxon's face, just between his eyes. Deogol's feet flew out from under him, and his sword fell away from his hand. He landed on his back, his ribs striking against a hard tree root. He lay groaning on the ground as Marcellus stood over him.
The Roman Immortal drove his sword into the soft ground and pulled a dagger from his belt. He knelt down, grabbed Deogol's long black hair, and lifted him to a sitting position. He placed a hand over the Saxon's mouth and positioned the knife over the man's right kidney. Sensing what was about to happen, Deogol struggled weakly in Marcellus' grip. The Immortal leaned his head down and whispered into Deogol's ear.
"Die the death you had planned for me, traitor," he hissed, and plunged the knife into Deogol's side. "Die knowing that I will indeed take your woman," he went on, twisting the blade as his victim writhed in his death throes. "Alodia is mine. You're not worthy of her." Soon, the man's struggles' grew weaker, and Marcellus let him drop to the ground, quite dead. He wiped the blade on Deogol's tunic and returned it to his belt. He then retrieved his sword and returned to the battle.
Stepping out of the copse of trees, Marcellus saw that his hundred men had moved a few yards ahead. He spotted Alodia's bright red hair, loosely flowing from under her helmet, a few dozen yards away and began to run past the other combatants to rejoin her. Marcellus had nearly reached her and the line of opposing Vikings when he suddenly came to a dead stop. The tingling sensation in his temples and the back of his head warned him of the presence of another Immortal. His gray eyes scanned the area, seeking the other of his kind. Then he spotted him.
A tall man, well over six feet in height, stared back at him from some fifty-odd feet away. He wore the horned helmet and carried the huge battle-axe of the Vikings. A light blue woolen tunic was stretched across his barrel-like chest; black leggings encased his thick thighs, while fur pelts were tied around his calves and feet by leather straps. He had a long brown beard, and Marcellus could see him smiling maliciously beneath it.
"Loki," Marcellus said, knowing instinctively that this was the warrior about whom he had been warned.
The other Immortal saw Marcellus mouth his name and nodded. He began to slowly, confidently walk towards the Roman. "Lately, yes," he called out in Saxon over the din of battle. "But not always. I am Cergitorix of Gaul. And you are?"
"I am Lucius Gaius Marcellus, Citizen of Rome," Marcellus answered evenly.
The Gaul laughed when he heard that, then switched languages to Latin. "Indeed? A Roman? Oh, this will be a pleasure!" he roared, and patted his side. Hanging there, Marcellus saw one of the old, short Roman stabbing swords, a gladius, in a scabbard. No doubt the huge Gaul had taken it from a dead legionnaire, probably centuries ago.
Marcellus had never hated the Gauls and had often admired their prowess as warriors. Nevertheless, they had paid the price for opposing Rome; Caesar had seen to that, as had Marcellus serving under him. But this Gaul, now fighting in the guise of a Viking, raised his ire. He took an instant dislike to the man. Marcellus glanced around himself, however; they were surrounded by hundreds of mortals engaged in combat. This was not the time or the place for a Quickening. Not that Cergitorix seemed to care; he kept advancing while Marcellus stood his ground.
A few yards away, Alodia heard Marcellus speak his own name and turned to look for him. She then spotted the huge Viking advancing towards her beloved and her heart leapt to her throat. This is what she had feared. She saw all the hope Marcellus had given her for a better life about to be dashed in the next instant. Unless she acted; the Viking was closer to her than to Marcellus. She shouted her family's battle cry and ran at the Viking, her sword raised to strike.
Cergitorix heard her shout and turned to face her. He warded off her blow with the blade of his battle-axe. Before she could draw back and strike again, he quickly swung the handle of the axe around and struck her shoulder with it. Alodia fell to the ground as Marcellus watched in horror from a few yards away. He ran towards them. Though he moved with all his speed, he felt as though he was running through water. He saw the Gaul's eyes widen as he sensed Alodia's true nature; saw the man turn towards him and smile maliciously. Then he turned back to Alodia, towering over where she lay on her side on the wet ground, and drew his battleaxe back.
Marcellus was still several feet away. He shouted Alodia's name. Whether she heard him or whether some other instinct took hold of her, Alodia looked up and saw the axe swinging towards her. She rolled away from it. The Gaul's axe missed her neck and buried itself deep in the ground. Cergitorix left it there and drew the old Roman sword from his belt. He knelt down. With his free hand he grabbed Alodia's leg to prevent her escape; she lay writhing and kicking on her back. Marcellus raised his sword. He was only a few steps away.
Cergitorix stabbed the sword down. Marcellus lunged forward. The old Roman sword plunged into Alodia's abdomen. She cried out in pain, her green eyes open wide. The sword went through her and pinned her to the ground. She clasped it with her hands. Marcellus' sword, a second too late, plunged into the Gaul's ribs. The huge man's head tossed back and he bellowed with pain. He wrenched the short sword out of Alodia. Her back arched in agony.
Marcellus pulled his sword out of the Gaul. The huge man swung at him with the bloodied short sword. Marcellus leapt over his swing and plunged his sword into the Gaul's torso again, this time striking the man's heart. He collapsed onto his side once Marcellus pulled his sword out. Marcellus held his sword to the man's neck; the Gaul's eyes, narrowed with pain, looked up into his and saw that the Roman would not risk a Quickening surrounded by so many mortals. He smiled.
"Another time, Roman..." Cergitorix wheezed, then his eyes closed.
Marcellus stepped away from the dead Gaul and looked towards Alodia. She lay on the ground, blood oozing from her wound. Her hands, soaked with blood, desperately pressed against the gash. Her green eyes were open wide and her breaths were ragged. Suddenly Algar and a handful of Marcellus' men ran forward; they gathered her up and carried her back several yards, away from the fighting, as Marcellus followed. They laid her on a clean patch of grass. Marcellus knelt down and gathered her in his arms while the others stood in silent shock. Alodia's eyes, their lids heavier now, saw him.
"You'll...sing a song about me?" she whispered.
Marcellus brushed her red hair out of her eyes and away from her forehead. "I'll write one," he promised her.
"Good," she said, smiling wanly. Then her smile vanished and her eyes grew wide. "I love you," she said.
"I thought you hated me," Marcellus joked softly.
"That too," she answered. Then her eyes clenched tight and her lips pulled back in a grimace. Blood trickled from her mouth. Her body convulsed. "It...hurts..." she said, her eyes opening and looking into his.
"I know it does, my love," Marcellus said as a single tear rolled down his cheek. "But only for a little while." He leaned forward and brushed her lips with his own. When he straightened, she was gone. Her eyes stared emptily into the blue sky above them. Marcellus gently closed them.
For several moments he knelt there on the ground, not moving, the body of his beloved dead in his arms. Several of his men stood around, staring. A few dozen yards away the battle still raged. It might as well have been on another world. Then Marcellus straightened. He looked up and spoke to two of the men he had trained.
"Take her body back to her father," he said. The men knelt and picked up her limp corpse. Marcellus stood. He turned and looked at the men around him, then turned back towards the battle. He took up his sword from where he had dropped it on the ground to cradle Alodia. He lifted the blade above his head.
"ALODIA!!" he shouted.
The men paused for a heartbeat, then lifted their own swords. "ALODIA!!" they shouted. As a group, they ran back to the front line, shouting her name. The rest of the hundred men heard the call and took it up. They knew its meaning. They knew the red-haired warrior woman, the beloved of their commander, had fallen. Then the rest of the Saxon army took up the cry. The thought of Alodia's death filled them not with sorrow or despair, but righteous anger. The Vikings had killed their last Saxon woman, they decided to a man. Still calling her name, their fury stoked, the Saxons unleashed their outrage on the hapless Vikings. By falling in battle, Alodia provided her people's army with the last push it needed. Within an hour, the enemy was defeated and had retreated from the battlefield. Victory was theirs.
As he heard the horns blowing, ordering the Viking retreat, Marcellus collapsed to his knees on the blood-soaked ground. He hung his head in despair. No, she was not truly dead; he knew that. But he had wanted so much to protect her, to shield her from the lonely, homeless, eternal life of an Immortal. A more optimistic man would have focused on how her youth and beauty would now be preserved forever, on how she could, potentially, provide companionship for him. But Marcellus could not entertain those thoughts—not yet. All he could think about was the terrible, terrible trial that now awaited them both.