Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (38 page)

“I will have to think it over and send you a message. For now, I must return to the hall.” With an expressionless face, he bowed and placed his arm across his chest in farewell.

But he did not say, “For always.”

Vodenix had followed Mailart and heard his conversation with the Carthaginian. Standing out of sight in the dark wood, his eyes glistened as he listened and considered his brother. He knew Mailart had a traitorous heart—some would say it ran in their family. Vodenix had killed his own father, the Veneti’s old chief, and almost lost his life for that. The old council proclaimed Vodenix a murderer and tried to hang him from a tall tree—it almost worked. The rope cinched his neck, and he dangled, kicking his legs, before the limb broke and he dropped to the ground. His brother had carefully splintered the limb ahead of time, so it would not hold the weight of a hanging man. He had promised Malairt they would share the leadership if he helped him escape. The fall knocked the wind out of him. When he came to, the tribe’s wise man stood over him saying the gods willed Vodenix to live. The Druid had been threatened and bribed by his brother. They poisoned him soon after; it looked like the natural death of an old man. Now Malairt was his trader and spy. He never openly shared the leadership with him and never trusted him either. Vodenix carried the rope burn scar on his neck—a warning to anyone who thought to cross him. The gods wanted him to live.

Vodenix gave careful thought to what his brother had said. He was angry that Malairt didn’t tell him about this plan he had so carefully worked out.

Malairt thinks too much. But that is why he is so useful.
What else might he be planning? Maybe some deal with Derbhorgill? Yes, that would be how he would work, and Vodenix knew he wouldn’t know about it until it was too late. And he was sure that, in the end, Malairt would find some way to kill him.

Vodenix walked soundlessly, following his brother and the Carthaginian as they started back toward the hall. It was silent in the woods, deserted, with everyone busy talking and getting drunk in the hall.

So what was little brother planning? It was a good idea to get rid of the troublesome girl. It would be hard to keep her alive and conceal it from Derbhorgill.

But then he remembered something about a Durotriges prophecy a trader told him. A prophet—or was it a seer?—was born with a spiral mark on its head. The girl had that tattoo! She tried to conceal her cheek; she might be the one and that would be valuable. People traveled great distances to hear a prophet or seer and could bring much wealth to him. Suddenly a new thought struck Vodenix.

Why get rid of her? Why not keep her—marry her—and claim the Durotriges throne! She was the daughter of Caradoc and the rightful heir, not Derbhorgill’s weak son. He could still supply the Greeks at Massalia and have no costly trades with Derbhorgill. Vodenix would be king of both tribes.

He stopped abruptly as he realized Malairt’s deceit. That was what he planned; Mailart wanted the girl for himself! Vodenix nodded and felt the satisfaction of solving a puzzle. He would trade some tin with the Carthaginian—whatever it took—and the Carthaginian would leave. He would have the girl and the reward was beyond anything he now had.

But first there was the problem of Malairt. His clever, little brother, who had figured all this out, was somehow planning to cross him. He wasn’t quite sure how, but Vodenix knew he planned something.

They were back at the hall and the Carthaginian entered, leaving Malairt behind. Vodenix called to Malairt, who jumped when he heard his brother’s voice.

“I’ve been looking for you. Come walk with me and we will talk.” Vodenix grasped his arm in a friendly way. They walked away from any chance person overhearing their conversation; their talks were always secretive.

“I overheard your plan with the Carthaginian. You were very clever to think of that,” Vodenix said.

Malairt looked warily at him. He had clearly not wanted anyone to overhear that conversation. Vodenix smiled at him and that was never a good sign.

“I think he will do as you suggested, brother. But I have a better idea. Listen.” Vodenix put his left arm around his brother’s shoulder and started explaining what he planned—the marriage—the great wealth under his control—the leadership of two powerful tribes. Malairt had a sickly look on his face.

“And I have heard a story about a prophecy—someone born with a spiral mark. That girl has one and tries to conceal it. Think of that,” he said. “She would be valuable. A wife who is a seer or prophet—it doesn’t matter which.”

Vodenix smiled at him again and, pulling a knife from his belt, reached his right arm over Mailart’s chest and swiftly struck him, right under the rib cage. It was the place of death, straight up into the heart. It was a good thrust. Malairt sagged to the ground, his eyes open in shock. Vodenix gave him one last smile as the wound stopped bleeding and death claimed his brother.

“You were always too clever, little brother. I never trusted you.”

Vodenix turned back into the trees on another path, and started toward the corral and the slave hut.

CHAPTER 25

“Fool!” With a cry, Sabrann sank to her knees on the shell-covered dirt floor, as the bar on the slave hut slammed down.

She was trapped. She never should have listened to that evil-spirited little queen. Wild with rage at her own rash action, she stood and pounded her fists on the door, but it would not budge. The bar outside held firm, with not even a thin crack to slide a knife through. But her knife was outside, fallen while she struggled with the food bag—the bait that almost killed her.

Mor thought her a slave, to kill as she pleased. Sabrann clawed at her face, hating the tattoo; if she had her knife, she would cut it out! Now the worst would come true: Vodenix would keep her as his slave—and Glas would die. She had failed.

She screeched in frustration and slumped to the ground, leaning her back against the hut’s rough, wooden wall. Would the Admiral come looking for her? No, she thought grimly; after today he no longer needed her. He would take his gold cloth and rugs, and leave her behind.

The day slowly dragged on. Her spirits sagged deep as the heat grew inside the hut and numbed her thoughts. The air simmered. Drops of sweat inched down her spine, and a thin film of moisture covered her face. Later in the day, as the light dimmed in the dust-filled air, she drifted into a sleep-like daze, her eyes partly open.

The rough sound of the heavy bar rubbing against wood jarred Sabrann from her stupor, and the door swung open. Blinded by the sudden rays of the sun, she squinted like a mole, and then gasped at the figure standing there.

“Did you think I would not come back?”

Vodenix. Sabrann’s heart sank, and with it, any hope of release.

He had left the door partly open, and the sun—now low in the sky—slanted behind the tall pine trees, turning the sky pale yellow, the trees black. Swirls of dust motes floated lazily in the hot air.

She could see his face clearly. The light coming through the trees, cast a sickly cast to his skin. His eyes were sharp and glittering through half open slits—predator’s eyes. A whiff of some bloody, dead creature, and the stench of vacated bowels, drifted into the hut. The dog, she thought, and her stomach turned over.

“I finished dealing with your master and some others who thought to interfere.” A fleeting smile crossed his face.

“You will stay with me. I find you are more valuable than I thought.” He grabbed her face and leaned down. “You tried to conceal who you are. How clever. Not just an interpreter, but a seer and a queen. How Derbhorgill tried to trick me! She said you were dead. She will pay for that. Now, I have a new plan.” He laughed. “You will be queen and I will be king of the Veneti
and
the Durotriges.”

Sabrann’s breath left her body and the blood drained away from her head, leaving her dizzy and faint. She gasped for air. He wanted her and all the Durotriges to answer to him ... like slaves! He can’t make me, she thought wildly.

“No! I will not!”

He slapped her hard against the cheek, and twisted her arm behind her back.

“And you will learn not to say no to me. I will keep you here and plant my seed in you until you carry my child. When the Carthaginian returns next year to trade for tin—if he returns—he will find you queen of the Veneti
and
the Durotriges with my child growing inside you. He will not be so clever and try to trick me again, as he did this time.”

A horrible look crossed his face. “You know the Durotriges will accept me, for I will be the father of your child.”

He drew his arm back and slapped her face again. She spun away and struck the wall. Grasping both arms, Vodenix shoved her down to the ground. He tore her belt away and ripped apart the worn tunic.

Even as she screamed, his heavy body pushed between her legs. He twisted her arms above her head, his face distorted with a growing lust made stronger by the weakness of his captive. She could not move. One hand roughly probed her virginal opening. He reeked of wine, and his acrid sweat dropped down onto her face. She struggled to twist away, but his legs shoved her thighs apart. Swollen and thick, he pressed into her.

Blindly she struggled, twisting her head back and forth, the only part of her body she could move. “No!” she screamed, as he gave a great thrust. It was too late. He pushed deep inside, rough and hard, ripping through the fragile veil that kept her safe, kept her a young girl not yet a woman. She was not ready and felt her woman’s gateway part and rip. Sharp pain swept up through her.

His heavy body weighted her down. Her tunic gone, sharp bits of shale and crushed shells dug into her back. Gripping her hands above her head, he pressed his head against her hands, as he pounded her into the ground.

She could not bear the sight of him, and shut her eyes tight—her only defense left.

A shock went through her body. Something moved in the blackness of her mind. She heard the far-off roar of a wave growing—approaching—it couldn’t be! She didn’t want to see. It roared through the desolation of her mind, drowning everything. The wave broke above her head, blinding her thoughts as dark visions formed, and she saw into his life! Death and greed rose up; murder and evil. His father begging for his life. A Druid bowing over a death ship’s prow. Vodenix, as he thrust a knife into his brother. She couldn’t stop seeing into his life. His head was still pressed tight, locked against her captive hands.

From somewhere deep in her panic-stricken mind, she heard a familiar voice—Maigrid!

You may not like your gift, but it is a power. There will come a time when it will be a gift you will use and treasure ... Use it now!

“Murderer! Don’t touch me. I see your soul.”

It was all she could think of to say.

His movements faltered; then the heavy body stilled.

There was a sob in her voice as she spoke again. She didn’t care if he killed her now.

“You killed your father and your own brother!”

Vodenix jerked and rose up above her, still gripping her hands. His shaft lost its hardness and shriveled. She watched his face change. Anger, surprise, guilt, and fear all swiftly crossed his face. And one thought won out. Fear—great fear.

He rolled off her, and stood, his shaft flaccid, fear marking every part of his face as he tried to find a way to make her his servant.

Sabrann could almost hear his thoughts.

If she could see into his life what would she do with that knowledge?
For that was how he looked at things. What he knew gave him power. And he always used it to his own advantage.

“No one sees my soul,” he said in his horrible, rope-scarred voice, his lust gone.

“But I am a seer. There is no way to stop me, no place to hide your thoughts.” She felt Maigrid’s shining presence hover near, and it gave her strength.

Sabrann’s voice sounded strong and sure. Yet this man’s powerful body could grind her into the dirt at will, and she must not let him see her as weak. She would use what weapons she had—throw his own fear back at him like an avenging spear!