SYDNEY COULDN’T REMEMBER MAKING her way across the arena to stand in front of Alex. Her heart was running too hard, her thoughts a haze of panic. Someone plucked her veil and filet from her head as she stepped out, leaving her bare headed and her hair in the long braid down her back.
The sounds the crowd were making washed over her, adding to her disorientation. They were delighted. Both sides were equally as thrilled at the coming match. They were eager for it. She couldn’t make out individual words, although the frantic roaring excitement was unmistakable.
Alex watched her approach with a calm expression. He had not withdrawn his sword yet. He stood with his hand resting on the hilt.
Sydney was breathing hard by the time she reached him.
He gave her a very small smile, one that wouldn’t be seen from afar. “They want a show, Sydney. We have to give them that if we are to survive this.”
She swallowed. “I can’t kill you. Even if you were human, I couldn’t.”
“Mercia must win,” he said. “Do your best.” He stepped back, pulling out his sword in a vision-defeating blur of speed.
Sydney just barely pulled her sword and threw it up in time. Their blades clashed, the sound ringing in her ears. Fright tore through her. Was he really trying to kill her? That was imp—
He swung again, this time a cutting sideways motion that would come under her guard.
She parried with a chopping stroke, throwing his blade aside, then lunged forward, driving the point of her own sword in toward his torso. The movement was automatic, a product of hours and hours of fencing training that Rafe had insisted she take and many more hours spent with Alex and Rafe as they took her through more ancient forms of sword fighting than the modern and elegant sport of fencing could teach her.
Alex jumped out of the way easily and fell back a step, measuring her, his sword swinging in an easy circle. It was the doodling of a man used to swords and from the sounds the townsfolk were making, they had recognized his ease and skill, too.
Sydney found she could breathe once more. The initial panic had abated. Now, even though her heart was a runaway express train, trying to tear itself from her chest, she could at least think.
The moves, the strategies she had painfully learned came flooding back. The mental mode where she could think of nothing but winning the fight clicked into place in her mind.
She brought the sword up into the high guard position and attacked, moving as fast as she could.
Alex stepped into her rush and their swords locked. For a moment, they were body-to-body, eye to eye. “You’re being predictable,” he told her, his tone withering. Then he grabbed the back of her head and kissed her.
Fury erupted inside her, white hot and explosive, made worse by the laughter that erupted from the audience.
She shoved him away. He had been expecting the shove and merely walked away, his balance unaffected by the push.
Then he came at her again and she suddenly had no time to think. His attack was blindingly fast and she could barely parry his thrusts and cuts. She fell back and back again as he kept up the pressure. Her fighting brain told her he was trying to corner her against the barrier.
With a turn and parry, she dodged underneath his arm and moved away from the barrels and bars back toward the center of the arena. She pulled out her long knife and hefted it in her left hand.
Alex smiled. It was a feral expression, one that delighted the crowd. He came at her again, only this time she could see by the shift of his shoulders that he was going to feint to her left. He was telegraphing, telling her what he was going to do.
He feinted and she dodged easily, then threw both sword and knife up in a high arc to block his sword as it swung up and came down again.
There was a squeal of metal on metal, as the three blades came together and locked.
Sydney tilted her head to look at him. “A show, huh?” She jerked her knee up and rammed it into his crotch and spun away, her sword squealing as it was pulled out of the lock.
With both knife and sword held up in front of her, she backed away from Alex where he stood bent over from the waist, recovering. She knew she had not really harmed him. Her knee had connected solidly with his inner thigh, yet he was pretending she had driven her knee deep into his genitals.
People were pounding on the barrels, screaming their delight. For them, this was much better than cowering behind palisades while armies fought each other to bloody pulp, waiting to find out if their homes would be plundered and their women raped, or if they would survive the day at all.
Alex turned to find her. He straightened up with the help of his sword, then walked slowly over to where she was waiting. His eyes were narrowed.
They came together with another clash of metal and fought each other off, circling and returning to re-engage, over and over again. Sydney’s heart settled into steady rhythm as she worked the fight, anticipating what Alex would do next and maximizing the impact.
Then, when they were close enough to speak, Alex said shortly, “Time to end it.”
“How?”
They separated and paused, eyeing each other.
“Now,” Alex said and came at her with the same frightening speed that he had used with his first sally. He chopped and slashed, driving her steadily backward as she tried to think how a woman, even a strong and skilled one, could overcome a man who was as skilled as Alex clearly was. They had to make it look realistic.
That was when her feet went out from under her. It was as if she had stepped on black ice. There was no grip for her boot at all and she fell backward and landed on her butt and her back, just barely holding her head up so that she didn’t knock herself out on the stones.
Alex raised the sword, point down, as if he intended to drive it into her and lunged forward.
His foot slid, spilling him sideways.
Sydney rolled herself out of the way with a Herculean effort. She had dropped her sword, but she still had her knife. She pushed herself to her feet as Alex propped himself up on the ground with one hand, recovering his balance. Moving as fast as she could, she stamped on the flat of his blade, trapping it under her foot. She grabbed his hair in her fist and yanked his head back and rested the knife against his throat.
Alex grew still.
Sydney looked up and around her. Everyone watching the arena was on their feet, except for Llewelyn and Aethelfreda and Alfwynn, whose face was even whiter, her eyes enormous.
“Kill him, kill him…!” The crowed was chanting the blood-thirsty demand.
Sydney waited until the chant died out. Then she lifted her voice. “He’s too useful to kill,” she cried.
Jeers and sounds of disappointment.
She waited again for the volume to die before speaking. “I say we put him to work for Mercia, instead of Powys,” she declared. “I name him as my prize for winning for Mercia!” She shoved Alex forward again and tossed the knife away. It skidded and clattered across the stones.
The noise was deafening as she headed over to the awnings where the two leaders sat. She stopped in front of them, trying to catch her breath. “I believe that Mercia wins the day.”
“Mercia wins most handsomely, indeed,” Llewelyn said. He did not sound upset about it. There was even a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. His dark eyes considered Sydney closely. “How could we win against such a disarming weapon, my Lady of Mercia?”
Aethelfreda gave him a polite smile. “You agree to the prize my champion has claimed?”
“I would be hanged by my toes by your people if I did not grant the prize,” Llewelyn replied, inclining his head in a courtly manner.
“Then we should return to my chamber to settle the terms of this agreement,” Aethelfreda said, getting to her feet. She waved to Wulfstan, who hurried over and bent his head to hear her over the noise in the square. “There are barrels of ale in the storerooms. Open them. A cup for whoever wants it, for as long as the ale lasts. We should let them enjoy this day.” She glanced at Llewelyn. “Your men should join the merriment, my Lord. They have earned it.”
Llewelyn nodded toward the arena behind Sydney. “I believe they have decided that for themselves.”
Sydney glanced behind her. The barrels and branches had been rolled aside and people were everywhere, shouting and talking to each other. Everyone was smiling, even Powys.
Two of Wulfstan’s lieutenants were making their way through the crowd, a hand each on Alex’s arms, pulling him toward the awning.
“Bring your man with you, Sunngifu,” Aethelfreda told her. “I want you by my side as we settle this.”
Alex was hiding a smile. His eyes, though, were dancing with merriment.
That was when Sydney realized that her prize for winning the fight was a slave of her own.
* * * * *
Servants brought Aethelfreda’s big chair in from the town square and arranged it opposite the slightly smaller chair that Llewelyn had spent the afternoon sitting upon, as his captains and Aethelfreda’s filed into the room and formed a loose circle around them.
Llewelyn had barely lowered himself down onto the cushions, however, when someone pushed their way through the door into the small room, shoving people aside in his haste.
It was a Powys man, unarmed, red in the face and sweating heavily under his cloak. He looked very young. “The Northmen are coming!” he cried. “Their sails have been seen on the south tributary of the Afon River!”
Llewelyn sat up straight. “That will bring them within three miles of Mathrafel,” he said quietly. “How many ships?”
“Twenty-five, they say.” The boy gulped.
“That is an invasion force,” Aethelfreda said, just as quietly.
The silence in the room was eloquent. Sydney could almost hear their fear. She glanced at Alex, who was standing just behind her shoulder as a good slave should. He shook his head just enough for her to see it. He didn’t know any more about this than she did.
“Where is Rafe?” she whispered so softly even she could barely hear it. It would be loud enough for Alex to hear in this crowded room.
Again, he shook his head. All the humor in his expression had evaporated.
Llewelyn bent forward toward Aethelfreda, even though the movement must have pained his injured leg. “My Lady, even though Powys lost today, I would ask you to consider riding with me to meet this new threat. The Vikings know we are vulnerable. They are striking at the very heart of Powys, to remove us from the board so they are free to plunder their way into England itself.”
Aethelfreda pressed her lips together. “We agreed upon this day of games to avoid the unnecessary bloodshed of our people. If Mercia does not ride with you to meet this threat, then we would be condemning those same people.”
“We must ride at once,” Llewelyn said. He tried to stand up, then with a grunt, rose on one leg, the injured one resting lightly on the floor. “We must turn back the Vikings first. Then, when our western shore is secure once more, I will meet the terms of the agreement we reached this day. I will present myself to your high king.”
Aethelfreda nodded at Wulfstan, who turned to face the room. “All hands! All arms! Gather at once! We ride at sunset!”
“And I will go prepare my own men for the ride,” Llewelyn said. Two of his captains came forward to prop him up and help him walk.
That was when Alex caught the back of Sydney’s elbow. “Quietly. Ease your way out of the room. We must ride even faster than these two armies,” he said softly by her ear.
The room was emptying as people hurried away to pack and prepare. They were almost running. Sydney looked at Alex. “To where?”
“To find Rafe. I think he’s in Mathrafel.”
“Where the Vikings are sailing to?” Something shifted in her chest, making her heart hurt.
“Yes, where the Vikings are heading. We must beat everyone there and pull Rafe out from under the war of three kingdoms.”
* * * * *
The window in the king’s chamber at Mathrafel gave a view down the valley toward the river that glinted in the distance, the water dancing in the last of the sunlight. Rafe was familiar with the view. Siorus had been staring out the window for the last three hours, motionless.
Rafe shifted on the king’s chair. It was the only seat in the room. Siorus had released his bonds once they had reached the fortress, for his men guarded the door and the window looked down upon a hundred foot drop to the ditch far below the palisade that protected the hill the fortress was built upon. There was nowhere for Rafe to go.
“They’re coming, aren’t they?” Rafe said at last. “That is what you are watching. Viking sails heading down the Afon. That’s why you sent the boy galloping to the east this morning. The Vikings are nearly here, weeks before the date you arranged with them.”
Siorus glanced at him and said nothing. There was a troubled look in his eyes that confirmed Rafe’s guess.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” Rafe asked. “You’ve changed history. You’ve changed the way this was supposed to go.”
“You and your doctor friend have done some changing of your own,” Siorus pointed out.
“We were changing it back!”
Siorus looked at him, startled.
Rafe got to his feet. He couldn’t sit any longer. “You don’t understand, do you? The changes you have been trying to make to get even with whoever it is has trickled down to the future. That’s where we came from, the future that you made.”
Siorus gave a small smile. “Then it worked,” he said softly.
“Not anymore.” Rafe pointed at the window, moving toward it. “They’re here, much sooner than you expected, much sooner that I remember them coming. Now, not even you can guess what will happen next. We’re in a dark time where anything can happen. The future is anyone’s guess.”
Siorus’ eyes narrowed. “I do not care how the future changes, as long as it does change. That will be enough.”
“Plato should have kicked your ass out of his school,” Rafe raged. “You don’t get how dangerous this is! You have no idea how what you do now will affect the future.”
Siorus shrugged and turned back to the window.
Rafe brought the metal cup down on the back of Siorus’ head, as hard as he could. Unlike humans, a blow to the back of the head wouldn’t permanently hurt Siorus at all. He slumped to the floor with a satisfying grunt of pain and grew still.
“Your turn,” Rafe told him.
He put the cup back next to the king’s chair, pulled Siorus’ sword from his belt and headed for the door. He had a whole fortress of Siorus’ men to wade through and no time to waste.