Tear Of The Gods

Tear Of The Gods
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The legacy of a pagan king could unleash terror on the worldIt started as a dream–a redheaded warrior king fought and died for his men centuries ago. The dream would lead archaeologist Annja Creed to the king's undisturbed corpse…and one of England's greatest mythical artifacts.Deep in an archaeological dig in England's Midlands, Annja locates a braided necklace around a mummified king's neck. Made of an unusual material–not quite obsidian, but gleaming with multihued color–the torc is an astonishing find. But someone knows exactly what the torc means. And he will do anything to get his hands on the Tear of the Gods. When the dig is compromised and innocent archaeologists are slain, even Annja herself is left for dead. Now she is fleeing for her life, not knowing the terrifying truth about the relic she risks everything to protect–or the devastating consequences should it fall into the wrong hands….

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“I want that torc, Mr. Jackson.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good enough.” The man turned and headed up the stairs, but stopped before he’d gotten more than a few steps away. He turned to face Jackson once more.

“This woman, the one with the sword. Do we know who she was?”

Jackson nodded. “An American archaeologist named Annja Creed.” He took a photo out of the file folder in his hands and passed it to his employer. The picture had been taken at the dig site and showed Annja’s still and bloodied face.

The other man stared at it for a few seconds, then passed it back.

“She was a pretty thing, wasn’t she?”

Titles in this series:

Destiny

Solomon’s Jar

The Spider Stone

The Chosen

Forbidden City

The Lost Scrolls

God of Thunder

Secret of the Slaves

Warrior Spirit

Serpent’s Kiss

Provenance

The Soul Stealer

Gabriel’s Horn

The Golden Elephant

Swordsman’s Legacy

Polar Quest

Eternal Journey

Sacrifice

Seeker’s Curse

Footprints

Paradox

The Spirit Banner

Sacred Ground

The Bone Conjurer

Tribal Ways

The Dragon’s Mark

Phantom Prospect

Restless Soul

False Horizon

The Other Crowd

Tear of the Gods

Rogue Angel>™

Tear of The Gods

Alex Archer

www.mirabooks.co.uk

THE LEGEND

…THE ENGLISH COMMANDER TOOK JOAN’S SWORD AND RAISED IT HIGH.

The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.

Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn….

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

1

Myrrdin sat high astride his horse and stared down the slope of the hill at the Roman army amassing in the valley below. What was left of his command was gathered at his back, but it was pitifully small compared to the enemy presence before him.

It was hard to believe that things had gone wrong so swiftly.

Less than a week before, he’d been war leader to Queen Boudica herself and had led an army of more than eighty thousand souls across Britannia, carving a path of destruction in their wake. They had destroyed the colony at Camulodunum and had marched against first Verulamium, and then Londinium itself, sacking each city and slaying as many of the invaders as they could find. Blood flowed like a river wherever they went, appeasing the anger of the gods at the presence of the Roman invaders and bestowing blessings upon the Iceni as a result.

Nothing, it seemed, could stand in their way.

Nothing, that was, until the coming of Gaius Suetonius Paulinus.

Even thinking of the Roman’s name was enough to make Myrrdin curse aloud and spit on the ground. He longed to carve the man’s flesh from his bones and feed it the crows. He prayed to the gods that he would get his chance before the battle was over.

What a difference seventy-two hours made.

Less than five thousand men remained of the army that had met Paulinus and the soldiers of the XIV Gemina on the field of battle three days before. Few, if any, of his senior commanders still lived, for they had stood their ground and fought on even when the battle had turned in the Romans’ favor. Myrrdin would have gone down fighting alongside them if the queen hadn’t ordered him to retreat, to ensure that someone still remained who could rally the remnants of the Iceni and see to it that their people’s sacrifice was not in vain.

How he wished he had never left her side!

He reached up and fingered the torc he wore about his neck, the one Boudica had entrusted to him before the battle. She’d always claimed it to be the root of her power, that the metal from which it was formed, the metal given to them by the very gods themselves, protected her time and time again. But Boudica was dead now, poisoned by her own hand while in Roman custody rather than be handed over to Paulinus’s troops as a plaything for their amusement. When word reached him earlier that morning of her fate, he wept, wondering if he’d condemned her to death simply by taking the torc.

Not that it mattered now; what was done was done.

Myrrdin was a good enough tactician to know that at this point there was no way the Iceni could win. They were outnumbered and the Romans were not only better armed but better armored, as well. If he hadn’t been able to beat them with eighty thousand warriors at his command, there was no way he was going to be able to do so with only five thousand. But there was no question of retreat. He would rather die on the field of battle, sword in hand, than be hunted down like a dog in the weeks to come.



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