by Alex Faure
She raised her eyebrows. “And skewer yourself in the process? Those are trained warriors at your door, not errand boys.”
“I would rather be skewered than remain here.”
She let out her breath. Then she drew up a chair and sat down. “Fionn is an ass.”
Darius stared at her.
She smiled. “You think I didn’t notice? My brother is many things—brave, intelligent, caring to those deems worthy of his affection. But in many human ways, he is a fool. He loves you, but you wish to leave him. So, fool that he is, he has decided that the answer is to force you to stay with him. I suppose he also enjoys the idea of punishing you for not returning his feelings in a way he deems sufficient.”
“I’m not convinced he does love me,” Darius said bitterly. “Love isn’t jealous. It isn’t locking your beloved in a cage. Does he even have a heart, I wonder?”
“Oh, Darius.” Brigit sighed. “Fionn doesn’t lack a heart. He lacks an understanding of how to use it.”
Darius didn’t reply.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you’re being held here against your will,” she said. “I dislike the practice of keeping prisoners of war—either ransom them or kill them, I say. Men do not belong in cages. They will either die anyway, or fester and rot in their grievances, and become more dangerous than they were free.”
Darius’s eyes narrowed. “If you truly believe that, will you help me escape?”
She gave him a sympathetic look. “No, dear. I love my brother well. I love you not at all—though you are the sort of man I could grow to love, I think. I won’t do anything to hurt Fionn.” She gazed wearily out the window. “Though in this foolishness, he is hurting himself. I don’t know that he even realizes that this sort of jealous love is self-defeating. He probably thinks he will make you love him again.”
“If so, it’s not my responsibility to educate him,” Darius said. “I have neither the will to do so nor the forbearance.”
Brigit nodded. “I understand. I am curious, though, as to why you don’t wish to stay with him. I don’t mean now—I mean before he sent Agricola’s negotiators packing, when you thought you had a choice. He told me you loved him. And that you have no family back in Rome. Is that not true?”
“I—” Darius stopped, searching himself. He felt off-balance again. “This isn’t my world.”
“It could be,” she said with a shrug. “You’ve spent a large part of your life in foreign lands. Is it so hard for you to imagine yourself settling in one of them?”
Darius shook his head. “It’s beside the point,” he said roughly. “Fionn told me what he did. He is a monster.”
“He’s done monstrous things,” she said. “To protect our people and our way of life. But he’s no monster.” She leaned back, a slight smile playing on her lips. “You can’t judge my brother by human standards. Would you judge a horse that fails to thank you for a kindness? Or a wolf who bites you for freeing it from a trap?”
“Is your brother a wolf?”
“You know what he is.”
“No,” Darius said, “I don’t. Not really.”
She gave him a long look. “His father was likely one of the creatures that some call fairies, and others simply the Folk. They are cunning and sly, and can be manipulative. Cruel. They can also be munificent and doting. They are, above all things, capricious and without morals. They do precisely as they please without regard for honour or sympathy or anything we mortals value. I’m not going to say that this doesn’t describe my brother,” she added, as Darius opened his mouth. “But these qualities are tempered by his human blood. He can feel things just as we do, and he does care about honour, though it’s a kind your Roman sensibilities might disdain. It’s just that his humanity is often submerged beneath the other things that he is, obscured, as a valley by fog. Sometimes he loses himself, and needs someone to help him find his way again.”
Darius was silent for a moment. “Brigit,” he said, “he’s holding me captive.”
She sighed. She uncrossed her legs and stood, unfolding herself from the chair like a swan rising from a nest. “Eat something. I’ll be back at mid-morning.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m taking you for a walk. It will do you good,” she added in response to his expression. “There’s nothing worse for the constitution than sitting around feeling sorry for yourself.”
“My health is no concern of mine.”
“Well, it’s a concern of mine. My brother loves you, and I intend to treat you well on his behalf. Come on. You can try to devise another escape plan along the way.”
And so, an hour later, Darius found himself striding up the mountainside with Brigit. Three guards followed at a discreet distance. Darius didn’t need to wonder if he could outrun them—they were all taller than him, each armed with a bow and arrow. He wondered why Brigit thought this would improve his mood. At least in his room, he didn’t have to look at his captors.
Nevertheless, he began to feel lighter as he climbed. The exercise took his mind off his situation. There were times when, scrambling up a steep slope, clinging to gorse and weathered stone, he could think only of maintaining his balance. And it was impossible not to notice the beauty laid out below. The green sweep of the land, so rich with life, the mist wreathing the mountains like vines.
They came to the summit, which formed a gently sloping plateau. The village below was a mere scatter of pale dots along the lakeshore, some with curls of smoke emanating from their chimneys. The lake was a glass mirror of the sky, broken only by the rippling wake left by two boats, visible only as dark spots on the water. The sky was a vivid blue and dotted with puffy clouds, which seemed close enough to touch.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Brigit came to stand beside him, smiling. She had never looked lovelier—her cheeks were flushed and her golden hair tangled by the wind. She hadn’t wearied once during the trek to the summit, scrambling nimbly over scree and vegetation in a way that put Darius in mind of Fionn. “I come up here when I wish to be by myself.”
Darius raised his eyebrows at her. “That happens often, does it?”
She shoved him, laughing. “You think you know me, do you, Darius Lucilius?”
He smiled—somehow, Brigit always seemed to draw it out of him. “Not well. But I’ve noticed a few things.”
“Oh?” She raised her chin, challenging him with a piercing gaze.
“I know that you capture attention simply by striding into a room,” Darius said. “And that you enjoy this. Though you love your brother, you assume most men are foolish creatures unless proven otherwise. As much as you like company, you would rather be alone than surrounded by dullards.”
She laughed long and loud. “You have a talent for reading people, Commander.”
“Sometimes.” He looked away, his good humour fading. He strode to the other side of the peak. The sea was visible in the distance, closer than he’d guessed. He doubted it would be more than a two-day walk.
He eyed the neighbouring mountains, seeking the surest path through. That was when he noticed the smoke.
It was thin enough to be from a campfire, trickling slowly into the sky. Its source couldn’t be seen, being hidden by the bulk of the closest mountain. But what made him freeze, the breath caught in his throat, was the fact that there were two columns of it, several yards apart.
Two plumes of smoke a dozen yards apart was a signal used by the Roman army during campaigns into unfamiliar territory to help lost soldiers locate their camp. To guide them back home.
It couldn’t be. Could it?
“What is that?” Brigit said, coming to his side.
Darius pretended to squint to give himself time to recover from the shock. “Do you have sentinels on that mountain?”
She shook her head. “It may be more Robogdi spies. That smoke is coming from the track that leads north to their territory.”
Darius chose his words carefully. Brigit was clever, and he couldn�
�t offer any theories of his own without the risk of arousing her suspicions. “Lighting fires so close to Glenvaneach isn’t terribly clever. I bet that smoke could be seen from the village.”
She shook her head. “The Robogdi do not rely on cleverness to win wars. Just yesterday we found two of them under similar circumstances—near the smoking remnants of their campfire, not twenty minutes from the lakeshore.”
Darius’s heart thundered. He supposed it was possible that the smoke was not Roman in origin. Yet what if it was?
“I know the terrain well,” Brigit said, seeming to come to a decision. “There’s a lookout point close to those fires. We’ll travel there quickly, and see if we can’t spy how many of them are down there. If it’s a mere few, the archers should be able to pick them off.”
Darius didn’t argue, and Brigit turned to him, her eyes narrowing.
“I don’t have a weapon,” he said in a carefully casual voice, to misdirect her suspicion.
She gave a dismissive shake of her head. “According to Fionn, you’re not much more use with a weapon than you are unarmed. Come on.”
They made their way down the mountain again, following the northern slope this time. It took them more than an hour to reach the lookout Brigit mentioned. It was nestled into a slope midway up the mountain, where it formed a sort of saddle thick with oak trees.
“Odd,” Brigit murmured. They could see the fires through the leaves—two of them, a dozen yards apart, piled with wet shrubs to ensure they’d smoke mightily. Brigit’s face was suspicious as she scanned the forest. “I don’t like this. Someone wanted us to approach those fires.” She turned to call to the three guards, several yards behind them.
A twig snapped. Then there was a shout, and another shout.
Darius whirled. Pouring out of a natural hollow in the hillside were a dozen Roman soldiers, their breastplates and tunics concealed beneath dark cloaks. The three guards whirled, drawing their daggers. But one fell immediately, an arrow in his throat. There was a Roman archer above them, concealed behind a rock.
One of the men who leapt out of the hollow was Marcus.
“Afternoon, Commander,” he shouted to Darius. “Nice day.”
Darius made a sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh. The ground tilted, and for a moment he felt he would fall to his knees.
Marcus had returned for him. Agricola had sent men to rescue Darius. He was not a lonesome captive after all, reliant only on his own wits. He had the Empire behind him. Darius’s stomach twisted.
With almost bored ease, Marcus countered the Volundi guard’s attack, knocked the large man’s dagger aside, then drove his sword into his chest. He was already turning as he withdrew his sword, moving to help the Roman soldier who’d engaged the other guard.
After a moment of stunned motionlessness, Brigit sprang into action. In one neat motion, she slid her dagger across the throat of a Roman soldier standing back to watch Marcus best the Celtic guards—clearly, the men had not taken Brigit for any sort of threat.
That changed immediately as the soldier fell to the ground. Half the Romans turned to face Brigit, swords raised, as she engaged another soldier. The soldier let out a cry of surprise at the ferocity and skill of her attack. Brigit’s style, Darius noted, was a little like Fionn’s, built on grace and quickness. She whirled and thrust like a dancer, knocking the soldier’s sword away. Immediately, though, another soldier took his place, and she only barely countered his attack in time.
The near miss brought Darius to his senses. “Brigit,” he cried in the forest language. “Stop.”
She ignored him. Darius rushed forward, seizing the sword from the dead soldier. “Do not harm her!” he ordered the others with all the ringing command his years of leadership had instilled in him. They fell back, confused.
The soldier engaged with Brigit knocked her dagger aside. Darius leapt forward, blocking the man’s next thrust. “Stop, soldier,” he commanded.
But Brigit had no intention of heeding Darius. She lunged for her dagger. One of the other soldiers got there first, kicking it aside. Another seized Brigit and struck her across the face, sending her sprawling. He advanced on her, sword drawn.
“No!” Darius shouted.
The soldier sneered, but he sheathed his sword. Brigit tried to run, but two soldiers seized her by the arms, holding her in place. “Commander,” the first soldier called to Marcus, who had dispatched the other guard. “We could bring the girl with us as a hostage.”
The way the man looked Brigit up and down made his intentions clear. Darius had never allowed hostages to suffer this particular form of mistreatment from his men, and had indeed punished any such transgressions severely. But he was well aware that other officers preferred to turn a blind eye to such things, or even participate themselves.
Darius stepped forward, fury darkening his vision. “You will unhand the girl immediately, soldier. Or you will find yourself unable to take any hostages in the future.”
His tone and the direction of his gaze made his meaning clear. The soldier’s face went red. “Who do you—”
“This is Commander Darius Lucilius,” Marcus said, coming to Darius’s side as he sheathed his reddened sword. “Who did you think it was, soldier? And you are to treat him with the utmost respect.”
Marcus approached Brigit, eyeing her up and down—not as the soldier had, but as a farmer would a horse at market. Brigit spat in his face.
Marcus calmly wiped his eye. “Willful, are you? I can’t say I’m surprised. Celtic women have little more grace than beasts.” He turned to Darius. “Commander, she strikes me as being of a higher status than your average elven slattern. Would she not be valuable as a hostage?”
Darius met Brigit’s gaze. To his surprise, the girl returned his look without rancour. Blood ran from her nose where the soldier had hit her, and in her eyes Darius saw only puzzlement, and curiosity, and a bitter sort of disappointment.
“Darius,” she said quietly. “What will I tell Fionn?”
“What was that?” Marcus looked puzzled. “That didn’t sound like one of the Celtic tongues.”
“It’s…a primitive dialect common among her people,” Darius said. “I’ve learned a few words of it in my time here.” He gazed into Brigit’s face, so like and unlike Fionn’s. He found himself wishing he could look away—but why? He owed her nothing. He owed Fionn nothing.
He turned back to Marcus. “This girl holds no special status among her people. She has held me captive, it’s true, but she has also shown me kindness and respect, in her Hibernian fashion. I desire for her to be released at once.”
Marcus thought for a moment. “All right. But if you possess the vocabulary, please inform her that General Agricola will deliver to King Fionnwyn the sum of gold and weaponry they agreed upon before he so rudely terminated negotiations for your release, as well as an extra trunk of explosives. Agricola is an honourable man who stands by his agreements, unlike some.”
Darius relayed this to Brigit, omitting the last sentence. Brigit made no reply. Her eyes searched Darius’s. There was a glimmer of sadness there, of regret, and again Darius felt the urge to look away.
“Release her,” Marcus ordered.
Brigit stumbled forward before finding her footing with her usual grace. With a last look at Darius, she sprinted towards the treeline.
“Wait,” Darius said, surprising himself. Brigit stopped at the edge of the clearing, eyeing him curiously.
Darius approached. He dug into the pocket of his cloak and handed her the portrait of his father, which he’d kept about him since he’d found it in Fionn’s room.
“Give this back to him,” he said. His throat was tight. “Please.”
Brigit nodded. She tucked the portrait into her cloak. Then she was gone, sprinting across the mountainside like a deer.
“We’ll have to hurry back to the ship,” Marcus said. “Perhaps this Volundi king will come to their senses and accept Agricola’s offer, but I b
elieve it safest to assume he will be angered and send men after us. First, though—” He seized Darius in a bear hug.
Darius laughed, a wholesome, cleansing sound that startled him. He returned Marcus’s hug with warmth. “It is good to see you, Captain.”
“Likewise.” Marcus drew back to a distance where he could examine Darius from head to toe. “You look surprisingly well, Commander, for a hostage. It’s strange, but that Hibernian garb suits you. Do I insult your honour by saying you would make a good elf?”
Darius smiled faintly. After the rush of emotion that had overtaken him, the relief at being free, he felt weary and heart-sore. He took in Marcus’s untrimmed hair, the circles under his eyes. The man looked as if he’d aged several years in the past few weeks. “And you look like a bag of bones, Marcus.”
The other man laughed. “We have not all been lounging in Celtic roundhouses, feasting on revolting barbarian delicacies. I was wounded during the attack outside Undanum, and spent several days overcoming a fever. And that journey round the southern coast of this hideous isle did nothing to mend my appetite—the seas around here are as vicious as the men who fish them. Still, when Agricola said that he wanted to position a ship closer to your location while he negotiated your release, I had to come myself.”
Darius clasped his arm. “I am grateful you did, my friend. You have no idea how happy the sight of your face has made me.”
“You know, you’re the first man who’s ever said that,” Marcus said with a grin. “I wish to hear every detail of your captivity, Dari—I can tell by looking at you that it was eventful, in its way—but we must cover significant ground before nightfall. This was a stealth mission by necessity—there are no reinforcements awaiting us between here and the harbour. If the Volundi come after us in force, we will have little chance of escaping.”
Darius nodded. Marcus gave the order, and they set off at a brisk jog.
As they left the clearing, Darius cast a look over his shoulder. The wind rustled over the grasses and the bodies of the fallen—one Roman and three Volundi. Darius had not known them, but they were not simply barbarians to him, not anymore. They were Fionn’s people.