by Joy Nash
The gamblers looked up as he neared. “Got a reluctant one there,” one of them commented.
“Aye,” Lucius replied in Gaulish. “To my thinking, they’re the best kind.” He shut his mouth, hoping to the gods he wouldn’t be forced to continue the banter. Neither his Gaulish vocabulary nor his accent would suffer much more conversation. He slapped Rhiannon’s rump hard enough to make his hand sting.
“Let me go, ye brute!” Her fists pummeled his back in what Lucius suspected was genuine outrage.
“Certainly, love.” He gained the gate and heaved her upright, pressing her against the wall and pinning her there with his lower body. He let one hand roam her breasts while the other lifted the hem of her tunic. Her struggles made his cock go hard. The gambling soldiers stopped their game to watch.
His lips took Rhiannon’s in a savage kiss. She responded with brutal ardor, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, fingers clawing his neck. If her passion was solely for the benefit of their audience, she belonged on a theater stage.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marcus slip through the gate. Abruptly Lucius released Rhiannon. Grabbing her hand, he hauled her past the tower and into the village.
Gauls and Celts crowded the center lane of the tiny settlement. Men sprawled in the road; sounds of coupling came from the huts. Afraid one of Rhiannon’s kinsmen would recognize her, Lucius tugged her through the alley between two dwellings and into the barley fields beyond.
Marcus collapsed between the rows. Rhiannon flung off the soiled shirts and dropped to her knees at his side.
“I’ll be all right,” the boy panted. “I just need to catch my breath.”
“You need herbs and a sennight’s rest,” Rhiannon replied.
Lucius crouched beside her. “You needn’t stay. I can care for my son.”
Her eyes gleamed gold in the moonlight. “Are you so eager to be rid of me, Lucius?”
Marcus grabbed her hand. “No! You must stay.”
Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose. “Marcus …”
Gently, Rhiannon disentangled herself from the boy’s embrace and rose.
“Marcus and I will travel south,” Lucius said. “To Eburacum. I must inform the commander there of the mutiny.” No doubt Brennus had not sent Lucius’s request for reinforcements.
“Aulus’s prison lies in the opposite direction,” Rhiannon replied. Hugging her arms about her, she looked toward the northern hills.
He stilled. “What do you mean?”
She paused as if gathering courage. “Your brother was given to my clan as a prize.”
“By Brennus.”
“Yes, but at the time I didn’t know who the prisoner’s betrayer might have been. Aulus died on the first night of the winter moon within a circle of stones set by the Old Ones.” She drew a breath. “He was slaughtered to gain the favor of Kernunnos, the Horned God.”
If her words had been physical blows, they could not have fallen on Lucius more brutally. “He was sacrificed? Like a calf or a pig?” He felt ill.
“Yes,” Rhiannon said. “A Druid master guides my clan. He proclaimed the blood of our enemy, offered to Kernunnos, would make our warriors invincible.”
“Go on.”
“Aulus died by Madog’s hand. It was … it was not a quick death. Your brother grasped at my skirt as he took his last breath. I felt his soul fly through mine as it left his body. I’ve felt his touch ever since. I believe that is why he vanishes when I’m near.”
Bile rose in his throat. “Then you are a witch.”
“If a witch is one who merges her soul with forces beyond the physical, then yes, I am one. I often feel the passing of souls, especially of those who die in pain. But I’ve felt no spirit touch me as strongly as your brother’s did.”
“I’ve not seen Aulus since the attack on the fort began. Even before, he lay still as though sleeping.”
“Madog called his spirit to the Druid circle before the attack to aid in your destruction.”
“The youth with whom you spoke in the headquarters yard. He is the one you saved from my sword, is he not?”
“Owein. My brother. I raised him after our mother died birthing him. Madog has taught him the old ways, but I fear Owein has stumbled onto powers too strong for his flesh to contain. He suffers greatly. Madog instructed Owein to bring you to the circle at dawn, that you might meet the same fate as your brother.”
“They will be sorely disappointed. I plan to be miles to the south by dawn.”
“No,” Rhiannon said, her tone suddenly intense. “You must go north. Aulus’s skull is mounted atop Madog’s staff. Until it is buried, your brother will be his slave.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I want to go with you,” Marcus said.
“You’ll stay here with the ponies,” his father replied. “Jupiter knows I went to great trouble to steal the pair of them. I’ll not have them wandering off or being taken.” True enough, but Rhiannon knew Lucius was exaggerating the point as an excuse to keep his son away from the Druid circle.
“Tending the ponies is an important job,” she added, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. She must not have been successful, for Marcus blinked up at her, his dark eyes brimming with fear. “What if you don’t come back?”
Lucius dropped to one knee before his son and set his hands on the lad’s shoulders. “I’ll not lie to you, Marcus. There is a small chance I won’t come back. If that happens, take the ponies and make your way south. Once you reach Roman lands, our family name will be enough to earn you passage to Rome. Your mother’s uncle will welcome you.”
Marcus dropped his head and nodded, tears leaking from his closed eyes.
Rhiannon gave him a fierce hug. “Stay hidden and pray.”
She led the way down the steep path to the stones. They’d traveled quickly from the fort, fearful of pursuit. Surely Owein had discovered Lucius’s escape by now. Had he raised an alarm? Would he guess in which direction Lucius traveled? He had little reason to expect Lucius would seek the Druid circle.
Her foreboding increased as she neared the stones. By revealing the whole truth to Lucius, she’d betrayed her clan’s trust. The path she trod would end badly, no matter what came to pass within the circle. No peaceful outcome was possible—either Lucius or Madog would die. Her lover or her teacher. More blood to stain her hands.
The sky lightened, foretelling a clear dawn. Rhiannon followed a less-used trail to the stones, though she suspected such stealth would not count for much against Madog’s Druid powers. He would know they were coming well before they showed themselves.
“You must keep your wits about you when you face Madog.” She forced the words past her guilt.
“You told me he’s an old man.”
“His age is of little importance. Madog is a Druid master. He has power beyond imagining.”
“He’ll need every drop of it and then some to stop me.”
The trail leveled out at the edge of the oak grove. Rhiannon held up one hand. “We’re near.” She crept forward, parting the underbrush as she went. When she was within sight of the circle, she paused. She felt Lucius’s heat as he drew close behind her. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he took in the scene before them.
Madog stood in the center of the circle, his face turned away. He held his staff and its grisly trophy high. A fire burned beside him, casting flickering illumination on his long gray braids and pale cloak. A thin chant like the whistle of storm winds spiraled around him. Smoke from the fire curled into the night air, bringing a sickly sweet scent to Rhiannon’s nostrils.
Lucius drew his sword from its sheath by silent degrees. “The old man will be dead before he knows he’s been struck.”
“Do not be so foolish as to think that he’s unaware of our presence,” Rhiannon whispered.
As if in response, Madog turned toward them and bowed low, tipping Aulus’s head in Lucius’s direction. Lucius pushed Rhiannon into the shelter of the brush. “Sta
y hidden.” He stepped forward and passed between the stones, sword raised.
Rhiannon rose and followed. She’d set her fate when she cast her lot with Lucius. She would not cower now while he fought for his brother’s soul.
“It will be my greatest pleasure to kill you,” Lucius told Madog.
Madog looked at Rhiannon and laughed. “Ye have brought him to me at last, as Owein’s Sight foretold. ’Tis not in the way Cormac planned, but ’twill serve.”
He turned to Lucius and spoke in the Roman tongue. “She was sent to seduce you—to turn your attention from fort business so that Brennus might recruit the soldiers to our cause. She did a fine job of it, did she not? Played the innocent, I’m told, and led you to believe you were the one in pursuit.”
Lucius’s startled gaze met Rhiannon’s. “You were ordered to bed me?”
“Yes,” she said, her heart sinking. “But—”
Madog cut her off with a single syllable, spoken in the language of the Old Ones. He lifted his hand. Smoke rose and curled about him like serpent spirits. It snaked toward Lucius with unerring precision.
Lucius waved the smoldering veil away. “Your nonsense words will not stand against my blade. You will die, Druid, for what you have done to my brother.”
“No. Your soul will join his in bondage. Two Romans of one blood to slave for the Brigantes.”
Lucius raised his sword. Acrid smoke rose in a great wave, obscuring Madog’s form. Rhiannon blinked as the curtain took on the color of the fire. When it receded, she felt Lucius’s shock even before her mind registered what—who—stood before him.
Aulus. His face was bruised and bloody as it had been on the day of his death. He stood dressed in the armor of a Legionary soldier, crested helmet upon his head, curved shield in his hand, sword drawn and ready. If Rhiannon had not known he was a spirit, she would have sworn an oath that he was a living man.
Lucius went deathly still.
Madog spoke. “This slave guards my body. You must kill him if you wish to reach my side.” He pounded his staff in the dirt and Aulus’s blade began to glow. “I assure you, Roman, that your brother will suffer every bite of your blade as keenly as if he were alive.”
“Nay,” Rhiannon said, stepping to Lucius’s side.
“Ye see him at last, don’t ye, lass?”
Rhiannon started. “ ’Twas ye who hid him from me?”
“Aye. To draw this Roman brute to ye.” His gaze flicked to Lucius. “Fight him, dog. Fight and die.”
The Druid’s eyes rolled back in his head, giving him the look of a crazed soul escaped from Hades. His thin lips began to move, sending a shrill song into the circle. It mingled with the fading curls of smoke, strengthening, urging. Aulus lifted his blade and advanced on Lucius.
Lucius took a defensive stance as he watched the ghost’s approach. Aulus was now as solid as a living man, yet his steps touched the ground without making a sound. If his ghostly heart beat, it did so in silence. Though he bore the marks of a brutal beating, he moved without regard for his wounds, a grim warrior in his prime. His weapon was a slice of light against the last hour of night.
Aulus lunged, his sword slashing with deadly precision. Lucius parried. No steel clanged, but the force of the ghost’s blow jolted Lucius’s arm. He gritted his teeth against the pain and blocked the next attack.
His strength was nearly gone. Would he be forced to kill his brother to get at the Druid? Lucius’s logical mind argued that Aulus was already dead. But his heart saw the face of the boy who had dogged his every step in years long past, even as he looked into his opponent’s grim eyes.
He feinted right, then dodged to the left, hoping to skirt Aulus and rush the Druid. The ghost materialized in his path, sword swinging in a deadly arc. Lucius leaped aside too late. The ghost sword sliced into his sword arm.
It drew blood as easily as any earthly blade.
Lucius ignored the wound and lunged again to the right. His second attempt to circumvent the apparition was no more successful than the first. The Druid song cackled, piercing his concentration.
Rhiannon’s voice rang out. “Madog! Stop this, I beg ye.” She flung herself at the Druid only to collide with Aulus’s shield. She fell, stunned, against one of the hulking stones. She slid to the ground, clutching her elbow.
“Stay back, lass. The Roman must die. He was on the shores of Mona fifty long winters past. He killed my father, raped my mother. He will pay for their blood with his own.”
“ ’Twas not Lucius who committed those crimes! ’Twas before his birth.”
“It matters not. He is a Roman, born to steal the freedom of any he encounters. Did he not enslave you?”
Aulus struck again, forcing Lucius’s attention away from Rhiannon and the Druid. He managed to lift his sword high enough to halt a killing blow. Blood slicked his hand, making it difficult to keep his grip on the hilt. His wounded arm burned. His broken rib stabbed like a dagger in his side.
Madog flung his head back and let out the shriek of a being not born in the land of mortals. The ghost flung himself at Lucius. Rhiannon struggled to rise, but it was as if some unseen hand held her back. Lucius was glad of that at least.
Aulus advanced, unrelenting, fighting with a level of skill he had never achieved during his life. That realization hardened Lucius’s resolve against his brother. His opponent was not truly Aulus, no matter how closely the ghost resembled the brother Lucius had loved.
He would strike Madog down by killing his minion. It was the only way Lucius could hope to free his brother’s soul.
He angled his blade at the ghost’s heart. Aulus’s eyes widened—not with anger, Lucius thought, but with relief.
“I’m sorry, brother,” he said, and plunged the blade deep.
His sword sliced as if through flesh, but unlike a thrust into a man, Lucius’s entire arm passed through the specter. Aulus crumpled to the ground, his mouth open in a noiseless groan.
The momentum of the thrust carried Lucius across the circle. He leapt at Madog, sweeping a stroke upward. The point of his sword plunged into the old man’s throat.
Blood pulsed red like the dawn sky, splashing to the dirt, staining it black. Rhiannon gained her feet at last. Her face had gone white. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her body as if she was trying to hold herself erect. She lost the battle, gagging as she fell to her knees.
The Druid’s body went slack. His gnarled fingers loosened on his staff. The twisted wood fell, sending Aulus’s skull skidding across the ground. Lucius withdrew his blade from the Druid’s body.
He stared at his brother’s severed head, stomach heaving. He took one step then another, toward the ghastly skull. The tip of his sword sliced a line in the mud as he went.
Blackened, oiled skin—cracked in some places, curled in others—clung to white bone. Matted hair covered the scalp. Loose teeth grinned through eroded lips. Lucius stretched one shaking hand out to touch the only remnant of his brother left to him.
Footsteps thudded through the forest. “Owein! Nay!”
Lucius spun about. Rhiannon’s brother was bearing down on him from across the circle, sword raised. The same crazed fury Lucius had seen in Madog’s eyes illuminated the youth’s face. Lucius scrambled behind one of the stones, using it as a shield while he swiftly put together a plan of attack. The youth was half-mad with fury—he wouldn’t stop until one of them lay dead, of that Lucius was certain. Lucius also knew he hadn’t the strength for another prolonged battle.
As he readied for a swift, deadly rush, his gaze touched on Rhiannon. Her eyes were huge and vivid with fear. They begged him not to strike a killing blow as clearly as if she’d spoken, and Lucius knew, even before he raised his sword, that he had lost the fight.
Owein and Lucius circled each other within the stones, swords raised. A mere lad against a seasoned warrior, but anger and grief fed Owein’s strength, whereas Rhiannon knew that Lucius had to be near the end of his endurance. Owein struck first, swi
nging Madog’s Druid sword in a wide, deadly arc. Lucius met the attack with the clang of steel on iron. Owein thrust again, too quickly, opening his body for a riposte.
Rhiannon’s heart leaped into her throat, but Lucius kept his sword close to his body and did not pursue his opponent. Was his wounded arm failing, or did he hold back by design? Rhiannon couldn’t tell.
“Owein, drop your sword!” she shouted.
“And let this dog take ye away? I’m thinking I’d rather eat dung.” He gave a savage thrust that succeeded in nicking Lucius’s mail shirt.
“Killing him will serve naught!”
“It will serve to rid the world of a Roman wolf. It will avenge your shame.” He thrust again.
The force of Lucius’s parry drove Owein back. The lad stumbled. His knee hit the ground and his sword faltered in his grasp. Lucius rose above him, both hands on the hilt of his sword, poised for a killing blow.
Rhiannon’s scream lodged in her throat. In the brief span before the weapon fell, Lucius met her gaze, his expression hard, his dark eyes unreadable.
“Nay,” Rhiannon whispered.
Lucius loosed the strike. At the last instant, his arms flexed, twisting his blade so the flat of it struck Owein’s back as the lad gained his feet. Owein staggered under the blow, but managed to keep his balance and his grip on his sword.
The close call brought her brother new fury. He turned on Lucius, snarling, his blade flashing with the speed of a serpent. Lucius grunted as the blow struck his sword arm. His grip loosened. His weapon thudded into the dirt. He fell back against one of the stones.
Owein pointed his blade at Lucius’s throat.
Rhiannon launched herself at him. “Owein, stop!” She pummeled his back, but he moved not an inch.
“Now, Roman, ye will die. I have Seen it.” Owein drew his sword back, muscles tensing.
“Nay!” Rhiannon’s fingers found the hilt of Brennus’s dagger. She slashed at Owein, desperate to stop his killing thrust.