by Hazel Hunter
“Retreat,” the tribune shouted from behind the lines as he ran from the glen followed by the hooded prefect. A handful of undead followed them but a mountain of a man with lightning tattoos on his face led a group of highlanders to block the rest. Next to him a man with an axe launched himself into the undead.
“The Viking,” Gavin muttered. Then he gazed at the rest of the men. The entire clan must have come.
For once Gavin almost pitied the lifeless creatures who were now in disarray. But the battle was not yet won. The undead still outnumbered the clan. Gavin lifted his sword and advanced with Lachlan and Kinley, just as a bright light washed over the scene.
Shielding his eyes, Gavin saw the disc that had covered the sun was quickly vaporizing. A sparkling beam of multi-colored lights had risen to it from the circle of children. Though Gavin couldn’t fathom what they’d done, the effect was clear. Without time to utter but the briefest of shrieks, the legion disappeared all at once. They melted into ashen heaps, their weapons clattering to the ground next to them.
“The tribune escaped, milord,” said the mountain man as he came up to Lachlan. “Again. Shall we give chase?”
“Did I call it or what?” Kinley crowed. Though her face was shining with sweat, she grinned madly.
“First,” the laird said, eying the children, “I’ll ken what manner of help you’ve brought.”
The Viking was making his way across the battlefield, his eyes locked with Gavin’s and a smirk crooking his mouth. Gavin found himself smiling in return when a cold realization clenched his chest. Frantically he turned around, his eyes darting across the glen and back again.
“What is it?” Kinley asked, touching his arm.
He turned to her. “Where’s Daimh?”
“Leave the boy be,” Catriona pleaded. “He’s naught to you.”
As Cailean took a step toward them, Daimh lowered the tip of the sword to the sleeping boy’s temple.
“Another twitch from you,” Daimh said tightly, “and he dies. And dinnae try any spells, or this ‘son who is more than a son’ will meet his end now.”
Cailean froze. “Do you ken what happens when you dinnae finish a ritual to the dark gods, Daimh?” he asked tonelessly. “They take the promised tribute from you after death—for eternity.”
“Oh, they shall have their due very soon,” Daimh said. “As shall I.”
Still holding the sword so close to the boy’s temple that Catriona could barely see a gap between them, Daimh kicked over a rope-bound wicker basket. She and Cailean stared down at it. It was the same one he’d had at the barrier. He must have brought it in. As the lid of the basket rolled away, two red eyes appeared in the inky interior.
“What manner of dark ritual ’tis this?” Cailean demanded.
As if in answer, an enormous snake uncoiled itself and slithered silently forward.
Catriona suppressed a scream as the darkly striated serpent flicked its forked tongue at her.
“Anubis,” Daimh intoned to the ceiling as the snake undulated toward her. “Look upon your servant.” He grinned at Catriona. “I deliver to you your due, that you may give me mine.”
Though bile welled up in her throat, Catriona realized her uncle wasn’t going to kill her himself. It would be the same as when he used the undead to kill the rest of her tribe all those years ago. But what Daimh had failed to realize was that her gift was with animals. She stared into the snakes glassy red eyes.
Master snake, she thought to the creature. I am not your enemy.
Though she had never tried to converse with an animal, it seemed to have an effect. The great serpent stopped its approach. A strange rasping sound filled her mind and though she shuddered at its cold touch, she did not cringe away. Not only did her life depend on it, so did that of her unborn child. But words were not going to work. Instead she focused on her memories of the slaughter. Image after image rolled forth from the past, culminating in her hiding in this very cave.
“Anoup!” Daimh said. “Take her!”
In response, the viper lifted its enormous diamond-shaped head and opened its jaws. Though its fangs glistened in the dim light, it stayed where it was. Catriona opened her thoughts to it, and strange distorted images came to her: prey kept just out of its reach, the dark inside of the too-small basket, and Daimh’s gloating face.
Him, Catriona thought. She pictured the same gloating face she’d seen when her tribe had been massacred. Him.
Slowly, the snake turned its head toward her uncle.
“Anoup!” Daimh screamed, the sword shaking erratically in his hand. “Kill her!”
Cailean leaned forward just as the cascade of water behind Daimh briefly parted.
“Cailean,” she whispered. “Don’t move.”
Suddenly the sword was snatched away as Gavin appeared behind the old druid. With a great shove, he sent Daimh flying—directly at Anoup.
In a blur, the viper shot forward. Before the druid could hit the ground, the snake’s fangs sank into his throat. Cailean lunged for the pallet and scooped up the still sleeping Danyel. Gavin swept Catriona into his arms and away from the pair on the ground.
As the four of them looked on, Daimh writhed. Catriona’s stomach heaved, and she wanted to turn away, but she forced herself to watch this last horror. This would be the only justice she would ever have for her tribe.
Though her uncle’s mouth opened, he could make no sound. Catriona covered her mouth as Daimh slowly succumbed to the venom. As the light left his eyes, the snake released its hold. Gavin snatched up the sword and put himself between the creature and Catriona.
“Wait,” Cailean said. “Look.” Like its victim, the viper began to slowly writhe. Cailean pointed at Daimh’s neck. A radiant black liquid was oozing from his wounds. “The dark magic.” As the jaws of the great snake opened and closed one last time, it finally stopped moving. “Gods have mercy,” Cailean whispered.
Danyel chose that moment to rouse, and reached up to pat his sire’s face.
“Da.”
“Aye, my lad,” the druid said, and kissed the top of his head. “’Tis done.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
GAVIN LED THE way back to the edge of the glen, now bathed in sunlight. Gray ash whitened the lush grasses, and a few small fires still smoldered. Broken black rock surrounded the spring, and huge puddles of water swamped the surrounding soil. The clan stood with their laird and lady as they spoke with the copper-haired spearman, and swung around with hands on their sword hilts the moment they spotted Gavin. They relaxed almost immediately, yet still remained in protective ranks around Lachlan and Kinley.
The laird walked out to meet him. “’Twas a glorious victory.” His gaze shifted to Cailean. “The boy?”
“Safe and no’ a mark on him, my lord,” the druid said. “Thanks to you, your men, Gavin and Catriona.”
Kinley made a scoffing sound. “Come on, I want credit for doing the most damage. Well, me and the rabbits and puffins and sunshine.” She kicked a pile of ash on the ground. “A few got away with your uncle, but not enough to form even a tiny little Roman detachment. The legion is toast.”
“Daimh is dead,” Catriona told her, and gave a brief account of what had happened in the falls cave, and added, “We cannae thank you enough for saving us, my lady, my lord.”
“How did your men come through the spring and Daimh’s enchantment?” Gavin asked.
“It was the druid children,” the laird answered.
Catriona glanced around them. “Where are they?”
“Our new friends went to have a look around the village,” Kinley said. “Come on and we’ll introduce you.”
Gavin took her hand when she hesitated. “You’ve always wanted to meet other druids.”
“I ken, ’tis just…” She grimaced and touched the front of her skirt. “I’ve such an odd feeling. ’Tis like the baby dances inside me.”
They walked from the glen to the village, now filled with the young drui
ds. Some ran about chasing each other and Catriona’s animal friends, while others stood before the cottages holding hands. All of the children turned and smiled as Catriona and Gavin drew closer.
The oldest among them walked up with a younger girl skipping alongside him. “Fair day to you, my lord, my lady.” He looked all over Catriona before he said to the girl, “I ken she would be tall with those long legs of hers.”
The little druidess shrugged. “’Tis no’ always so. I had long legs.” A comical expression of disgust filled her face as she glowered down at herself. “I’m even smaller this time.”
Gavin felt his lover shaking, and bent his head to hers. “If ’tis too much for you, sweet Cat, my cottage awaits.”
She swallowed hard and shook her head. “I’ll be well again. ’Tis just I cannae believe it.” Still holding his hand, she walked up to the children. “Why come now? Why no’ before this?”
“For some years we waited,” the older boy said. “You had found your place in the future, and we wished you to be safe as well as happy.” His expression darkened. “We thought Daimh might watch for us, too, and use us. We couldnae permit that.”
The druidess’s small face grew weary. “Aye, so we abided in the well of stars until we thought enough time had passed. Even then we had to be clever. None of us came back in the same year, or to the same tribe. We scattered ourselves across the land, among the smaller, remote settlements.” She kissed the boy’s cheek. “My brave one came first, to learn how to ward himself and the rest of us. Our families thought us strange, for they couldnae sense our souls, but still loved us.”
Catriona drew in a sobbing breath. “Will you go back to them? Your new families?”
“We can if we must,” the boy said, and looked around them. “We would rather reveal ourselves, and form a new tribe. We dinnae wish to dwell here, for ’tis a dark place to us.” He smiled at Gavin. “And you and your highlander dinnae wish to hide any longer, either.”
Gavin felt completely perplexed. “Who are you children?”
The boy sighed. “You shall both need much training, my son. We have but the bodies of children. Our souls have reincarnated. I’m called Teren now, and my dearest love is named Isabeau. Before this life, we were Tavish and Isela Haral.”
Catriona slipped from Gavin’s grasp and fell to her knees before weeping into her hands. But the little druidess came to wrap her small arms around her.
“Oh, dinnae cry, Daughter,” Isabeau said, stroking her hair. “I promised you that I’d come for you.”
Gavin looked around the village at all the other children. “Does that mean when I think?”
“Uh-huh.” Kinley’s eyes grew dreamy as she gazed at the young faces. “They’re all reincarnated souls of the Moon Wake tribe.”
In the bowels of the black ship, Quintus Seneca felt the last rays of the sun vanish again from the sky. He paced the length of the light-tight compartment, his uniform still shedding ash from the battle. Unable to bear the flutter of his scarlet battle cloak, he tore it from his shoulders and flung it to the deck.
The disastrous battle had destroyed all but a handful of his men. All he had left were the five that had reached the black ship before the sun-disc dissolved, and the useless recruits he’d left behind on Staffa.
The glorious Ninth Legion wasn’t simply finished. It no longer existed.
Heavy footsteps trudged down the stairs as Titus Strabo climbed down into the cargo hold. His dark hood and cloak had been covered with so much undead ash they looked pale gray now, and when he revealed his face his eyes glittered with contempt.
“Report,” Quintus snapped.
“Report…what, Tribune?” The prefect took the final step to plant his feet on the deck. “We were defeated, resoundingly so. A thousand men, now dust. Three ships left behind, burning along with their undead crews. The turncoat druid, vanished. The McDonnels rally around their laird, happy in their victory. Again.” He gestured toward the stairs. “It is safe now for you to come up. The captain wishes a word with you.” He started back for the upper decks.
“Strabo, wait,” Quintus said quickly, drawing him to a halt. “You were correct in your advice to me, and I not wise enough to accept it. I am sorry. Truly, for you and for the loss of so many, but we cannot allow it to defeat us. We will rebuild the Ninth. We shall have our vengeance.”
“Yes, my lord,” the prefect said before he left.
Quintus shook out his cloak, replacing it before he dusted off his uniform and cleared his thoughts. What he had to do now was inspire loyalty. He knew of only one manner in which to do that.
Up on deck, the cold night wind rushed over him as he stepped out, making his cloak flutter. He saw Strabo standing with most of the mortal crew at the stern, while far fewer undead occupied the bow. The prefect held a long dagger, which he raised above his head.
“This madness ends now,” he shouted, staring past Quintus at the other undead. “We are barely a hundred left, if that. Too many Roman lives have been sacrificed on the altar of Quintus Seneca’s idiocy. As a Roman, and the prefect of the Ninth Legion, I condemn him to his fate.”
Quintus stood waiting as Strabo strode toward him, his murderous mortals crowding after him. The tribune looked over at the navigator, and gave him a small nod.
The mortal tugged on a rope hanging from the deck, which tipped over the bucket of lamp oil he had secretly rigged there at Quintus’s command.
The oil splashed down on Strabo and his mutineers, causing them to slip and fall onto the deck.
“I have defeated more assassination attempts than you might count, Prefect. Serving under Gaius Lucinius taught me that.” He felt no joy as the navigator handed him the flaming torch. “You should not have hidden the weapons, you know. I’d have had no idea of your plot if you’d left them out in plain sight. I never have paid attention to the stores of arms. Oh, but you were quite right about the druid. In the end he proved to be traitorous scum.”
He tossed the torch on top of the pile of oil-soaked bodies. The mortals screamed and flung themselves over the railings, but Strabo remained crouched on the deck, his uniform flaming and the untouched side of his face blackening as he stared at Quintus. He said nothing, and when the flames ate through his skin he fell to the deck as ash, snuffing them out.
“How noble.” Quintus glanced down at the burned mortal crewmen treading frantically in the sea, and gestured for the navigator. “Bring some archers here and finish them.”
The mortal bowed. “As you command, Tribune.”
He walked to the bow of the ship, where his remaining soldiers averted their gazes. Fire had left black scorch marks on their armor, and the dust of their comrades grayed their faces. He counted three he recognized from their original ranks, but the rest were mortals and slaves they had turned undead.
Counting himself, the Ninth Legion had been reduced to just four Romans.
“I do not blame you for refusing to come to my aid,” he told them. “I do thank you for choosing not to help Strabo kill me.” He looked at each of their sullen faces. “When we arrive at the stronghold, you shall have your pick of the mortals, or the undead whores being trained, if you prefer. You may do as you wish with them for as long as they live. There will be many to go around now.”
The men gave each other uncertain looks.
“It is not a trap,” Quintus promised them. “I value each of you. I wish to earn back your trust. This is a new beginning for the Ninth Legion. We will learn from this tragedy. We will be stronger for it. But if you still feel that I do not deserve to live, please, come forward. Share in Titus Strabo’s glorious mutiny, and die in flames.”
No one moved.
“My thanks.” He deliberately turned his back on them. “Dismissed.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CATRIONA WOKE UP to the sound of rain pelting the thatched roof, and the soothing rhythm of Gavin’s heartbeat thudding under her cheek. Her unborn son lay sleeping inside her, his pr
esence like a tiny candle flame. For a time she simply lay with her eyes closed and relished the sounds and sensations of her life. She had faced Uncle, achieved justice, and found her tribe again. She carried the child of the man she loved. She almost laughed when she realized that because of Gavin, every one of her most precious dreams had come true.
Something made a purring sound, and the little paw inked on her belly stretched just as the big man under her did.
“I ken you’re awake,” he said, his voice deep and drowsy. “You snore when you’re asleep.”
She lifted up her head. “What? You lie.”
“Like a wee kitten. It drives me mad for you.” He brushed the rumpled hair back from her brow, and traced his finger down the length of her nose. “We dinnae have to leave today. The laird can wait.”
“Aye, Lachlan McDonnel, awaiting our leisure with his great clan of highlanders looking after my tribe of bairns in their great dark castle hidden from all on an island. Teren will have to show us the way.” She kissed his chest. “We should have gone to Dun Aran yesterday.”
“Our tribe.” Gavin curled his arms around her and shifted her so that the curves of her bare breasts brushed his chin.
When he did that she wanted to put her nipples against his mouth—which was likely his aim. “What did you say?”
“Our tribe. No’ your tribe.” He nuzzled her there, breathing in the scent of her skin before he rubbed the tip of his nose against the tightening peaks. “Teren agreed to initiate me, once I’ve learned a bit of Druidry. Evidently being a color-changing warrior only makes me a great lizard.”
An urgency spread through her as soon as he moved her up against him to suckle her sensitive breasts. “And then, when you’ve had your training?”
He growled something and rolled over with her, tucking her under him. “I’ll be a druid proper.”
“And today you’ll be my mate,” she said. The feel of him rooting between her thighs made her bones go liquid. “Mayhap we could go after midday.”