Brennus_A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Hazel Hunter

  “Cold hearths, empty rooms, larders empty. The Dawn Fire have fled.” The giant shouted for Dha, who stumbled over to them. “Tell the others to smash their things. Leave naught sound.” To Hendry he said, “Flen heard we ended his old friend. He didnae trust in his silence.”

  “How sad he shall be when I tell him that Gwyn Embry bit through his tongue in order to hold it.” He looked around them, furious that his wily old enemy had eluded them again. “Aon, we must find them. We cannae begin to remake the world as long as the Dawn Fire breathe. As long as that old bastart might interfere.”

  The giant shrugged. “Use the female.”

  “I cannae risk her.” A throbbing set in at his temple, as always when he thought of her. “She must remain protected.”

  “Aon.” Tri jittered in front of him, his damaged face filled with confusion. “No druid or beast. Naught to kill. What do now?”

  “Find pretty,” Aon said. “Make ugly.” Once Tri scurried off the giant glanced at Hendry. “You dinnae like Tri.”

  “’Tis no’ a matter of liking but needing. We shouldnae bring him with us,” Hendry said, as kindly as he could. “He becomes muddled and distressed.”

  “Tri doesnae much understand human words. They split his mind when they put him in the henge.” He watched the other giant rooting through a flower bed. “Still he remains loyal to me. Like your lady, Wood Dream.”

  “Aye.” The reminder made Hendry’s anger roil higher. He could not return to the encampment with nothing to show for their journey. Murdina would be livid. Nor could he go without feeding his own rage fire a sacrifice. “Show me Flen’s hovel, please. I want to search it.”

  “Aon,” Tri called to him, sounding excited. “Come see pretty. Come see make ugly.”

  Coig kicked over a pear tree in front of the house Aon identified as Flen’s, and prepared to ram it through the front entry.

  “No’ this one,” Aon said. “Go help Tri.”

  “Aye, please.” Hendry glanced over at the damaged giant, who had dragged a basin out into the sunlight. Orange light fountained up at once, spilling over itself back into the basin. “And take that away from him. ’Tis a torch fount.”

  Just as the words left his lips Tri thrust his hand into the light, which changed to flame on contact and raced up his arm. Shrieking, the now-flaming giant ran around waving his arms and showering the cottages with fiery embers. Thatching caught light and began to burn. Coig hefted the pear tree under his arm and trudged after him.

  “By the gods, so he can be useful.” Hendry picked up a bruised pear and entered the cottage.

  Inside the air reeked of calming herbs and benevolent spells. The old druid had lived there so long he’d tainted every object and furnishing with his personal stink. Hendry breathed it in deeply, feeding that much of Flen to the grinding, tireless furnace in his chest. When he checked the spell chamber he found only bare shelves where there should have been a treasure-trove of crystals and talismans. The cabinets, trunks and baskets in the adjoining bed chamber stood open and empty.

  Aon ducked his head to look in at him. “’Tis a message left for you in the cooking room.”

  Sweat beaded on his brow as he came out of the room. Hendry had been careful to ward the encampment and the caraidean against far-seeing, convinced that would blind any attempt to find them or learn of their movements. Had Bhaltair somehow guessed they would be coming for him, even before the mortal told them of the settlement? Had he set a spell trap to imprison them for all eternity here?

  In the kitchen, flour had been spilled all over the table, providing the canvas for the message. It had been written in a script so ancient only he or one of the giants could have deciphered it.

  Too late.

  Hendry’s hands balled into fists and his jaw tightened.

  A heavy hand clamped on his shoulder before Aon left.

  The druid stood beside the table, unable to look away from the taunt Flen had left behind for him. Pride, the one weakness the old meddler had never overcome, must have spurred him to write it. To gloat from a safe distance over the triumph he now anticipated.

  Through clenched teeth Hendry said, “I am no’ yet defeated, old man.”

  With quaking hands, he scraped and shoved the flour into a rough mound. Though he’d been imprisoned without his focal stones or crystals, his spellwork was the match of none. Shutting his eyes tight he summoned the most powerful of viewing spells. He muttered the words, over and over, his voice growing louder with each incantation. Though the veins in his temples throbbed and his heart pounded in his ears, he said it again, and then again. Slowly he opened his eyes to a swirling ball of crimson sparkles that hovered over the table. With a mighty breath, he blew the flour into it.

  Though some of the flour hissed and popped out of existence, enough remained swirling in the viewing ball. As Hendry watched, two indistinct forms coalesced. The short one he didn’t know, but the other he knew too well.

  “Flen,” he muttered.

  “Master,” said the short one. Hendry bent forward to hear the dim voice. “Should we no’ be making haste?”

  Hendry watched as the old druid spread the flour on the table.

  “The Skaraven serve us again,” he assured her in his aged voice. “We’ve some time yet.”

  “But–”

  “Calm yourself, child,” he said, regarding her. “Soon our allies ’twill go to them by water. With the aid of the druidess who possesses the touch of ice, victory ’twill be ours.” He stood back to survey the table and put a gnarled finger to his chin. Then he crooked up a corner of his mouth. “I have it.”

  As he reached to the flour, the vision suddenly ended and the globe of sparkles winked out. The flour it had suspended drifted back to the table in long tendrils as Hendry stumbled back and sat down hard on a stool. Breathing deeply, he put a hand to his chest.

  “Gods,” he gasped. “The conclave has gone mad.”

  To be brought back to life he knew the warrior-slaves would have been made immortals. Such a precious gift would render them almost impossible to kill. In the first century the clan had been menacing. Now as enemies they would rival the giants—no doubt exactly what Flen had intended. He had personally overseen the training of the Skaraven, and likely had tamed them with obedience spells and controlling wards as soon as he woke them from their graves.

  That the warrior and the escaped female had disappeared into the lochan now made more sense. Flen must have used the Dawn Fire’s magic to give the clan the ability to somehow use rivers and lochs as portals. Such would permit them to move in water as the giants did through the earth.

  Hendry felt a plop of wetness fall on his hand and looked down to watch another join it. He touched the streaks on his face, and thought of Murdina pacing in the farmhouse, awaiting his return with Flen. He’d promised her that the old fool would die by her hand. He’d hoped that a long and satisfying bloodletting would help restore her to sanity.

  Now Flen’s escape might push her over into the abyss.

  But at least his vision spell had salvaged a sliver of hope. He glanced at the table and permitted himself a smirk. Yes, pride had been the old man’s weakness. Some things didn’t change.

  The scent of burning pine made Hendry stand as flames erupted from beneath the old druid’s table. It crawled through the flour, blackening it and the hateful message. He swept his hand to one side, and the table fell over to let loose the fire on the worn floor planks.

  The Gods had not released them to return to their deaths, Hendry thought calmly as he left the burning kitchen. He took a bite of the browned pear and savored the taste of its overripe flesh. Such a pity the giants did not eat. When he took Flen from whatever hole he had crawled into, he might have fed him to them, one chunk of flesh at a time.

  Hendry emerged from the cottage to see the rest of the settlement now merrily burning. Aon stood with the other giants on its outskirts. They watched as Coig used an axe to chop the pear tree int
o a new form for Tri. Beside it his blackened remains streamed white smoke into the air.

  No more shall we suffer. No more shall we submit. ’Tis time for the reckoning.

  Hendry closed his eyes as his power burst out of him, and Flen’s cottage exploded, hurling burning debris in all directions.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  AT SUNSET THE McAra came to the solar to personally escort Althea and Brennus to the feast. As they walked with him through the corridors the laird apologized for not being better prepared.

  “’Twould have been a grander celebration, Chieftain, if my servants had some months to prepare,” he told Brennus. “My poulterers keep an adequate stock of squab and game birds, of course, and the hunters supply enough deer, hare and boar to feed the king’s court. Still, I should have liked to offer a more impressive meal.” He frowned. “Mayhap I should have ordered an ox slaughtered. Or do you crave a particular delicacy, my lady? Our ladies greatly favor milk-boiled eel.”

  Althea swallowed and smiled. “Ah, no, my lord.”

  Hundreds of McAra clansman and their wives packed the laird’s great hall. The crowd fell silent as they bowed and curtseyed when Maddock entered. Althea admired their fine garments but felt more awed by the feast itself. Towering platters of meats and breads and enormous crocks of soups and stews crammed every table in sight. The dishes had been grouped by color, creating a rainbow effect across the hall. Serving maids stood ready with steaming ewers of sauces and bottles of dark wine. Behind them a trio of men filled tankards and goblets with whiskey from kegs the size of a compact car.

  “Welcome, my kin,” Maddock said, and clapped Brennus on the shoulder. “I present to you Chieftain Brennus of the Clan Skaraven, protectors of the McAra. He asks naught from us but friendship. So to honor our debt to his clan, we shall give him our loyalty. From this day forth, the McAra serve the Skaraven as sworn allies. Make your vow before him now.”

  “Tha mi a ‘gealltainn,” the men and women of the clan called out.

  When Althea turned a quizzical look to Brennus, he leaned toward her. “I promise,” he translated.

  Guards marched through the assembly to open a long series of panels at the back of the hall, which revealed an outdoor courtyard lit by huge torches and furnished with long trestle tables. Musicians played lilting songs on lutes and reed pipes as the clan helped themselves to the food and went out to sit under the stars.

  Althea and Brennus sat at the laird’s table, along with Cadeyrn and Taran and the McAra’s chieftains, stablemasters and garrison captains. Since her fake Scottish accent needed more practice Althea stayed quiet and listened to the men discuss the recent attacks on towns and villages to the west of their territory.

  “I had word today of a druid settlement being burned in the northern highlands,” Maddock told Brennus. “’Twas an odd thing, for they found no dead. Only great furrows in the ground. The same as found at the villages attacked and massacred by strange warriors. One lad who survived swore they came from the ground, like giant voles.”

  Brennus exchanged a look with Cadeyrn. “In the time of Ara the Skaraven battled such an enemy. Carved wooden giants called the famhairean, they were brought to life by druid bloodshed. They could dig through the earth faster than the swiftest mount. With one clout they could crush the strongest warrior.”

  The men around the table fell silent as the laird nodded. “We, too, have legends of the famhairean, and the mad lovers who used them against mortal and druid kind. ’Twas said they met defeat in battle with your clan.”

  “For a time, aye, they did. The druids entrapped them for eternity in a spell prison.” Brennus glanced at Althea. “They escaped and returned to seek vengeance against the Skaraven and the tree-knowers. They mean to rid the world of mortal kind.”

  Maddock took a long swallow from his tankard. “Do the Skaraven stand against them once more, Chieftain?”

  “Aye. We shall fight the famhairean until we rid the world of them.” Brennus grinned broadly. “And at dawn we shall ride into battle from here on our fine McAra horses.”

  The laird’s men roared their approval and thumped the table with their fists so hard their trenchers jumped.

  The laird stood and raised his whiskey. “May the Gods bless our clans with victory.”

  “Victory,” his men said, and raised their drinks before draining them in one swallow.

  The clan’s pipers stood and played a loud, fierce tune. From the great hall two men dressed in stuffed, shaped burlap horse-and-rider costumes trotted out. Althea joined in with the general laughter as the two mock riders drew wooden swords and jousted at each other. After them came a group of young boys dressed in what had to be their fathers’ tunics and tartans, in which they capered comically with the mock horsemen as they tried to steal their blades.

  One of the boys brought a fistful of wildflowers to Althea, and bowed like a courtier as he presented them.

  “My thanks,” she told the lad, who blushed and hurried away to fling himself into the arms of the laird’s wife. “How sweet.”

  “My youngest lad,” Maddock said, sounding gloomy. “He’ll no’ take up the blade. Spends every day in the gardens troweling in the dirt and plucking posies.” His mouth twitched. “Just as I did as a lad.”

  Althea felt Brennus stiffen beside her, and followed the direction of his gaze to the last performer entering from the hall. Two men wore a costume of white wool that had been stuffed and tied to resemble a giant stag, complete with a spiky rack of real, bleached horns. Instead of trotting through the tables, the mock-stag delicately minced its way toward the laird’s table.

  Brennus got to his feet as the stag stopped beside him, and stared down at the knots of wool that formed the eyes.

  The stag bowed its straw and wool head to the chieftain before it walked into the shadows.

  “The white stag was the symbol of our ancient Pritani tribe,” Maddock said to Brennus. “’Twas no’ meant to offend you, Chieftain.”

  “It doesnae,” he said, and sat back down. Under the table he took hold of Althea’s hand. “But I feel the hand of the Gods tonight, Maddock McAra.”

  The laird smiled. “Now you walk in my boots, Brennus Skaraven.”

  Once they had finished eating, Brennus formally thanked the laird and his lady for the generous feast, and took Althea upstairs to the rooms that had been provided for them and their men.

  Althea smiled at the big cabinet bed draped in lace and festooned with flowers, and turned to see Brennus leaning against the door and watching her.

  “It’s been a long day,” she said. “You must be tired.”

  He shook his head.

  “The clan will be here at dawn,” she said. Feeling a twinge of mischief, she moved to stand in the shaft of moonlight streaming in from the high, narrow window covered with a fine netting. “We should get some sleep.”

  The chieftain turned and inspected the door, which had no lock or bolt bar. He dragged one of the dainty chairs by the fireplace over to it, tipped it, and wedged it under the knob.

  Althea reached behind her waist for the ties that cinched the back of her gown, tugging them loose. “I think I’d better stay in this. Unless you want to get a maid to help me undress.”

  Brennus shook his head again as he advanced on her.

  She turned her back on him as she went over to look through the window netting. “Oh, what a nice view. I want to sleep on this side of the bed.”

  His hands gripped her waist. “’Tis sleep you want, my lady?”

  Althea loved that he didn’t hesitate to touch her anymore. “I don’t know.” She bent over, resting her elbows on the sill and tilting her hips, just enough to brush the back of her skirts against the front of his trousers. “We’ve seen the horses, met everyone, and even had dinner and a show. Maybe the laird has some board games in here.”

  “Are you bored, my lady?” Brennus murmured as he slid one hand around to hold her just under her breasts, and used the other t
o tug loose the ties over her spine.

  “One thing I’m never with you, Bren, is bored.” She closed her eyes as he pressed his mouth to her nape.

  Her bodice began to sag, and his big hand tugged it away from her bare breasts.

  “You didnae wear that hooked band today,” Brennus said, stroking his fingers over her curves.

  “The straps would have shown, and I’m not sure how to explain what a bra is to medieval people.” She caught her breath as he tugged on one tight nipple. “Don’t you believe me?”

  “No,” he murmured against her ear. “I suspect you like being bare under your gown. To feel the silk on your skin. To be ready for my touch.”

  She rubbed her bottom slowly over the straining bulge of his erection. “Maybe I wanted you to think about it too. You knew I was naked under this gown.”

  “Every moment of this day.” He cupped her breasts and kneaded them slowly. “I want you naked for me now, Althea.”

  Shivering, she straightened, and pulled her arms out of the gown. Leaning back against him, she wriggled until she eased the bodice over her hips, and let it and the skirts fall to the floor.

  “Bathe in the moonlight for me.” Brennus took her hands, bracing them on either side of the window, and nudged her feet apart. “Your skin glows in it.”

  She heard him undressing behind her, and lifted her face into the soft white light, hoping that it made her look as beautiful as he made her feel.

  His heat moved over her as he came closer, and then his hands gripped her hips as he shifted her over him. The slick head of his cock found the wet, swollen seam of her sex, and slid against it to part her folds and graze her pulsing clit. She tried to impale herself on him, but he eluded her, and continued the slow, sliding strokes against her pussy.

  “’Tis turnabout, my lady,” Brennus said, dropping a kiss on her shoulder. “You had your way with me at Dun Mor. Now I’ll have mine.”

  His way was to drive her to climax with his torturous rubbing shaft, she thought, and dragged in a steadying breath. “Maybe you should chain me.”