This was the place she had seen in her dreams for so many moons. The bloodied killing fields where, no matter how many stirring speeches Caratacus gave his followers, carnage would ensue.
Rocks were strewn across many gentle access points. The ramparts she’d seen in her visions. And hidden farther up the mountain several tribes had laid claim to their own campsites, as if they’d been there some time, and children played mock battle with sticks and stones.
Druids dispensed wisdom, gave sacrifice to the gods, and strategized with the king and tribal chieftains. On the third afternoon after leaving the enclave, as Morwyn watched a group of blue-daubed warriors practise their war cries, a cold sensation of finality washed through her.
No matter how just the fight or brave the cause, against the mighty Roman army her people would lose.
Her skin prickled with awareness and she turned, to see Brennus standing some distance off, watching her. Her heartbeat sped; her breathing stumbled. She should go. Ignore him. It would be easier that way.
But instead she picked her way across the rocky incline until they stood within touching distance. His warmth and vitality reached for her, ensnared her, battled against her conscience, and she remained rooted to the spot only by sheer force of her ingrained Druidic willpower.
And then he spoke. “You should go, Morwyn.”
His rejection hurt. More than it should, but wasn’t this what she had asked of him? To keep his distance? But why, then, had he sought out her?
She stepped back, unable to trust her voice, and instantly his hand gripped hers. Strong. Comforting. Memories flooded through her of entwined limbs and heated kisses, but overriding all else the memory of his tender touch before he had left her on the morn before Gervas had intruded into their delusory existence.
“I mean, leave this mountain.” His voice was low, his focus on her absolute. “Before it’s too late. Take Gwyn—gods, take as many of the children as you can—and get out of here. It’s a death trap.”
She knew it was. But still the Morrigan had led her here. For a purpose she could not yet fathom. “Is there no way we could claim victory?”
His grip on her hand became less brutal, as if he’d expected her to try to pull free or dispute his words. The gentle caress of his thumb across her knuckles threatened to shatter the fragile barrier she’d erected around her psyche.
But still she allowed him to hold her hand. It might be the last time he ever would.
“No.” It was just one word, and filled with fatalistic despair. And she knew it was the truth.
“I can’t leave.” Her voice was soft, but her resolve implacable. They couldn’t win, but she couldn’t leave because the time had not yet come to pass. She couldn’t explain it to Brennus, couldn’t explain it to herself. But when could any mortal truly explain the twisted, contradictory messages of the gods?
All she knew was when the Morrigan decreed the time was right, she would know.
“I’ve had enough of all this.” He jerked his head at the warriors. “It’s been my life. Kept me sane. But . . . now I’ve had enough.” As if he couldn’t help himself he tugged her closer. And, weak fool that she was, she allowed him to. “I dared to dream of a different life with you, Morwyn.” Raw pain gave his whispered words an agonized edge. “Dared to imagine we could overcome my past. But you’re right. I don’t deserve a second chance. This is all I’m fit for.”
“No.” Before she could stop herself her free hand cradled his jaw, her thumb grazing the rough stubble that darkened his features. She couldn’t be with him, but goddess, she wanted him to find some peace in his life. Some happiness. “You’re worth so much more than this, Brennus. You have to survive this battle. You have to find that other life you crave.”
A smile twisted his lips, a smile that wrapped itself around her heart and magnified her despair a thousandfold. A smile that told her more clearly than any clumsy words that, without her, such other life was nothing but a fragile dream.
Dimly she became aware of a cacophony of shouts, of sudden movement, of frenzied excitement. Sliding her hand from his face to his shoulder, she followed his glance and saw several Druids, chieftains and warriors ascending, doubtless on their way to Caratacus.
“And so it begins.” Brennus sounded resigned. “And I can’t persuade you, a Druid of honor and integrity, to remain out of the line of fire with the non-fighting women and children?”
“Can I persuade you to do so?”
His free hand clasped the length of her braid, allowed it to slide against the palm of his hand. Then he released her hand and stepped back and the chill of this final parting invaded her heart, her soul.
“Grant me one last favor.” The incredible green of his eyes captivated her, as they had captivated her from the very first moment they’d met. “How did you find out?”
She swallowed against the rising constriction that threatened to choke her. “The Morrigan showed me.” Her voice was husky, filled with tears as yet unshed. Treacherous words trembled on the tip of her tongue and she flung caution aside. Her Gaul, her Brennus, was more important to her than placating her goddess who for all her power was still vindictive. Still cruel. “I wish she hadn’t.”
***
From her vantage point, concealed behind a natural barrier of rock and bush, Morwyn crouched beside Nimue. Chieftains went from rank to rank, encouraging their warriors, and Caratacus appeared to be everywhere bolstering morale and appealing to his forefathers for victory.
In the valley, already fording the river, the Roman Legion advanced.
“It should be easy to defend our position.” But even as she spoke Nimue frowned as if she hadn’t imagined the army would be so vast. “We have the advantage of height. They will drop like flies before our missiles.”
And at first it seemed they stood a chance. She and Nimue aimed their arrows true into the enemy ranks. Roman soldiers fell and a flicker of hope ignited deep in Morwyn’s breast. Maybe they could defeat the might of the Eagle, after all.
But then, in sudden precise movement, they re-formed their ranks and raised their shields in such a manner as to protect the entire Legion. Arrows glanced off the makeshift roof, missiles had no impact and, impervious to attack, they began to systematically tear down the stone ramparts.
“Should we advance?” Morwyn wiped sweaty hair from her eyes and glanced at Nimue, who appeared transfixed as legionaries felled their woefully ill-equipped warriors with swords and javelins.
“No. It appears our warriors are retreating.” Nimue stood. “Let me find out, Morwyn. I’ll be back directly.”
Morwyn remained in place and watched the pitched battle between half-naked tribesmen and fully armored Romans. Courage didn’t come into it. They were being slaughtered because the enemy possessed strategies and equipment foreign to her people.
“Nimue.”
The male voice came from behind and sounded strangely familiar although, distracted by the bloodshed, Morwyn couldn’t quite place it. As Nimue changed direction and began to run up toward the source of the voice, Morwyn pushed herself to her feet so she could see the speaker.
The battle cries faded. Her heart gave a mighty thud against her ribs, then appeared to die. Her peripheral vision narrowed until all she could see was Nimue.
And Nimue was talking to Gawain.
Chapter Thirty-Three
He was alive. The thought pounded against Morwyn’s skull but she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Hypnotized, she continued to stare at him, and as her vision blurred and the landscape undulated, shivers trickled along her spine.
Gawain turned his back on Nimue, but it was Caratacus’ face who stared blindly at Morwyn. And as Nimue drew her dagger, her hair rippled and changed from honey to gold, and it was Carys who plunged the deadly blade into the displaced Briton king’s back.
Jagged gasps tore from Morwyn’s throat and her borrowed bow fell to her feet as, in slow motion, she watched Gawain and Nimue turn toward her. In the
heartbeat before recognition hit Gawain, comprehension flooded, singeing her blood and causing nausea to roil.
The Morrigan had never told her Gawain was dead. She had shown her, over and over, betrayal by a trusted one. But Caratacus was the one who was betrayed, and only after she had met the king, after she could recognize his face, had her vision changed.
But why show her Carys?
The answer swam into her mind, in perfect clarity. Royal blood.
“Morwyn?” Gawain stepped toward her, but in that instant a strong arm wrapped around her shoulders, dragged her against a chain-mail-protected chest, and a bloodstained hand gripped her jaw, forcing her to look up.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Her Gaul’s green eyes blazed with fear and fury. For her. “You’re a perfect target. Keep down and keep moving back up the mountain.”
With that he crouched low, dragging her with him, protecting her back with his body, and unceremoniously shoved her up where Gawain and Nimue had retreated behind a stand of trees.
The power of her vision thrummed in her mind and danced through her blood. There was more she needed to learn, more she needed to understand concealed within the Morrigan’s message. But she swept the thought aside and gripped Gawain’s hand.
“You’re alive.”
“For now.” He sounded grim. Then his features softened by the slightest degree. “I wish I could say it was good to see you, Morwyn. But, gods, you shouldn’t be here.”
Without even looking at him, she knew Brennus tensed behind her. She turned and wiped a trail of blood from his face. “I thought you’d murdered him.” A bald statement that meant so much. That meant everything. A relieved laugh escaped but it sounded more like a cry of pain.
“No.” Brennus’ voice was guarded as he thrust her bow into her hand.
“He’s not the first to bear a grudge against Druids,” Gawain said. “I’ve held one or two myself.” He glanced back down the mountain. “A clash of egos is scarcely of any import at this time, Morwyn. We drew blood but didn’t break any bones.”
“Much as I am loath to interrupt this touching reunion”—Nimue sounded irritated—“we do have the Roman Legion methodically slaughtering our people. Caratacus needs to change tactics.”
Morwyn caught the swift glance that passed between the two men. Condemnation from Brennus, defiance from Gawain. Another eerie certainty coalesced in her mind.
“You fought over this strategy.” It wasn’t a question. It was another facet of the vision that had plagued her. Gawain in the midst of battle, embracing it. And Brennus fighting for his king as he would always fight for his king, but knowing it was doomed to failure.
Neither man answered as they continued to half run, half scramble farther into the heart of the mountain. When Morwyn glanced over her shoulder, around Brennus’ protective arm, she saw warriors and Druids alike retreating, as they were, to find strategic crevices and rock shelters behind which to launch a renewed attack upon the advancing enemy.
Raw panic punched through her as realization suddenly hit.
“They’re going to find the children, Brennus.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The children and the women caring for them were in their direct path, and once the legionaries cut their way through the final warriors, the defenseless would be rounded up and taken as slaves.
“Bren.” The hoarse shout came from ahead, from a blue-daubed warrior she recognized as Judoc, the one she’d poisoned with her blowdart. “We have to get Caratacus out. He can’t be taken by the Romans.”
Panting with exertion, fear and the high, mountainous air, Morwyn broke free of Brennus and skidded down a rocky incline to the grass- and flower-filled slope where the children camped among the chariots. Where was Gwyn? Had the little girl obeyed Morwyn’s command to stay out of danger?
A familiar figure broke away from a group of children and raced toward her, arms outstretched. Morwyn scooped Gwyn into her arms, held her close, rejoicing in the thin little arms around her neck, the frantic beat of Gwyn’s heart against her breast. Still holding her, she turned and saw Brennus and Gawain and several others arguing with the king. Clearly, he wasn’t convinced flight was the only chance of survival.
As she drew closer, more warriors flooded over the ridge into the illusory safety of the camp. Brennus gripped Caratacus’ arms.
“If you’re captured, everything we’ve fought for has been for nothing. This doesn’t have to be the end, but if you stay, it will be.”
Caratacus tore himself free. “Where’s the queen?”
“I’ll find her and your daughter.” Nimue unsheathed her dagger. “Where are you heading?”
“The land of the Brigantes,” Judoc said. “We have allies there.” He glanced at Caratacus. “Under your leadership, we can re-form the resistance.”
Nimue nodded and ran back to where the battle raged, and a contingent formed around the king as they sought escape, after urging as many of the women as they could to take the children and flee into the surrounding hills and valleys.
“Shall I take her?” Brennus offered, and Morwyn handed Gwyn over and watched how tenderly he held her, shielding her from harm, without any dip in speed as they made their way to the horses.
Goddess, let us come through this. Let us have a chance of a life together. Let me give Brennus a child of his own.
The last thought caused her to trip over a hidden rock and she stumbled, winded. Shocked by the pure simplicity of her thought. How right it felt.
“Morwyn.” He was by her side instantly, his face a mask of brutal ferocity. Yet worry gleamed in his magnificent eyes. Despite the fact they were fleeing for their lives, that the Romans would tear them apart if they captured them, a smile began to curve her lips.
And froze.
Above Brennus, in the pale blue of the sky, ravens soared, cawing their bloodlust at the battle below. She gasped, clutched her throat, mesmerized as the manifestation of the Morrigan screamed in victory and defeat, devastation and regeneration.
“What the fuck?” Brennus sounded unnerved, and only then did she realize she wasn’t the only one staring at the sky, that all the Druids had stopped in their tracks.
“The great goddess is angry.” The Druid, an older woman, reached supplicating hands to the sky. “We should stay and fight for our way of life. Not let the Romans crush it underfoot.”
Morwyn gripped Brennus’ outstretched hand and hauled herself up. Nobody moved. Everyone was staring at the Druid, or up at the circling ravens. And as she watched, one broke from the formation and soared toward the earth, its trajectory unerring.
Too late, Morwyn felt Brennus try to avert the inevitable. But he was impeded with Gwyn in one arm and Morwyn holding his free hand, and besides, there was nothing he could do. The Morrigan had come for her.
She heard the hiss of countless indrawn breaths as the raven sank its claws into her head and sliced her skull, before once again taking to the heavens. Warm blood dripped over her forehead and a black feather fluttered to the ground by her feet.
Even Brennus appeared shocked into silence. But his grip on her hand never wavered.
Finally, she understood. Everything she thought she had concluded by herself had come from the Morrigan. She had been following the goddess’ will right from the start.
“There are more ways than one to fight the enemy.”
“Morwyn,” Gawain said. “What does the Morrigan tell you?”
She recalled her visions. In all their varied versions.
“We must never give up the fight.” The war goddess would expect nothing less. How she must have raged against Aeron’s binding magic. At the way her will had been subverted. She had wanted her Druids to retreat to the sacred Isle of Mon only in order to gather their strength, before they once again took up arms against their enemy.
“Then—we must return?” the older Druid said, but she no longer sounded so certain.
“If we return, we’ll die.
” In her visions, Gawain had represented her people, their culture, their way of life. And her people risked annihilation. “The Morrigan never surrenders. We have to find other ways to fight repression.”
The way Carys has. Slowly Morwyn turned to look at her Gaul. Had the Morrigan sent him to her? To show her the way to Camulodunon, to open her eyes to other ways of surviving this occupation?
Had she sent Brennus to show her it was possible to love again?
“Then let us not delay any further.” Caratacus’ voice was strong and sure. He inclined his head at Morwyn in a show of respect, as if she were an Elder of great standing instead of an acolyte who had only recently returned to the fold of her goddess. “It will take several days to reach Cartimandua.” Frowning, he glanced at the bedraggled group of women and children who had decided to follow them instead of choosing their own paths.
“Cartimandua?” Morwyn said as Brennus lifted Gwyn onto a horse.
“Queen of the Brigantes.” He shot her an odd look, as if he couldn’t understand why she was still with him. As if he hadn’t yet registered the fact that Gawain alive made all the difference in the world.
The thought shivered through her mind, tugging on the edges of her consciousness. Something was wrong, something she couldn’t quite place. But before she could grasp its significance, his words slammed through her like an icy river.
Royal blood. She gripped his fingers, willing him to believe her. “She’s going to betray Caratacus. I don’t know how—or even why—but she is. You have to warn him.”
Before he could do any more than frown with incomprehension, the king rode up. Morwyn sucked in a breath, prepared to tell him herself, but Caratacus spoke first.
“Brennus.” He reached down and grasped Brennus’ forearm. “You’ve served me well these last three years. I have one last command and then your debt to me is paid in full.”
Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2) Page 29