Celtic Fire Part 16

The vision coalesced slowly, gaining form and depth by slow degrees until it claimed more solidity than the ground beneath Owein's knees. It burned with fervor, like the heat that rolled in merciless waves from Madog's fire. The scent of blood hung in the air as the flames leapt into the night sky. Hideous wails filled the Druid circle-wind in the trees, or the spirits of those long dead? Owein didn't know, didn't question.

Madog's voice creaked like winter branches. "Look into the past this night, lad. See what horrors the Romans visited upon the sacred Isle of Mona fifty long years ago. See what must be avenged."

Owein struggled against the harsh spear of pain in his head. He peered through the veils of time and he Saw.

The Romans came in the night.

Their Legions ma.s.sed at the foot of the sacred mountains and rippled on the sh.o.r.e like a sinuous beast. The glare of a thousand torches stained the black waves. Shouts echoed against the stones.

The moon, a s.h.i.+vering crescent, cowered above the thin line of water that separated the isle from the mainland. A foul wind blew, sweeping the call of the night creatures into the arms of the sea.

The children of the Horned G.o.d gathered beneath the spreading branches of the oaks, erect and unafraid. The hand of Kernunnos s.h.i.+elded them; the invaders could not prevail. The Druid men took their places on the beach, aligned according to power. The women shook loose their braids and smeared mud on their flesh. Sacred fire, lit in the bowels of the forest, licked to the top of the Druidesses' pitch-soaked branches and flashed against the sky. Their children hid in the shadows, silent.

The conquerors set flat-bottomed boats upon the restless waters. Horses swam alongside. Slowly, one by one, the Romans slid across the strait.

Unnoticed by his elders, a small lad crawled from the shelter of the forest and clawed his way to the rocky coastline. Trembling with fear and exhilaration, he huddled in the cleft between two stones and watched as the Romans emerged from the sea like some fearsome fiend of legend, armor glinting like scales, talon swords unsheathed.

As the last warrior gained the sh.o.r.e, the Druid women came alive. They hurled themselves through the ranks of their men, shrieking, torches sparking fiery trails behind them. The lad thought their surge a fierce and beautiful fury, not unlike the violence of the storms that rolled from the sea each winter. He'd always loved watching the sea. He flattened his palms on the smooth, damp stone and leaned forward, hoping to catch sight of his mother and sisters.

The Romans halted as if frozen by a wintry blast. The soldiers looked at their leaders, sword points dipping to the rocks. Sparks fell from their torches to sputter and die on the ground.

The sons of the Horned G.o.d lifted their arms and faces to the sky. The lad's great-grandfather, an Elder far beyond the memory of his birth, shouted a Word of unimaginable power. The lad had never before heard the sound. He whispered it in his hiding place and felt the stones tremble.

The ground shook. Kernunnos, the Horned G.o.d of the forest, stirred. The Druid men called to him, hurling prayers into the night sky like spears. The women ran through the ranks of their men, shrieks echoing across the water. The wind howled. The ancient curse rose.

The Roman beast on the sh.o.r.e shuddered.

For one pure, s.h.i.+ning moment, the conquerors staggered under the weight of their fear, their weapons as heavy as grinding stones in their hands. The lad eased from his lair, s.h.i.+fting to get a better view of the spectacle. The Horned G.o.d was the greatest of all and his victory was at hand.

At that moment, a dark figure separated itself from the cowering Legions. The lad gasped as the man gave his back to the Druids. How did he dare to insult Kernunnos in this way? The dog would surely be struck dead. The lad held his breath, waiting for a bolt of lightning to drop from the sky.

It didn't come.

The Roman, pacing, waved his sword before his troops. His voice pierced the air, a thin reed above the wild prayers and savage wails of the Druids. Yet like a reed, it did not break before the brunt of the storm. The man waded through puddles of torchlight, red cloak whipping about his shoulders. He barked harsh words, slicing the night with his blade in emphasis. Then he spun about, pointed his weapon at the Druids, and gave a shout.

The Roman horde roared in response as they surged across the beach with all the fury of a winter tide. The defiant shrieks of the lad's mother and sisters turned to cries of terror. The prayers of his father and uncles shattered as the Roman swords struck.

Blood flowed in rivers on the ground, seeping into the sea. The lad smelled death. Bile rose in his throat as flames engulfed the forest, racing to the tops of the ancient oaks to snap at the sky, shouting to any that would listen that the glory of Rome was stronger than any barbarian G.o.d.

The lad shrank into his meager cleft in the rocks, choking on terror. The odor of burning flesh met his nostrils. His gut heaved.

He huddled in a pool of his own vomit, awaiting the end.

Owein clawed through the suffocating remnants of the vision, gulping great shuddering breaths of air. His arms shook when he tried to lift himself from the rain-soaked earth. The first gray cobwebs of dawn stretched across the sky, binding the limbs of the oaks. Clumps of mistletoe perched on the branches like giant spiders, hairy limbs trailing.

"Steady, lad."

Madog grasped Owein's arm and heaved him into a sitting position. Owein concentrated on his next breath, then the one after that. Finally he looked into the old Druid's eyes.

"Tell me," Madog said. One of the old man's hands remained on Owein's arm, imparting strength; the other was wrapped like a vine about the twisted staff bearing the Roman skull.

Though the nightmare had seared itself in Owein's memory, its description didn't come easily. He bit out the words between gasps. "Romans. Set ash.o.r.e on a Druid isle. The Holy Ones called Kernunnos, but he did not answer."

" 'Tis the Druid stronghold at Mona ye saw, lad. The Romans burned its sacred groves. Killed its Elders. Raped its women. In the end, only charred stumps and ashes remained."

"A true vision?" Owein asked.

"Aye."

Owein shut his eyes. "Death," he whispered. "Always death. Why can I See naught else?"

Madog sank to his knees by Owein's side. "With power comes pain. 'Tis the way of Kernunnos."

Owein bowed his head and prayed he would be worthy of the Horned G.o.d's favor. He would gladly give all that he had, bear any hurt to bring Rhiannon home. He prayed in the language of the Old Ones, speaking the Words of power as Madog had taught him. When he had finished, he looked up.

"The lad I saw-did he survive?"

The Druid's gray eyes turned flat. His hand trembled as he brushed a tear from his craggy cheek. He held silent so long that Owein wondered if he would answer at all.

"Aye," he said at last, his voice distant, as if speaking to those who had died on that dread day.

"That he did, lad. That he did."

Chapter Eleven.

"Hurry!"

A fragile thread of dawn hung over the fort as Marcus slipped into the alley between the barracks. Rhiannon hurried after him, wondering at the lad's destination. He'd crept into her bedchamber as the night sky lightened, begging her to rise and follow quickly in silence. His dark eyes had flashed with the same mischievous light Rhiannon had seen so many times in Owein's blue gaze.

She could not help acquiescing to his appeal. To her amazement, he'd commanded the slave at the front entrance in a tone so like his father's that the porter had unlocked the door and allowed them to pa.s.s without question. Once in the street, Marcus had broken into a run.

She lifted her skirt and sprinted after him. "Marcus! Where are we going?"

He paused at the corner of a long, low building, his hand gripping the end of the bra.s.s tube he sheltered with one arm. "Over there," he said, pointing. "The gate tower."

The gate tower. Dear Briga! Could Marcus get them both through it? Her heart pounded in her throat. "Are we leaving the fort?" Dear Briga! Could Marcus get them both through it? Her heart pounded in her throat. "Are we leaving the fort?"

He shook his head. "The guards would never let me pa.s.s! We're going up onto the battlements."

"Why?" Rhiannon asked, but Marcus had already grabbed her hand and was towing her across the wide gap between the edge of the barracks and the perimeter wall.

"You'll see. Come on."

They inched along the earthen foundation past the row of ovens built into the turf where a s.h.a.ggy black dog snuffled for sc.r.a.ps. Rhiannon threw a longing glance toward the stout timber gate. Just beyond, so close she could almost taste it, lay freedom.

Marcus halted in the long shadow of the gate tower and squared his shoulders. "Follow me," he whispered. "Act as though we have the right to be here."

He approached the guards-one a burly man with a bored expression and one a tall, slender youth whose beard had not yet fully grown. After some minutes of finagling, the burly man nodded and opened a door behind him. Marcus entered. Rhiannon followed, slapping away the guard's hand when it strayed too close to her breast.

The room within the tower was little more than a shaft with a wooden ladder propped up against the wall. Marcus placed his foot on the lower rung and began to climb. Rhiannon waited for the door's thud before she hiked up her skirt and followed him.

They emerged on an intermediary platform and, after negotiating a second ladder, gained the upper level. The high walkway ringed the fort in an unbroken path, with bridges spanning the towers flanking the gates. Rhiannon looked to the north and drank in the sight of her home for the first time since her capture.

Her breath caught. Towering crags stood like blue mist on the horizon. The rains would not come this day, for the clouds had fled in the night. The sky was a rare deep blue, tinged with rose where the sun had yet to rise. Birds dipped and soared, calling madly. One long-tailed swallow landed on the rail and blinked at her. Rhiannon sighed. If she had wings, she would lift herself from the battlements and fly home to Owein.

Below her, a man's voice shouted. Marcus nudged her excitedly. "Look."

Rhiannon blinked past the hills and the wide sweep of barley fields and focused on the trampled area just outside Vindolanda's wall. Neat rows of soldiers lined the clearing like sticks set in the mud. Off to one side stood the unmistakable form of Brennus. Rhiannon curled her fingers, fighting the urge to scratch the foul itch that crawled across her skin at the memory of his touch.

"Father and Quartermaster Brennus are to cross swords."

Rhiannon's gaze snapped to Marcus. "Indeed? For what cause?"

"Father wishes to show the troops how a Legionary soldier fights. The quartermaster is his second-in-command. The men will be in awe of Father when Brennus falls."

"For that your father will risk his life?"

Marcus shot her a disbelieving look. "Father had the command of the Thirtieth Legion. He's hardly at risk fighting an auxiliary quartermaster. Besides," he added, "I imagine they'll be using practice swords, not real ones."

Rhiannon's gaze narrowed. "And how is it that you know all about this?"

Marcus had the grace to look guilty. "I went out yesterday while you and Magister Demetrius were at the hospital. I heard some soldiers laying wagers on the fight."

"Demetrius wouldn't be pleased to know you've been sneaking about the fort."

"You won't tell him, will you?"

Rhiannon laughed. "No."

"Good." He turned his attention back to the a.s.sembly. "Look. There's Father."

Rhiannon leaned over the railing. Lucius paced the rows of men, sword drawn. "Why is your father's uniform different from that of Brennus and the others?" she asked Marcus.

"Father wears the armor of a Legionary. The auxiliary soldiers wear only mail s.h.i.+rts and leather."

Lucius stopped before one unfortunate wretch and flicked the tip of his blade at some imperfection on the soldier's chest. The man's spine stiffened. Lucius regarded him in silence for a long moment before moving down the line and repeating the scene.

A warm sensation flooded Rhiannon's belly as she watched him. I'll promise you tomorrow. I'll promise you tomorrow. Two nights had pa.s.sed. Why had he not come to fulfill his pledge? Two nights had pa.s.sed. Why had he not come to fulfill his pledge?

Lucius reached the end of the row directly below Rhiannon's perch on the battlement, glanced to the rear, and went very still. Then his gaze lifted, meeting hers as if she'd called out to him.

The ghost. When it fled, he knew she was near. Rhiannon raised a tentative hand in greeting. Beside her, Marcus blanched and sank to the plank floor.

"Do you think he saw me?"

"I'm sure of it," Rhiannon replied, still watching Lucius. She thought she saw a hint of amus.e.m.e.nt in his expression, but because of the distance and the shadow of his face guard, she couldn't be sure. Pivoting, he started in on the next row of soldiers.

"He'll flay me alive," Marcus said miserably.

Rhiannon chuckled. "Then may I know why you are taking such a grave risk to be here?"

The lad slid the bra.s.s tube from his belt, where he'd secured it before scaling the ladders. Carefully, he removed the cap and slid out the contents: several sc.r.a.ps of papyrus, a pen, and a small pot of ink.

"You've climbed to the battlements to write?"

"Not write. Draw." He gathered his equipment. "I overheard Father telling Demetrius that Vindolanda houses the sorriest collection of auxiliary b.a.s.t.a.r.ds he's ever had the misfortune to command." At Rhiannon's raised brows, he grinned. "He said he'll drill them like dogs until he's satisfied they can distinguish their heads from their a.s.ses."

"Is that so?"

Marcus nodded vigorously. "Yes. I've always wanted to draw a real swordfight, not one copied from some Greek vase."

"Ah," said Rhiannon, understanding at last. "But why did you need my company? It would have been much simpler to come on your own."

The lad busied himself opening the inkwell and setting it with care on the ground. He rolled open a piece of papyrus and weighted it with several small stones. Then he straightened and peered over the battlements onto the parade grounds.

"I don't know exactly. I did think to come alone, but when I woke this morning I thought you might enjoy sharing the adventure."

She smiled. "I do. I also like to watch you draw."

He grinned up at her shyly. "Knowing that will make me draw all the better."

She ruffled his hair, aware of a sweet tug in the vicinity of her heart. It would be so easy to love this lad. As easy as it would be to love his father. It would be so easy to love this lad. As easy as it would be to love his father.

The thought, so unexpected and yet so natural, set her heart pounding. She s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand from Marcus's dark curls. Fortunately, he'd already returned his attention to the soldiers and didn't seem to notice Rhiannon's sudden discomfort.

She steeled herself to look down at the a.s.sembly. As she watched, the men exchanged their battle swords for wooden blades and separated into sparring pairs. Grunts and shouts peppered the combat, which to Rhiannon looked as fierce as the battle in the fens, if not as b.l.o.o.d.y. If these men fell far short of Lucius's ideal, she shuddered to imagine the carnage his Legion in the East had wreaked.

After a time, Lucius barked an order, causing the men to cease their battle-play and fall into a wide arc. He retrieved a wooden practice sword from the ground and lifted its tip waist-high.

"Gaius Brennus, advance."

A murmur rippled through the a.s.sembled garrison as Brennus swaggered into the circle. The slanting rays of the sun glinted off the twisted gold of his torc. "Commander."

"Take up a wooden blade," Lucius said.