Celtic Fire Page 2

  A raven sailed into view overhead, then disappeared just as quickly. Rhiannon shivered. The creature of Owein’s vision. Did it foretell victory or death?

  She plunged her frayed willow twig into a wooden bowl and mixed the woad and water with savage strokes. Her hand painted blue swirls on Edmyg’s face and chest. When his protection was complete, she turned to Owein, murmuring a fervent prayer with each pass of her brush. She rubbed a mixture of lime and clay in his hair and drew the curls into spikes.

  The warriors gathered outside the palisade, spears and shields ready. Edmyg slung his battle horn onto his saddle and mounted his war pony. Though the men numbered no more than twenty, they were fierce, and—with the exception of Owein and one or two other lads—well honed for battle.

  Edmyg raised his sword. “Death to Rome!”

  He kicked his pony into a gallop. Madog, Owein and a handful of others followed on their own mounts, but the greater number ran afoot. They vanished into the forest in a heartbeat, leaving only a spatter of mud and the stale reek of hatred. Rhiannon hugged her arms to her chest as she walked back to the village with the women. The men of Kynan’s dun would more than double the band. Would it be enough?

  She bit back the taste of bile. Madog wanted the new Roman commander taken alive. If her kinsmen managed that feat, the Druid master would repeat the Rite of the Old Ones. A second Roman skull would overlook the ancient stone circle.

  And Rhiannon’s nightmares would begin anew.

  Lucius pulled back on his stallion’s reins and allowed his escort to advance on the road. The tattoo beat of the soldiers’ footfalls didn’t falter. The auxiliary unit marched in two columns, eight deep, with their centurion at the fore. An equal number brought up the rear. In the center, the remaining soldiers flanked a boy and an old man on horseback.

  The road threaded a narrow valley crowded on either side by dense woods. An idyllic scene, but Lucius would have gladly traded it for the wind-scoured moorland he’d traversed the day before. Far better to freeze his ass in the open than to present an easy target in comfort.

  He shot a glance to his left, where his younger brother rode in ghostly majesty, the hem of his toga trailing over the flank of an invisible mount. The specter had dogged Lucius’s every step for near half a year, driving his well-ordered life into chaos.

  Aulus hadn’t been this annoying since childhood.

  “Britannia leaves much to be desired,” Lucius said. “I cannot fathom why you preferred this wild country to Rome.”

  Aulus looked away into the shadowed forest. Lucius’s gaze followed. He detected no hint of movement, but he was not yet delusional enough to believe his passage went unnoticed. It was said the Brittunculi sprang as if from the earth. The half-naked, blue-painted wildmen struck like lightning, spewed death, then vanished into the mists like wraiths bound for Hades. Aulus had written of Britannia’s beauty, but gazing into the depths of the ancient forest, Lucius sensed only malevolence.

  His fingers tightened on the reins. The official report stated that A. Ulpius Aquila, commanding officer of the frontier fort Vindolanda, had died in a hunting accident. A plausible scenario, but Lucius was certain it was a lie. His younger brother had been no huntsman. His eyesight lacked a proper perception of depth, a handicap he’d kept secret since boyhood. Indeed, Aulus would have eschewed military service entirely if such an option had been possible for a senator’s son. A strong suspicion of foul play, coupled with insistent prodding from his brother’s ghost, had propelled Lucius north to investigate.

  Aulus floated closer until he rode less than an arm’s length away. A frigid aura rode with him.

  “At the least, you could put on your uniform,” Lucius said irritably. “Who in his right mind would ride all this way wearing a toga?”

  Aulus shrugged.

  “I suppose I should be grateful I haven’t conjured a voice for you. I—”

  “Father! Who are you talking to?”

  Lucius turned to the small stranger who was his son. At ten years of age, Marcus sat his horse well and had been allowed to ride in the fore rather than with the wagons. He should have stayed in Rome, of course, but the boy had begged to come north, and with Julia so recently dead, Lucius hadn’t had the heart to refuse. To Marcus’s credit, he’d offered few complaints during the six weeks of hard travel.

  Just endless questions.

  “Who—”

  “No one, Marcus.”

  “But I heard you.”

  “To myself, then.” By the gods, the boy never let go of an inquiry without an answer. Lucius sent an annoyed glance past his son to Demetrius, but the old Greek physician who had been Lucius’s own tutor merely raised his gaze to the sky.

  “How much longer to the fort?” Marcus asked.

  “We’ll reach Vindolanda by nightfall.”

  Demetrius gathered his saffron mantle about his rigid shoulders. “Not a moment too soon, if you request my counsel on the matter.”

  “I don’t remember asking for it,” Lucius said.

  “You should not have split the century,” Demetrius continued, unperturbed. “We will be fortunate to escape with our hides when the barbarians fall on us.”

  “Forty men is a sufficient escort, my friend. The Celts rarely travel in large numbers. Besides, the repairs to the supply wagon will take only a few hours. The rear company will soon catch up with us.”

  “Let us hope they find us alive when they do.”

  Marcus stirred, his eyes shining with excitement. “What will we do if the blue warriors attack?”

  “If Mars sends a battle, we will fight,” Lucius replied.

  “Even against the women?”

  Lucius shook his head. To be sure, he’d heard tales of Britannia’s females taking to the battlefield with their men, but he could hardly believe such an arrangement was common. Did the wretched Celts not protect their women? He tried to imagine Julia fighting at his side, but the vision was too ludicrous to contemplate. A woman would be a deadly burden in battle.

  “Be prepared for anything, Marcus,” he said. “A Roman meets his fate with strength and fights with honor.”

  Marcus gripped the hilt of his small sword. “I’m ready.”

  Lucius hoped it would not come to that. The boy was a miserable swordsman.

  The road dipped into mist-shrouded marshlands. Vapor rose from the black water to entangle the booted feet of the soldiers. The scent of decay clung to Lucius’s nostrils. Willows nudged the oaks aside as the forest drew close to the road.

  Too close. Unease clawed at his nape and his hand drifted to his sword hilt. Behind, the road curved to the right and disappeared. The damaged axle was taking longer to repair than anticipated. Could barbarians have attacked the rear company?

  Lucius let his mount drift closer to Marcus and Demetrius. The road curved, bringing the Tyne into view. The swollen river had overflowed its bank and crept onto the paving stones.

  When the spear sliced out of the shadows, it came so silently Lucius thought at first he had imagined it. Then a soldier lurched to one side, blood spurting from his neck. Aulus gestured like a madman toward the forest.

  The blast of a battle horn rent the air, loosing a flood of shrieking barbarians. Lucius wrenched his sword from its sheath as the enemy poured from the trees like a raging river. One blue-faced demon lunged for Lucius’s reins. He skewered the apparition and it fell, howling.

  “Orbis!” he shouted.

  The soldiers fell into a circle around the horses, shields raised in a tight wall. Leaning, Lucius caught Marcus by the arm and hauled him off his mount. He dropped the boy on the road beside Demetrius, who had already flung himself to the ground. “Keep the beasts steady,” he commanded.

  Marcus clung to his mare’s reins, for once without question.

  Demetrius glowered his outrage. “I told you—”

  “Later,” Lucius replied, dodging a spear. Mounted, he made a fine target, but he took a moment to gauge the enemy force be
fore snatching his shield from its saddle hook and swinging from his stallion’s back. The Celts numbered, incredibly, more than fifty men. His best tactic was to stand firm and hack them to pieces, one body at a time.

  He muscled into the orb formation between the centurion and one of the foot soldiers. The officer shot him a startled look. “Commander! You cannot risk yourself on the line.”

  “I don’t mean to cower with an old man and a boy,” Lucius replied, thrusting his sword at a spike-haired wild man. Behind him, Demetrius rattled off supplications to an impressive list of gods and goddesses, both Greek and Roman.

  Aulus floated above the melee, wringing his hands.

  Barbarian shrieks mingled with curses and grunts as the battle wore on. Another Roman fell and the orb tightened. By Pollux! What the Celts lacked in armor, they made up for in fury. Lucius’s men were holding, but it was clear they couldn’t stand against the barbarians much longer.

  The horses shied, causing Marcus and Demetrius to struggle with the reins. Worse, the orb was being forced toward a thatch of willows. The circle would break. Lucius swore under his breath and fought with renewed energy, the scent of blood in his nostrils and the sting of sweat in his eyes.

  He ignored the ghost hovering above his left shoulder.

  A Roman shout went up. Lucius swiveled his head and was greeted by the sight of Roman helmets at the bend in the road. Swords raised, the rear company charged into the fray.

  “Break!” Lucius shouted. His men separated. Half joined the reinforcements in surrounding the largest group of barbarians, while the rest rushed the remaining wild men into the swamp. Lucius angled Marcus and Demetrius into a tight copse.

  “It will soon be over,” he told the terrified boy.

  Marcus looked up at him and nodded. Then his shoulders stiffened and his eyes grew wide, fixed on a point above Lucius’s head. A choking sound emerged from his throat. Too late, Lucius looked up to see a barbarian poised on the branch above.

  He managed to deflect the Celt’s sword, though he staggered under the impact of the attacker’s leap. He tossed the man onto his back in the mud. He was a mere youth, with wild red hair and a beard not yet fully grown. Lucius lifted his sword, prepared to dispatch the young warrior to whatever barbarian god he held sacred.

  Pain erupted in his hand, causing the sword to spin out of his grasp. By Pollux! An arrow had bitten the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Where in Hades had it come from?

  He had no time to speculate, for the young Celt had used the distraction to regain his feet. The Celt’s sword glanced off the edge of Lucius’s curved shield. Lucius slammed the shield down on the barbarian, groping for his battle dagger with his free hand.

  A second arrow whizzed by his right ear. He stumbled. The Celt youth danced away. The unseen archer’s third projectile struck Lucius on the back and glanced off his armor. The next grazed his forearm, drawing blood. Lucius uttered an oath as his dagger slipped from his grasp. The youth leveled his sword at Lucius’s bare legs. Lucius parried the blade with his shield and lunged for his fallen sword.

  A dart hit his right buttock, sending him face-first into the mud. Merda! He recovered quickly, jerking the arrow from his flesh. At the corner of his vision, a flash of color disappeared behind the silver-green curtain of a willow frond.

  The barbarian war horn shrilled. The signal must have been a retreat, for after a moment’s hesitation, the Celt warrior raced for cover. Lucius barely noticed the youth’s departure. Sparing a glance toward Marcus and Demetrius, he snatched up his sword and plunged into the forest, vowing to take down the hidden archer.

  He paused in the shadows, listening. Long moments passed, measured by the angry rush of blood in his ears. At last the archer showed himself, scrambling toward a tree to his right. Lucius lunged toward the movement and swung. His blade glanced off the tree’s trunk, jerked, and hit flesh. The archer went down with a cry. Lucius raised his weapon for the killing blow.

  The barbarian twisted to one side and stared up at him, eyes wide. Lucius’s arm wavered. This enemy was even younger than the last, not yet old enough for battle paint. Dirt smeared his face and checkered tunic. His hands clutched his wounded leg.

  The boy’s soft cries brought to mind a kitten, not a warrior.

  Lucius sheathed his sword and propped his shield against a gnarled trunk. The young Celt had showed courage and a steady hand on the bow. If the gash on his leg was not deep, he could be sold as a slave, perhaps to be trained as a gladiator. He dragged the boy into a shaft of sunlight and knelt to inspect the wound.

  His gaze caught instead on the archer’s face. Thick, coppery lashes fringed golden eyes, flecked with blue. Wisps of russet hair framed a delicate sweep of cheekbones and a perfectly formed nose. Lucius’s gaze drifted lower, taking in moist red lips and a firm pointed chin.

  The boy’s chest heaved.

  Lucius drew in a sharp breath. By Jupiter’s mighty rod …

  He grasped the neckline of the barbarian’s tunic and ripped the garment apart, exposing bare flesh. His hand closed on one small, pink-tipped breast.

  He swore.

  A girl. He’d been shot in the ass by a girl.

  She barked a word and bucked, knocking his arm away. In the brief moment before he gathered his wits, she scrambled backward, clutching the edges of her torn tunic with one hand.

  Lucius sat back on his heels, stunned. The girl snarled another imprecation and this time the words she hurled at him were in his own language.

  “Roman dog! Pig! Defiler!” She jumped to her feet, golden eyes savage, a doe facing the wolf’s teeth. A thick coppery braid fell over one shoulder.

  Lucius rose slowly, his gaze never wavering from the incredible vision before him. Had he believed in such creatures, he would have thought the Celt girl a forest nymph.

  His loins tightened.

  He moved closer. The nymph sprang back, her full weight coming down on her wounded leg. She cried out as she crumpled to the ground.

  Lucius darted forward. Never before had he lifted a sword against a woman, but now a dark trail of the barbarian archer’s blood stained the forest floor. The wound needed tending, and quickly. He scooped her into his arms. Her small fists pummeled his breastplate.

  “Quies,” he said. “Quiet, little one. I’m not going to hurt you.” She struck one more time; then her eyes rolled upward and she went limp.

  He emerged from the forest into a scene of carnage punctuated by soft moans and angry curses. Too many Romans lay sprawled in the dirt. Others crouched by the road, cradling their wounds. Demetrius knelt beside one soldier, binding his arm. Marcus hunkered at the physician’s side, pale but steady, assisting as well as he could. The supply wagons, which had avoided the worst of the battle, creaked to a halt on the road.

  Out of habit, Lucius’s gaze sought Aulus, but his ghostly brother was nowhere to be seen. He came to an abrupt halt, wrenched his head around, and looked to the rear. Nothing. By the gods! The specter had haunted Lucius night and day for more than half a year.

  Now, inexplicably, it was gone.

  He frowned. At what point in the battle had the ghost disappeared? Lucius couldn’t say.

  The centurion, bloodied but unhurt, hailed him. Lucius strode toward the officer. The man dropped a startled glance at the woman in his commander’s arms.

  “Losses?” Lucius asked.

  The centurion recovered his composure quickly. “Fifteen dead, sir, or nearly so. Twenty-two injured.”

  “Unload the foodstuffs onto the road and gather the wounded into the wagons. The slave price of any Celt you salvage is yours.” His gaze dropped. Even unconscious, the barbarian archer looked more alive than Lucius had felt in a very long while. His arms tightened on his prize.

  “This one is mine.”

  Chapter Two

  Tendrils of warmth caressed Rhiannon’s body, stroking her limbs with the tenderness of a mother comforting her new babe. Had summer come so soon? She snuggl
ed deeper into her blanket and grasped at a dream, but the pleasant fragments scattered, laying wide a path for the pain. The sensation drove forward like a sliver of winter ice, growing sharper the nearer it came. It sliced into her leg.

  Her spine arched. A strong hand pushed her back into soft cushions. Not her own straw pallet. Where, then?

  A low, rich voice spoke a single word. “Quies.”

  She opened her eyes. A face wavered in the dim light. She blinked and the vision stilled.

  A man with features that surely belonged to some dark god. A wide brow, harsh cheekbones, and somber eyes. Streaks of grime marred his bronze skin. A proud nose crooked to the side—had it once been broken? Black curls clung to a high forehead. Full, sensual lips pursed in a grim line.

  The strong angle of his jaw fascinated Rhiannon most.

  She had never known a grown man to be beardless. Hesitantly, she lifted one finger and touched his naked skin. The bare chin conspired with the unruly curls to present an illusion of youth, yet this was no boy. A few strands of silver were visible in his dark mane. Fine wrinkles crimped the corners of his eyes.

  Those eyes gleamed rich and brown, the color of stones washed by a stream, but soft, like the summer coat of an otter. Some emotion stirred deep in her breast. She caught her bottom lip with her teeth. She’d seen this man before; she was sure of it. But how? She didn’t know him. Her gaze drifted lower to the glint of metal at his chest.

  Roman armor, dark with stains that looked like blood.

  Terror crashed through the fog in her brain. With it came the memory of the battle. She’d followed the men, but had arrived too late to prevent Owein’s mad attack on the Roman commander. She’d aided her brother with her bow, only to have the Roman’s sword fall on her. She flung herself back, but there was no escape. One strong palm caught her shoulder, the other her stomach.