Celtic Fire(106)

“He’ll need every drop of it and then some to stop me.”

The trail leveled out at the edge of the oak grove. Rhiannon held up one hand. “We’re near.” She crept forward, parting the underbrush as she went. When she was within sight of the circle, she paused. She felt Lucius’s heat as he drew close behind her. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he took in the scene before them.

Madog stood in the center of the circle, his face turned away. He held his staff and its grisly trophy high. A fire burned beside him, casting flickering illumination on his long gray braids and pale cloak. A thin chant like the whistle of storm winds spiraled around him. Smoke from the fire curled into the night air, bringing a sickly sweet scent to Rhiannon’s nostrils.

Lucius drew his sword from its sheath by silent degrees. “The old man will be dead before he knows he’s been struck.”

“Do not be so foolish as to think that he’s unaware of our presence,” Rhiannon whispered.

As if in response, Madog turned toward them and bowed low, tipping Aulus’s head in Lucius’s direction. Lucius pushed Rhiannon into the shelter of the brush. “Stay hidden.” He stepped forward and passed between the stones, sword raised.

Rhiannon rose and followed. She’d set her fate when she cast her lot with Lucius. She would not cower now while he fought for his brother’s soul.

“It will be my greatest pleasure to kill you,” Lucius told Madog.

Madog looked at Rhiannon and laughed. “Ye have brought him to me at last, as Owein’s Sight foretold. ’Tis not in the way Cormac planned, but ’twill serve.”

He turned to Lucius and spoke in the Roman tongue. “She was sent to seduce you—to turn your attention from fort business so that Brennus might recruit the soldiers to our cause. She did a fine job of it, did she not? Played the innocent, I’m told, and led you to believe you were the one in pursuit.”

Lucius’s startled gaze met Rhiannon’s. “You were ordered to bed me?”

“Yes,” she said, her heart sinking. “But—”

Madog cut her off with a single syllable, spoken in the language of the Old Ones. He lifted his hand. Smoke rose and curled about him like serpent spirits. It snaked toward Lucius with unerring precision.

Lucius waved the smoldering veil away. “Your nonsense words will not stand against my blade. You will die, Druid, for what you have done to my brother.”

“No. Your soul will join his in bondage. Two Romans of one blood to slave for the Brigantes.”

Lucius raised his sword. Acrid smoke rose in a great wave, obscuring Madog’s form. Rhiannon blinked as the curtain took on the color of the fire. When it receded, she felt Lucius’s shock even before her mind registered what—who—stood before him.

Aulus. His face was bruised and bloody as it had been on the day of his death. He stood dressed in the armor of a Legionary soldier, crested helmet upon his head, curved shield in his hand, sword drawn and ready. If Rhiannon had not known he was a spirit, she would have sworn an oath that he was a living man.

Lucius went deathly still.

Madog spoke. “This slave guards my body. You must kill him if you wish to reach my side.” He pounded his staff in the dirt and Aulus’s blade began to glow. “I assure you, Roman, that your brother will suffer every bite of your blade as keenly as if he were alive.”

“Nay,” Rhiannon said, stepping to Lucius’s side.

“Ye see him at last, don’t ye, lass?”

Rhiannon started. “ ’Twas ye who hid him from me?”

“Aye. To draw this Roman brute to ye.” His gaze flicked to Lucius. “Fight him, dog. Fight and die.”



The Druid’s eyes rolled back in his head, giving him the look of a crazed soul escaped from Hades. His thin lips began to move, sending a shrill song into the circle. It mingled with the fading curls of smoke, strengthening, urging. Aulus lifted his blade and advanced on Lucius.

Lucius took a defensive stance as he watched the ghost’s approach. Aulus was now as solid as a living man, yet his steps touched the ground without making a sound. If his ghostly heart beat, it did so in silence. Though he bore the marks of a brutal beating, he moved without regard for his wounds, a grim warrior in his prime. His weapon was a slice of light against the last hour of night.

Aulus lunged, his sword slashing with deadly precision. Lucius parried. No steel clanged, but the force of the ghost’s blow jolted Lucius’s arm. He gritted his teeth against the pain and blocked the next attack.

His strength was nearly gone. Would he be forced to kill his brother to get at the Druid? Lucius’s logical mind argued that Aulus was already dead. But his heart saw the face of the boy who had dogged his every step in years long past, even as he looked into his opponent’s grim eyes.