Celtic Fire(107)

He feinted right, then dodged to the left, hoping to skirt Aulus and rush the Druid. The ghost materialized in his path, sword swinging in a deadly arc. Lucius leaped aside too late. The ghost sword sliced into his sword arm.

It drew blood as easily as any earthly blade.

Lucius ignored the wound and lunged again to the right. His second attempt to circumvent the apparition was no more successful than the first. The Druid song cackled, piercing his concentration.

Rhiannon’s voice rang out. “Madog! Stop this, I beg ye.” She flung herself at the Druid only to collide with Aulus’s shield. She fell, stunned, against one of the hulking stones. She slid to the ground, clutching her elbow.

“Stay back, lass. The Roman must die. He was on the shores of Mona fifty long winters past. He killed my father, raped my mother. He will pay for their blood with his own.”

“ ’Twas not Lucius who committed those crimes! ’Twas before his birth.”

“It matters not. He is a Roman, born to steal the freedom of any he encounters. Did he not enslave you?”

Aulus struck again, forcing Lucius’s attention away from Rhiannon and the Druid. He managed to lift his sword high enough to halt a killing blow. Blood slicked his hand, making it difficult to keep his grip on the hilt. His wounded arm burned. His broken rib stabbed like a dagger in his side.

Madog flung his head back and let out the shriek of a being not born in the land of mortals. The ghost flung himself at Lucius. Rhiannon struggled to rise, but it was as if some unseen hand held her back. Lucius was glad of that at least.

Aulus advanced, unrelenting, fighting with a level of skill he had never achieved during his life. That realization hardened Lucius’s resolve against his brother. His opponent was not truly Aulus, no matter how closely the ghost resembled the brother Lucius had loved.

He would strike Madog down by killing his minion. It was the only way Lucius could hope to free his brother’s soul.

He angled his blade at the ghost’s heart. Aulus’s eyes widened—not with anger, Lucius thought, but with relief.

“I’m sorry, brother,” he said, and plunged the blade deep.

His sword sliced as if through flesh, but unlike a thrust into a man, Lucius’s entire arm passed through the specter. Aulus crumpled to the ground, his mouth open in a noiseless groan.

The momentum of the thrust carried Lucius across the circle. He leapt at Madog, sweeping a stroke upward. The point of his sword plunged into the old man’s throat.

Blood pulsed red like the dawn sky, splashing to the dirt, staining it black. Rhiannon gained her feet at last. Her face had gone white. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her body as if she was trying to hold herself erect. She lost the battle, gagging as she fell to her knees.

The Druid’s body went slack. His gnarled fingers loosened on his staff. The twisted wood fell, sending Aulus’s skull skidding across the ground. Lucius withdrew his blade from the Druid’s body.

He stared at his brother’s severed head, stomach heaving. He took one step then another, toward the ghastly skull. The tip of his sword sliced a line in the mud as he went.

Blackened, oiled skin—cracked in some places, curled in others—clung to white bone. Matted hair covered the scalp. Loose teeth grinned through eroded lips. Lucius stretched one shaking hand out to touch the only remnant of his brother left to him.

Footsteps thudded through the forest. “Owein! Nay!”

Lucius spun about. Rhiannon’s brother was bearing down on him from across the circle, sword raised. The same crazed fury Lucius had seen in Madog’s eyes illuminated the youth’s face. Lucius scrambled behind one of the stones, using it as a shield while he swiftly put together a plan of attack. The youth was half-mad with fury—he wouldn’t stop until one of them lay dead, of that Lucius was certain. Lucius also knew he hadn’t the strength for another prolonged battle.

As he readied for a swift, deadly rush, his gaze touched on Rhiannon. Her eyes were huge and vivid with fear. They begged him not to strike a killing blow as clearly as if she’d spoken, and Lucius knew, even before he raised his sword, that he had lost the fight.



Owein and Lucius circled each other within the stones, swords raised. A mere lad against a seasoned warrior, but anger and grief fed Owein’s strength, whereas Rhiannon knew that Lucius had to be near the end of his endurance. Owein struck first, swinging Madog’s Druid sword in a wide, deadly arc. Lucius met the attack with the clang of steel on iron. Owein thrust again, too quickly, opening his body for a riposte.

Rhiannon’s heart leaped into her throat, but Lucius kept his sword close to his body and did not pursue his opponent. Was his wounded arm failing, or did he hold back by design? Rhiannon couldn’t tell.