Celtic Fire(24)

Lucius regarded Brennus in silence for a long moment. “More unfortunate accidents,” he said at last.

“Yes, sir.”

He strode toward the door. “It seems the First Cohort of Tungrians is in sore need of discipline. Call the men to the parade grounds. I wish to inspect those who have somehow managed to stay alive.”



The raven cackled in Owein’s dream, driving shards of pain into his skull.

It had been the same every night since Rhiannon had been lost, but tonight his vision had taken an ominous turn. The great black bird no longer spread its wings in flight. Instead, it swooped low to the ground and landed. Darting forward on its twig legs, it dipped its beak and speared the eye of a newborn lamb. Its gruesome meal complete, the hulking creature rose into the air. It soared across the treetops, only to dive again almost immediately. It alighted on the rack of a magnificent stag.

“Kernunnos,” Madog said when Owein told him. “The Horned God may take the shape of any creature, but the hart is his favorite.” He stroked his beard with one long, crooked finger. “A good omen it is. What form the power will be taking is yet to be revealed.”

Owein let out a long breath and stared moodily into the fire in the center of Madog’s forest hut. The cloying scent of the bundled herbs drying over the flames mingled with the moldy smell of the mud and dauble walls, which leaned inward so precariously that Owein wondered if a Druid spell kept them upright. The skull of a stag guarded the only opening, a low portal hung with the skin of a wildcat. The Druid master’s iron sword and silver dagger lay on a low table. A wooden-handled scythe with a blade of gold hung from the twisted rafters. Madog’s staff—fashioned, Owein knew, from the heart of an oak struck by lightning—was not far from his hand.

The severed head of the Roman commander perched atop it.

Owein wondered at the skull’s presence in Madog’s hut. Until their return from the disastrous raid, the gruesome talisman had been displayed atop a stake inside the Druid circle. Now the Roman’s hollow eyes surveyed Madog’s sacred sanctuary. Dark patches on its surface—scraps of oiled skin and matted hair—seemed to dissolve in the shadows, leaving glimpses of smooth white bone.

Owein shuddered. So long as the Roman’s head remained unburied, his soul was trapped in the formless land between death and life. His spirit was forced to lend its power to the cause of his destroyers. The dark slavery stretched into eternity with little hope for freedom.

He closed his eyes, remembering the man’s hideous death dance. Rhiannon had cried for three full nights after Madog had thrust his sword into the prisoner’s back. Owein’s own visions had begun soon after. By chance, or were his nightmares a consequence of the Rite?

Madog’s hand stretched toward his prize. Gnarled fingers stroked the dead Roman’s rotted skin with the exuberant pride of a man touching his firstborn son. “Soon,” he told it. “Soon.”

Owein’s scalp prickled.

“If Kernunnos comes to ye this night,” Madog said, “attend him well.”

“What good be visions that speak in riddles?” Owein asked, a plaintive note creeping into his tone. “If Kernunnos had spoken more clearly before the raid, I could have prevented Rhiannon’s capture.”

“Ye must not blame yourself that she was taken, lad.”

Owein slammed his fist into the dirt floor. The shock of the blow traveled up his arm, but the spike of pain brought him no respite from his guilt. “I should have recognized my own arrows, at the least,” he said, his voice rising. “If I had, I could have brought my sister safely home.”

A grunt was Madog’s only reply.

Owein shifted on his stool. The walls of the hut seemed to draw closer. His breath rattled in his lungs, proving, much as he hated to admit it, that Rhiannon’s concern for his health had not been unfounded. He should never have joined the raid, no matter Edmyg’s taunts. He should have cowered in the dun with the women. If he had, Rhiannon would be safe within the village palisade, brewing her potions or weaving at her loom.

He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, hands dangling uselessly between his knees. His foolhardy attack on the Roman commander had cost Rhiannon her freedom, her dignity, perhaps even her life.

“Edmyg holds me at fault,” he muttered. “For once he has the right of it.”

Madog stabbed a sharp stick into the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. “Edmyg hurls blame like other men throw spittle, with no regard for the direction of the wind. Your dreams foretold Rhiannon’s capture, Owein. I am thinking it could nay have been avoided.”