Celtic Fire(45)
The dark form of a Roman soldier coalesced in front of the buck. The mighty beast lowered its antlers. The warrior drew his sword.
The buck charged. A fierce, deadly battle ensued. Kernunnos drove forward. The edge of the Roman’s weapon bit through the stag’s flank, drawing blood. Kernunnos shook free and reared, striking the soldier to the ground. The Horned God’s antlers tore into the Roman’s gut, pulling bloody entrails from the soldier’s body.
The man gave a hideous cry and vanished into mist.
The buck lifted its head and looked at Owein. With slow, halting steps the injured animal approached, blood oozing from its flank. When the animal stood but an arm’s length away, Owein stretched out his hand and touched the thick stream of its blood.
He felt a pulling sensation in the vicinity of his chest, then a tingle that ran down his arm to the tips of his fingers. His life essence flowed along the path. The Horned God’s blood slowed, then stopped.
The gash closed, taking the last of Owein’s strength with it. His knees buckled. His grip on Madog’s staff loosened. He struck the ground with a painful jolt and the vision shattered.
A long moment passed before Owein found the strength to open his eyes. Madog’s face swam above him.
“What have ye Seen, lad?”
Somehow Owein told him.
The Druid’s eyes sparked with the fire Owein had come to dread. “Few See the Undying Spirits,” the old man murmured. “Blessed ye be.” He grasped Owein’s hand and pulled him upright.
The ground lurched, then settled into place. Owein steadied himself with one hand on Madog’s staff, then snatched his arm back when he realized what he’d done. “What does it mean?” he asked.
“Kernunnos has chosen ye as his messenger. A hard path it is, but ’tis a road that leads to victory.” His face drew closer, his eyes searching Owein with piercing intensity. “What would ye give to travel such a road, if it led ye to yer sister’s side?”
An image of Rhiannon’s face, twisted with sorrow, sprang into Owein’s mind. Hate for all things Roman surged through his veins, more potent than a river of fire, more deadly than a sharpened sword.
“What would ye give, lad?”
“My life,” Owein whispered. “My soul.”
Violence danced on the edge of Lucius’s dream. A man clashed with a stag, sword striking flank in a flash of cold steel. The beast reacted with wild fury, pitching its magnificent rack low and gouging the soldier’s metal armor as if it were linen.
Aulus’s entrails spilled with his blood onto the dark earth. His shrieks rang out into the night, unanswered.
Chapter Seven
“Are you a witch?”
Lucius lifted the lamp with a shaking hand and cast a thin stream of light across Rhiannon’s bed. She was asleep, a fur coverlet draped over her hips. Her face was pale against its flowing halo. Soft ripples of lamplight lapped at her breasts like the moon on the sea. Venus herself had never looked so beautiful.
He brought the lamp closer. She awoke with a start, jerking upright and scooting back in one motion. Her golden eyes widened as she looked at his nakedness. She opened her mouth as if to scream, then shut it again. She swallowed.
“I’m not here to ravish you.” Lucius rubbed the fingers of his free hand across his eyes and stifled a laugh bordering on hysteria. Rhiannon had only to look at his shriveled rod to realize he told no lie. “But I will have the truth. Are you in service to dark powers?”
Rhiannon’s fingers found the edge of the blanket and inched it higher. “Why would you think such a thing?”
Why, indeed? He’d once been a man of logic. Now, it seemed, he saw only impossibly twisted patterns where once clarity had ruled. “It’s said a witch may speak with the dead.”
Some emotion—guilt? fear?—flicked briefly over her face. “I’ve no reason to do such a thing.”
“But you are able.”
“No! I didn’t say that.”
He took a step closer. “Did you drive Aulus into my dreams this night?”
“You’ve seen your brother in a dream?”
Lucius did laugh then, filling the room with his black mirth. “I see my brother everywhere,” he said. “But tonight, in my dream, he fought a great stag. When the beast killed him, his cries ripped into my soul.”
He lunged for her, but Rhiannon moved faster, evading his grasp. The fingers of his free hand closed on air, then curled into a fist and dropped to his side. The lamplight shuddered and he realized that the hand that held the flame was shaking so badly, the blankets were in danger of being set afire.
He lowered the handlamp to the table. Brass met polished wood with a harsh clatter.