Celtic Fire(55)

As the last warrior gained the shore, the Druid women came alive. They hurled themselves through the ranks of their men, shrieking, torches sparking fiery trails behind them. The lad thought their surge a fierce and beautiful fury, not unlike the violence of the storms that rolled from the sea each winter. He’d always loved watching the sea. He flattened his palms on the smooth, damp stone and leaned forward, hoping to catch sight of his mother and sisters.

The Romans halted as if frozen by a wintry blast. The soldiers looked at their leaders, sword points dipping to the rocks. Sparks fell from their torches to sputter and die on the ground.

The sons of the Horned God lifted their arms and faces to the sky. The lad’s great-grandfather, an Elder far beyond the memory of his birth, shouted a Word of unimaginable power. The lad had never before heard the sound. He whispered it in his hiding place and felt the stones tremble.

The ground shook. Kernunnos, the Horned God of the forest, stirred. The Druid men called to him, hurling prayers into the night sky like spears. The women ran through the ranks of their men, shrieks echoing across the water. The wind howled. The ancient curse rose.

The Roman beast on the shore shuddered.

For one pure, shining moment, the conquerors staggered under the weight of their fear, their weapons as heavy as grinding stones in their hands. The lad eased from his lair, shifting to get a better view of the spectacle. The Horned God was the greatest of all and his victory was at hand.

At that moment, a dark figure separated itself from the cowering Legions. The lad gasped as the man gave his back to the Druids. How did he dare to insult Kernunnos in this way? The dog would surely be struck dead. The lad held his breath, waiting for a bolt of lightning to drop from the sky.

It didn’t come.

The Roman, pacing, waved his sword before his troops. His voice pierced the air, a thin reed above the wild prayers and savage wails of the Druids. Yet like a reed, it did not break before the brunt of the storm. The man waded through puddles of torchlight, red cloak whipping about his shoulders. He barked harsh words, slicing the night with his blade in emphasis. Then he spun about, pointed his weapon at the Druids, and gave a shout.

The Roman horde roared in response as they surged across the beach with all the fury of a winter tide. The defiant shrieks of the lad’s mother and sisters turned to cries of terror. The prayers of his father and uncles shattered as the Roman swords struck.

Blood flowed in rivers on the ground, seeping into the sea. The lad smelled death. Bile rose in his throat as flames engulfed the forest, racing to the tops of the ancient oaks to snap at the sky, shouting to any that would listen that the glory of Rome was stronger than any barbarian god.

The lad shrank into his meager cleft in the rocks, choking on terror. The odor of burning flesh met his nostrils. His gut heaved.

He huddled in a pool of his own vomit, awaiting the end.



Owein clawed through the suffocating remnants of the vision, gulping great shuddering breaths of air. His arms shook when he tried to lift himself from the rain-soaked earth. The first gray cobwebs of dawn stretched across the sky, binding the limbs of the oaks. Clumps of mistletoe perched on the branches like giant spiders, hairy limbs trailing.

“Steady, lad.”

Madog grasped Owein’s arm and heaved him into a sitting position. Owein concentrated on his next breath, then the one after that. Finally he looked into the old Druid’s eyes.

“Tell me,” Madog said. One of the old man’s hands remained on Owein’s arm, imparting strength; the other was wrapped like a vine about the twisted staff bearing the Roman skull.

Though the nightmare had seared itself in Owein’s memory, its description didn’t come easily. He bit out the words between gasps. “Romans. Set ashore on a Druid isle. The Holy Ones called Kernunnos, but he did not answer.”

“ ’Tis the Druid stronghold at Mona ye saw, lad. The Romans burned its sacred groves. Killed its Elders. Raped its women. In the end, only charred stumps and ashes remained.”

“A true vision?” Owein asked.

“Aye.”

Owein shut his eyes. “Death,” he whispered. “Always death. Why can I See naught else?”

Madog sank to his knees by Owein’s side. “With power comes pain. ’Tis the way of Kernunnos.”

Owein bowed his head and prayed he would be worthy of the Horned God’s favor. He would gladly give all that he had, bear any hurt to bring Rhiannon home. He prayed in the language of the Old Ones, speaking the Words of power as Madog had taught him. When he had finished, he looked up.

“The lad I saw—did he survive?”

The Druid’s gray eyes turned flat. His hand trembled as he brushed a tear from his craggy cheek. He held silent so long that Owein wondered if he would answer at all.