Celtic Fire (32 page)

Bones. Roman bones.

She watched with revulsion as flames consumed the human kindling, dancing merrily, darting into black hollows and emerging with renewed strength. The spent taper dropped from her fingers.

She was dimly aware of a man at her side. Edmyg. He wore a fur-trimmed cloak and the gold torc that marked him a king. That, too, was wrong. He was no longer her consort. He’d abandoned that right when he spilled his seed in the womb of another woman.

The flames leapt, reaching into the night sky. The throng assembled beyond the stones shifted. The chieftains approached first, offering allegiance. As they passed between the fires, she heard her own voice, accepting their troth.

Their warriors followed, then the elders, and finally the clanswomen and the children. The flames galloped to the twin peaks of the pyres and reached for each other across the heart of the circle. A sound like whipping wind drove back the night cries of the forest. The shadows of the stones flickered. Wood smoke assaulted Rhiannon’s nostrils and stung her eyes.

The Druid chant quickened, Owein’s young voice blending with Madog’s quivering tones. The full moon, pregnant with promise, broke the edge of the hills and rode into the sky. Rhiannon felt the veil between the land of mortals and the shores of Annwyn grow gossamer-thin, as it did when death neared.

The last old woman hobbled between the fires, leaning heavily on the arm of a young lass. Madog paced behind, marking his steps with his staff. The skull perched upon it stared balefully at Rhiannon, drawing a flicker of recognition. Who had met such a gruesome fate? It was important that she remember, but she couldn’t seem to snatch the answer from the fog in her brain.

Madog halted at Rhiannon’s left. With Edmyg’s presence crowding her on the right and the dread skull hovering above, she found she could scarcely breathe.

Only Owein hadn’t yet passed between the flames. He approached now, still chanting, a low, mournful sound that seemed to be absorbed into the flames. He strode forward, halting barely more than an arm’s length away from Rhiannon, at the very center of the circle. Madog’s Druid sword hung in a scabbard at his side.

Owein stood as still as death for a heartbeat, then his head snapped back with such a force that Rhiannon was sure his neck had broken. He collapsed on the ground, keening, his hands tearing at his hair. A deep groan tore from his throat.

Rhiannon gave a cry and lurched toward him, only to be hauled back by Edmyg’s grip. She tore at his fingers as Owein writhed at her feet. “Let me go!”

“Be still,” he hissed. “He calls Kernunnos.”

Rhiannon stared dumbly at Madog. When the Druid nodded, her hands began to shake.

Owein’s back arched and his arms flung wide. Words long forgotten by all save those sworn to guard them poured from his lips. Their power caused Rhiannon’s soul to tremble.

The wind rose, howling like a wolf, and the ground beneath her feet shook. The Roman’s skull grinned as the flames consumed the bones that had once carried his flesh. The forest shrieked with a voice not of the earth.

Owein chanted louder, faster. Flames shot from the pyres to form an arch over Rhiannon’s head. The face of the skull rocked toward her. Its hollow eyes, washed by flames, seemed to mark her with their gaze.

A presence touched her soul. Despairing. Desperate. Pleading. The breath squeezed from her lungs. She’d felt this soul before—where? When? It was vital that she recall. What had it asked of her?

Owein’s chant rose, then fell, in cadence with the wind. His face had gone pale. Sweat dripped from his brow. His body, crouched on the ground, shook.

As if sliced by an unseen blade, the wind died. Owein’s chant stopped at precisely the same instant. He lifted his head. “ ’Tis finished.”

Unbearable dread coiled in Rhiannon’s stomach. Dark power rose, consuming the night, blanketing the stars. The forest went black, still. The clan was silent save for the muffled cries of babes at their mothers’ breasts.

Those closest to the womb always knew when death was abroad.

Then, as suddenly as the wind had stopped, it returned with a vengeance in a gale so powerful Rhiannon thought the stones would fly from their ancient resting places. She clutched at her mantle as her hair worked its way from its braids and flew in wild strands into her eyes. A distant rumble sounded, then strengthened. A hundred—nay, a thousand—hooves pounded. Unearthly shrieks burst in the sky like spikes of lightning.

The skull pivoted on Madog’s staff. “The Wild Hunt is upon us,” the Druid cried. “Kernunnos rides at its fore. Our warriors canna fail.”

Edmyg unsheathed his sword and thrust it overhead. “In the name of Rhiannon, queen of the Brigantes, death to Rome!”

The cry echoed through the crowd. “Death to Rome!”

And Rhiannon remembered.

The night was far too quiet.

The silence pricked the back of Lucius’s neck like a swarm of ghost bees, driving him from his bed. He flung the shutters wide and frowned through the darkness at the torches on the battlements. He watched until he saw the night sentry pass by the first, then the second, flickering light.

Then he heard it.

Howling wind, like a pack of hounds. Or wolves. Thunder like a stampede of hooves. He leaned out over the sill and squinted up at the sky. A dark line of clouds advanced from the north, blotting the stars as it went, though the night was stiller than death.

The edge of his unease sharpened. He turned and squinted through the dim chamber at Aulus. His brother lay stretched on a cushioned bench. Asleep. His frown deepened. Did ghosts sleep? Aulus had never done so before.

He crossed the room and looked closer. Aulus’s bruised face was slack. His bloodied hands were clasped across his stomach. Lucius’s gut twisted. It was like looking at a dead man.

A dead man.
A wild laugh escaped him, the sound of it echoing off the tiled floor and painted walls. Lucius braced one hand on the wall above Aulus and let the crazed mirth overtake him until it turned to something emptier. Tears burned his eyes. They fell, passing through Aulus to dampen the cushions beneath. His savage laughter swelled anew.

He’d gone well and truly insane. But with Rhiannon gone, he could no longer summon the energy to care.

The shutter banged against the wall. Lucius shook himself and went again to the window. A steady wind had begun to blow out of the north. The blanket of clouds swept overhead. The shriek of the wind rushed the gates.

Something was coming. A storm? Or something more?

Rhiannon’s voice sounded in his memory.
Go back to Rome. You are in danger here.

And before, on the morning after her capture.
My people will come.

Lucius froze, the truth rising above the chaos in his mind like an eagle atop a standard. The Celts were attacking, and Rhiannon had known of it. No wonder she’d been so desperate to leave the fort.

His senses cleared, leaving only the sharp sanity that had saved his life on the battlefield more times than he cared to count. He shrugged into his armor and belted on his sword and dagger even as he strode for the door.

“Father?” Marcus stood in the passageway outside the bedchambers. “What’s happening?”

“Marcus. Go back to bed.”

The boy didn’t move. “Are we under attack?”

Lucius drew a swift breath before answering. “Yes.”

Demetrius appeared beside him. The old man’s hair stuck out from his head in all directions, giving him the look of a grizzled Medusa. “It is but a storm rising.”

“No ordinary storm, old man.”

Marcus’s eyes registered his fear. “It’s the Celt forest god. Kernunnos. He rides a storm of death.”

Lucius shot him an odd look. “Did Rhiannon tell you that?”

“No. It was in one of Uncle Aulus’s stories.”

Lucius stared at the boy, then forced himself to gather his wits. “No god attacks us, Marcus. Only men. We will defeat them.” His gaze sliced through the open doorway to his bedchamber. Aulus still lay motionless on the bench.

He adjusted the straps on his helmet and returned his attention to his son. “You’ll be safe here. The barbarians won’t breach the fort walls.” Then, to Demetrius, “Be sure the boy stays inside the residence.”

He strode to the stairwell. At the bottom step, he paused and looked for Aulus. He wasn’t there. Lucius was alone. No ghost, no Celtic nymph.

For the first time in six months, he faced only himself.

A downdraft blew through the courtyard, causing the night torches to flare. Lucius strode into the foyer and nudged the sleeping porter with one foot. The man opened his eyes and shot to his feet.

“My lord!”

“Rouse the household. There may be an attack.”

Scant moments later, Lucius was on the battlement, looking to the north. Fierce winds buffeted his face, and the night had gone even blacker than before, if that were possible. He could make out little of the land beyond the barley fields, neither the east-west ridge to the north nor the hills beyond. The unearthly howling continued, a chill blade turning in his gut.

The night sentry seemed equally affected. The man’s face was drawn, his eyes two dark pools of fear. His hands shook as they made a sign against evil.

“Sound the alert,” Lucius ordered.

The soldier ran toward the gate tower. A moment later, the horn sounded the call to battle. Men spilled out of the barracks, buckling war belts about mail tunics and hefting shields as they raced to their siege posts. Footsteps punctuated by curses thudded on the battlement.

Lucius turned back to the night and fixed his gaze on the tree line at the edge of the parade grounds. There he saw it—an amorphous black form lurking against the darker mass of the forest. The first line of the attack appeared to be as many as fifty men. How many more waited among the trees? How many had circled the clearing to attack from behind?

No easy skirmish, then, but an army that had to encompass hundreds of men. Still, he’d faced worse and lived to tell of it. Vindolanda’s wall might be rammed turf instead of solid stone, but the fort’s defenses were strong. Even with scaling ladders, the barbarians would not find entrance easy. He wondered how the Celts would deal with the village. Would they put the civilians to the sword, or would the farmers who had sold vegetables for Lucius’s table yesterday take up arms against him tonight?

The wind whipped harder as a line of bowmen took their positions on the battlement. Quartermaster Brennus appeared on the wall walk beside Lucius. Two centurions flanked him. A cluster of foot soldiers hung a few paces behind.

Brennus held a torch aloft and leaned forward to get a better view of the enemy. “Quite a horde,” he murmured. “Impressive.”

Lucius gave him a measured look. “The archers will thin their ranks.”

“In this wind?”

Brennus lifted his torch higher, moving the flame in a circular motion, causing sparks to scatter in the gale. As if on his signal, the Celt army broke ranks and hurtled, screaming, across the parade grounds.

“Loose arrows!” Lucius shouted.

The archer beside him shifted but didn’t shoot. The officer farther down the battlement refrained from relaying the order.

As if on Brennus’s signal …

Lucius’s hand flew to his sword. Too late. Hands grasped his arms from behind and twisted them behind his back. In less time than it took to utter a curse, he’d been relieved of his sword and dagger.

He glared at Brennus. “Traitorous dog.”

Brennus grinned as if he’d been handed a compliment. He nodded to the soldier at his right elbow. The man stepped forward and removed Lucius’s war belt, then began unfastening his armor.

Lucius bucked and twisted to no avail against the centurions who restrained him. Brennus gave a short laugh. Then, as if disenchanted with the show, he strolled to the hatch in the tower and shouted down to the guard, instructing the man to open the gates.

The creak of the hinges sounded, prompting a shout from the barbarians. Roman curses flew, followed by the clang of swords. Apparently not all the soldiers of Vindolanda had turned traitor.

Yet it seemed none of those loyal to Rome had made it to the top of the wall. Rough hands, too many to fight, stripped the last of Lucius’s armor from his body, leaving him clad only in his tunic. The archers, giving up their pretense of defense, crowded the narrow walkway, jostling for a view of Lucius’s humiliation.

Lucius was thrown to the boards. He landed on his back, each arm and leg secured by the weight of a man sworn to obey his command. How had he missed the signs that they were not the loyal soldiers they’d seemed to be? They were Celts themselves, of Gaulish ancestry. Brennus wore the torc. Lucius had wondered at that, but hadn’t bothered to reflect on its significance.

Why? Because his attention had been consumed by a wretched ghost and a woman whose beauty was surpassed only by her deceit. He would pay for his weakness with his life, for he didn’t doubt that these faithless soldiers of Rome would tear him apart.

He braced for the assault. It didn’t come. Instead, the crowd parted. Brennus strolled through them, fingers stroking the wolf’s-head hilt of Lucius’s sword.

“The mighty warrior approaches,” Lucius spit out. “Tales of his prowess abound.”

Brennus flushed red. “I hold your life in my hands, Aquila.”

“Then kill me and be done with it.”

Brennus’s fingers tightened on Lucius’s sword, then relaxed. “I think not, my dear commander. Much as it would give me pleasure to disembowel a Roman senator’s son, I regret to inform you I promised that joy to another.” He walked between Lucius’s spread legs and looked down, his lips curved in a cruel smile. “However, I am loath to disappoint you entirely.” He flicked his gaze to the soldiers restraining Lucius’s arms. An instant later Lucius found himself on his feet, arms spread taut.

He gritted his teeth. “I’ll kill you for this, Brennus.” The threat sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Brennus massaged his knuckles. “Ah, Aquila, the first debt is mine. And I always repay my obligations.”

The traitor’s hard fist collided with Lucius’s jaw, whipping his head to the side. Pain exploded in his skull. The second punch landed in his gut, bending him double. The third assault cracked a rib.