Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (44 page)

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Her Gaul’s green eyes blazed with fear and fury. For her. “You’re a perfect target. Keep down and keep moving back up the mountain.”

With that he crouched low, dragging her with him, protecting her back with his body, and unceremoniously shoved her up where Gawain and Nimue had retreated behind a stand of trees.

The power of her vision thrummed in her mind, danced through her blood. There was more she needed to learn, more she needed to understand concealed within the Morrigan’s message. But she swept the thought aside and gripped Gawain’s hand.

“You’re alive.”

“For now.” He sounded grim. Then his features softened by the slightest degree. “I wish I could say it was good to see you, Morwyn. But, gods, you shouldn’t be here.”

Without even looking at him, she knew Brennus tensed behind her. She turned and wiped a trail of blood from his face. “I thought you’d murdered him.” A bald statement that meant so much. That meant everything. A relieved laugh escaped but it sounded more like a gasp, a cry of pain.

“No.” Brennus’s voice was guarded as he thrust her bow into her hand.

“He’s not the first to bear a grudge against Druids,” Gawain said. “I’ve held one or two myself.” He glanced back down the mountain. “A clash of male pride is scarcely of any import at this time, Morwyn. We drew blood but didn’t break any bones.”

“Much as I am loath to interrupt this touching reunion”—Nimue sounded irritated—“we do have the Roman Legion methodically slaughtering our people. Caratacus needs to change tactics.”

Morwyn caught the swift glance that passed between the two men. Condemnation from Brennus, defiance from Gawain. Another eerie certainty coalesced in her mind.

“You fought over this strategy.” It wasn’t a question. It was another facet of the vision that had plagued her. Gawain in the midst of battle, embracing it. And Brennus fighting for his king as he would always fight for his king, but knowing it was doomed to failure.

Neither man answered as they continued to half run, half scramble farther into the heart of the mountain. When Morwyn glanced over her shoulder, around Brennus’s protective arm, she saw warriors and Druids alike retreating, as they were, to find strategic crevices and rock shelters behind which to launch a renewed attack upon the advancing enemy.

Raw panic punched through her gut as realization suddenly hit.

“They’re going to find the children, Brennus.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The children and the women caring for them were in their direct path, and once the legionaries cut their way through the final warriors, the defenseless would be rounded up and taken as slaves.

“Bren.” The hoarse shout came from ahead, from a blue-daubed warrior she recognized as Judoc, the one she’d poisoned with her blowdart. “We have to get Caratacus out. He can’t be taken by the Romans.”

Panting with exertion, fear and the high, mountainous air, Morwyn broke free of Brennus and skidded down a rocky incline to the grass- and flower-filled slope where the children camped among the chariots. Where was Gwyn? Had the little girl obeyed Morwyn’s command to stay out of danger?

A familiar figure broke away from a group of children and raced toward her, arms outstretched. Morwyn scooped Gwyn into her arms, held her close, rejoicing in the thin little arms around her neck, the frantic beat of Gwyn’s heart against her breast. Still holding her, she turned and saw Brennus and Gawain and several others arguing with his king. Clearly, he wasn’t convinced flight was the only chance of survival.

As she drew closer, more warriors flooded over the ridge into the illusory safety of the camp. Brennus gripped Caratacus’s arms.

“If you’re captured, everything we’ve fought for has been for nothing. This doesn’t have to be the end, but if you stay, it will be.”

Caratacus tore himself free. “Where’s the queen?”

“I’ll find her and your daughter.” Nimue unsheathed her dagger. “Where are you heading?”

“The land of the Brigantes,” Judoc said. “We have allies there.” He glanced at Caratacus. “Under your leadership, we can re-form the resistance.”

Nimue nodded and ran back to where the battle raged, and a contingent formed around the king as they sought escape, after urging as many of the women as they could to take the children and flee into the surrounding hills and valleys.

“Shall I take her?” Brennus offered, and Morwyn handed Gwyn over and watched how tenderly he held her, shielding her from harm, without any dip in speed as they made their way to the horses.

The last thought caused her to trip over a hidden rock and she stumbled, winded. Shocked by the pure simplicity of her thought. How right it felt.

“Morwyn.” He was by her side instantly, his face a mask of brutal ferocity. Yet worry gleamed in his magnificent eyes. Despite the fact they were fleeing for their lives, that the Romans would tear them apart if they captured them, a smile began to curve her lips.

And froze.

Above Brennus, in the pale blue of the sky, ravens soared, cawing their bloodlust at the battle below. She gasped, clutched her throat, mesmerized as the manifestation of the Morrigan screamed in victory and defeat, devastation and regeneration.

“What the fuck?” Brennus sounded unnerved, and only then did she realize she wasn’t the only one staring at the sky, that all the Druids had stopped in their tracks.

“The great goddess is angry.” The Druid, an older woman, reached supplicating hands to the sky. “We should stay and fight for our way of life. Not let the Romans crush it underfoot.”

Morwyn gripped Brennus’s outstretched hand and hauled herself up. Nobody moved. Everyone was staring at the Druid, or up at the circling ravens. And as she watched, one broke from the formation and soared toward the earth, its trajectory unerring.

Too late, Morwyn felt Brennus try to avert the inevitable. But he was impeded with Gwyn in one arm and Morwyn holding his free hand, and besides, there was nothing he could do. The Morrigan had come for her.

She heard the audible hiss of countless indrawn breaths as the raven sank its claws into her head, sliced her skull, before once again taking to the heavens. Warm blood dripped over her forehead and a black feather fluttered to the ground by her feet.

Even Brennus appeared shocked into silence. But his grip on her hand never wavered.

Finally, she understood. Everything she thought she had concluded by herself had come from the Morrigan. She had been following the goddess’s will right from the start.

“There are more ways than one to fight the enemy.”

“Morwyn,” Gawain said. “What does the Morrigan tell you?”

She recalled her visions. In all their varied versions.

“We must never give up the fight.” The war goddess would expect nothing less. How she must have raged against Aeron’s binding magic. At the way her will had been subverted. She had wanted her Druids to retreat to the sacred Isle of Mon only in order to gather their strength. Before they once again took up arms against their enemy.

“Then—we must return?” the older Druid said, but she no longer sounded so certain.

“If we return, we’ll die.” In her visions, Gawain had represented her people, their culture, their way of life. And her people risked annihilation. “The Morrigan never surrenders. We have to find other ways to fight repression.”

The way Carys had.
Slowly Morwyn turned to look at her Gaul. Had the Morrigan sent him to her? To show her the way to Camulodunon, to open her eyes to other ways of surviving this occupation?

Had she sent Brennus to show her it
was
possible to love again?

“Then let us not delay any further.” Caratacus’s voice was strong and sure. He inclined his head at Morwyn in a show of respect, as if she were an Elder of great standing instead of an acolyte who had only recently returned to the fold of her goddess. “It will take several days to reach Cartimandua.” Frowning, he glanced at the bedraggled group of women and children who had decided to follow them instead of choosing their own paths.

“Cartimandua?” Morwyn said as Brennus lifted Gwyn onto a horse.

“Queen of the Brigantes.” He shot her an odd look, as if he couldn’t understand why she was still with him. As if he hadn’t yet registered the fact that Gawain alive made all the difference in the world.

The thought shivered through her mind, tugging on the edges of her consciousness. Something was wrong, something she couldn’t quite place. But before she could grasp its significance, his words slammed through her like an icy river.

Royal blood
. She gripped his fingers, willing him to believe her. “She’s going to betray Caratacus. I don’t know how—or even why—but she is. You have to warn him.”

Before he could do any more than frown with incomprehension, the king rode up. Morwyn sucked in a breath, prepared to tell him herself, but Caratacus spoke first.

“Brennus.” He reached down and grasped Brennus’s forearm. “You’ve served me well these last three years. I have one last command and then your debt to me is paid in full.”

Debt? What debt? Morwyn glanced at Brennus but his face was inscrutable.

Caratacus swept his hand at the group of terrified civilians. “I can’t take them north with me. Even if they had horses, they’d slow us down. Ensure their safety, Bren. And then return to Gaul, to your kin, and forge the destiny that was always yours.” He glanced at Morwyn before once again looking back at Bren. “As the great war goddess said—there are more ways than one to fight the enemy.”

And then he was gone, and Morwyn leaped on the horse behind Gwyn and galloped after him, only to have Gawain wave her to a halt.

“I’m going with him,” he said without preamble.

Holding Gwyn tight with one arm, she reached for him, grasped his hand. “Treachery awaits in the land of the Brigantes. You have to persuade Caratacus to change course.”

“Morwyn, there’s nowhere else.” A tired finality threaded through his words. “The British tribes have all succumbed to Roman domination. Only in the far north do they still resist.”

She tugged his hand to her lips, her heart aching for all that had been. All that could never be. “Gawain, watch your back. Come out of this alive. We need you.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Do our people really need us anymore?” Before she could answer he pulled free. “Be happy, Morwyn. That’s all I ever wanted for you.” And then he was gone.

As night fell they camped deep in the forest, not risking fires to cook their food in case the Romans were still searching for fugitives. Judoc had also joined them, and they’d traveled a fair distance from the battlefield, all things considered.

Morwyn leaned back against a tree. The women and children gave the three of them a measure of privacy, as if in deference to their status, but instead of sitting next to her, Brennus sat opposite, forearm resting over his raised knee, other hand occupied with his dagger.

Perhaps he didn’t wish Judoc to know of their relationship?

She smothered the pain that thought caused, but couldn’t help the subsequent one. Was he ashamed of her, because of her Druidry? She knew he still cared. He couldn’t hide the raw emotion in his eyes from her. But did he still
want
to care?

“What,” Judoc said in a low voice, “are we supposed to do with them all?”

“Some can still return to their home villages.” Brennus shrugged one shoulder and she caught him looking at her, until he realized she saw, and then he jerked his attention back to Judoc. Goddess, did he now hate the way he still desired her?

Did
he still desire her? After they’d left the mountain he hadn’t so much as touched her hand. In fact, he’d gone out of his way so they didn’t touch even by accident.

“But not all. Some of their villages are destroyed.” Judoc appeared supremely unaware of the tension vibrating in the air around him. Perhaps she would blow another dart in his neck, render him unconscious. Perhaps then Brennus would deign to talk to her, to tell her why he no longer sought her company.

“Some wish to return to the Roman settlements.” Brennus sounded as if he had no opinion on that one way or the other. “Wherever they want to go, I’ll ensure they reach their destination.”

“Perhaps,” she said, feeling she had been excluded from the conversation for long enough, “some would embrace the adventure of starting over, in Gaul.” That was
his
final destination, after all. Would it be hers? Could she bear to leave behind her beloved Cymru, never again see her kin still ensconced on Mon?

But she had already left Cymru.
Where could she go, if she stayed? Back to Mon, back to trying to persuade the other Druids they should leave the sacred Isle? And do what?