Now and for Never (20 page)

“Between the two of you,
you
are the traveller, but
she
is the summoner.” Mallora turned to Allie, her expression fierce. “A caller. As you are the traveller's beacon, so can you be a beacon to the scathach. They will be needed. I have
seen
this. I first learned to call the raven warriors in this place. Long ago, when Llassar brought me here to learn the magic of its guardians. But this journey has exhausted me and my power has waned. I cannot call the scathach in my present state, and the time I would need to recover is a luxury we will not be afforded. The scathach that were with me when I met the Morholt—the ones even now defending this ship and us— are all that are left. And their magic is dwindling, if not their fighting skills …”

“I'm going to say that's not necessarily a bad thing,” Clare said warily.

“It will be. If the Romans bring war to this fresh land.”

“Whose fault is
that
?” Clare muttered.

Allie frowned. She might not have Clare's bias against the Romans, but she'd seen the covetous light blazing from Paulinus's eyes when he gazed upon the unspoiled shores they'd sailed past earlier. Wherever they were, it was a place that had clearly escaped Rome's radar.

Until we led them right to it.

A place that was green and lush … and ripe for plunder and conquest.

“Uh, okay,” Allie said. “So … how do we make sure that doesn't happen? War, I mean.”

“You,”
Mallora said to Clare, “already know your strengths. Your power.” She plucked the inky cloak of raven feathers off the peg where it hung and, walking back around the desk, dropped it over Allie's shoulders. It settled there, heavy but comfortable. “And
you
will soon know yours.” She moved back to the little desk and rested her fingers on the emergency tin that held Morholt's diary. “Together, you are a force to be reckoned with.”

“Can't argue with that,” Clare shrugged.

Allie nervously plucked at the hem of the cloak and saw that it wasn't made entirely of feathers. Rather, layers of black cloth were shredded into points to look like feathers, with actual ones sewn overtop in places. It made the whole thing flow and sweep and would have made the badass-est Halloween costume
ever
. Allie silently revelled in the way it felt hanging from her shoulders. But she was also terrified—right down to her black socks tucked inside her black boots—by what wearing it meant.

“I have no idea what it is you're asking me to do. You know that, right?”

Mallora just looked at her. “You will.”

Allie was about to protest when Mallora's head snapped up and she turned toward the tent flap. Then her features settled into a satisfied, knowing smile. “So. It is time to put a stop to this petty brawling. Our hosts have arrived to welcome us.”

“HOSTS?” CLARE MUTTERED
as they were led from the tent by the same two super-scary scathach that had poked and prodded them there in the first place. “Why is cryptic-speak such a big thing in the first century? Seriously!”

Al just shrugged and continued to sweep her gaze from side to side like the beam of a searchlight programmed to seek out Marcus-based life forms.

The fighting had dwindled to a standoff. The two ships were still locked together like teenagers in a high school slow-song dance, starboard and port—at least, that's what Clare thought they were called. They ground against each other with each wave that swept beneath the boats on its way to crash against the foreboding red cliffs that loomed up out of the sea under rolling green hills. The island from the picture. The place where Clare had told Milo to meet them in three days' time.

In the distance, across the shimmering blue waves, Clare could make out the contours of the other islands. She also saw that Stuart Morholt had somehow wound up on the Roman-controlled vessel. And now he was yelling his fool head off, screaming something about “diplomatic immunity” and “Geneva Convention.” Junius the legionnaire had also made it back onto the Roman ship. He stood hunched near the rail with a ratty grey blanket around his shoulders, soaking wet and looking thoroughly uncomfortable in his saturated soldier gear. He stared across the gap between the two ships, watching the girls as they trailed behind the Druid priestess, his expression rather less murderous than usual. He seemed more …
bemused
than anything.

The grappling hooks and ropes lashing the two vessels together strained and groaned with tension. They weren't the only tense things. The press-ganged sailors of Mallora's commandeered ship cowered in bunches in the stern as the scathach stood ranged along the bow rails, weapons in hand.
Pools of blood and a handful of Roman soldiers lay scattered across the deck. But the fighting had stopped. Clare and Al exchanged a confused glance, wondering what had happened to interrupt the hostilities.

As they approached the bow, a knot of scathach suddenly parted to let Marcus through. He rushed toward them—well, rushed toward
Al,
really. Clare stood by as he wrapped her in another crushing embrace and asked her if she was okay, was she hurt, did he need to have words with Mallora, should he kill Paulinus, and so on. Finally Clare tapped him on the shoulder. And kept tapping.

“Yo, Muscles,” she said when he finally noticed her. “What's going on? Why aren't you guys still fighting?”

“We have visitors,” he said tersely.

Clare glanced around but could see only soldiers, sailors, and scathach. The late-afternoon sunlight washed the verdant contours of the island in beams of pale golden light, making the green grass and the red and purple cliffs sparkle like mounds of precious gems. A little chunk of paradise in the middle of a sapphire-blue sea.

Clare nervously checked her watch, having synchronized it, super-spy style, with Piper's own timepiece before they'd left the shop. A little over twelve hours, in Clare-Allie Standard Time—or CAST, as she decided to acronymize it—had passed since she and Allie had shimmered away from Glastonbury Tor. It would be the same for Milo and Piper, wherever they were. Clare wondered where that was.

On the way here,
she thought.
Have a little faith. This is Milo you're talking about.

Truthfully, there was little doubt in Clare's mind that Milo would get himself and Piper to the rendezvous on time. But could the same be said for her and Allie?
Near
the island and
on
the island weren't the same thing.

“Close” only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,
she
thought.
So Paulinus is going to have to stand down and back the hell off
.
And soon.

“Marcus,” Al said, “what did you mean by ‘visitors'?”

He turned to answer her, but just then it became obvious what he'd meant. A miniature shooting star suddenly arced over the bow of the Roman governor's ship, landing with a thwacking twang in front of his hobnail-sandalled feet.

A flaming arrow.

Clare and Al ran to the railing to see where it had come from. Riding so low in the water it was invisible until they looked straight down was another small ship. Well, more like a large boat—a rudimentary version of what Clare had always imagined Viking longships to look like. A mast stood, its sail reefed, in the centre of the craft, which was wide and low, with broadly curving sides and a rising prow and stern. A dozen men with hand-held drums crouched aft and another twenty or so figures, cloaked and hooded, stood in rows amidship. And they were surrounded by other, smaller boats. Lots of them. Each little vessel wasn't much larger than a two-person kayak, only it sported small square sails fore and mid with a few cloaked and hooded figures standing in each, all utterly still. One of the hooded figures in the lead longship held a short, powerful-looking bow in one hand. The drums had stilled and the only sound was the lapping of waves against the sides of the boats.

It was eerie.

Clare wondered who in the world these guys were and where they'd come from. She still didn't have the foggiest clue where they were, but she had the uneasy feeling that they'd trespassed into occupied territory.

Over on the Roman ship, soldiers and sailors alike rushed to stamp out the roiling, oily fire that was spreading rapidly across the deck. The smoke that billowed around them was thick and dark and smelled remarkably like turpentine—the
archer must have soaked the missile in some kind of potent accelerant before setting it ablaze. The ship's planking resembled a particularly hearty grease fire Clare had accidentally started once in her Home Arts class at school. Paulinus ignored it and stalked to the bow to look down on his attacker.

“What is this intrusion?” he shouted angrily. “Who are you? This is a matter that does not concern you. Go on your way!”

Clare wasn't surprised at his offhand dismissal. After all, here was a guy who made a living invading far-flung lands and stomping out whoever happened to have been there first. She glanced over at Mallora, who gazed down on the longship with a serene, knowing look on her face. Clare wondered what the Druidess knew that the rest of them didn't. Then a voice called out from the longship and the answer hit her like a bolt from the blue.

“You will cease this conflict!” the voice demanded. “Now. Or you will suffer wrath.”

The voice was soft, strong, and carried out across the water. It was also female, and spoke in a language that Clare understood. A voice she'd
never
expected to hear again.

It was clear that Paulinus had no idea what the voice had said, and that he'd decided to remain annoyed. Until Marcus Donatus—linguist that he was—called out the Latin translation.

In a flash Paulinus went from annoyed to incredulous. He laughed and shouted down, “Who are you to tell the might of Rome what to do?”

The woman pushed back the deep cowl of her hood and the ocean breeze lifted her long blond hair away from her face. Her blue eyes flashed. “I am Comorra, daughter of Boudicca. And you, Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, owe me a deep debt of blood.”

“Holy crap!” Al clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Yeah,” Clare whispered. “What are the odds?”

Comorra's fierce blue gaze remained focused on the governor where he stood at the bow of his ship, but Clare saw the figure standing next to Comorra turn sharply in her direction.

Even without seeing his face, she knew who it was.

Connal.

“Dude,” Al whispered. “One of those Nazgul is staring at you …”

“What?”

“Nazgul. You know, Ring Wraiths.” She nodded to the cloaked figure. “That one standing beside Comorra looks like the dude who stabbed Frodo on Weathertop. And I think he's staring at you.”

“You're speaking in High Geek, aren't you?” Clare murmured, not taking her eyes off the two figures in the boat.

“Yes.” Al nodded. “I do that when I'm terrified.”

Clare felt herself grinning. “I don't think we have anything to be afraid of, pal. Not anymore.”

“You don't?”

“Watch …”

When Marcus translated Comorra's words, the Roman governor's face had gone ashen beneath his tan. Even from that distance Clare could see the muscles on the sides of his neck working convulsively as he swallowed and cleared his throat.

“You take after your mother, I see,” he called out in a harsh voice. “And your heart is brave. But foolish. I don't know what you and your people are doing out in these waters, but you are a paltry few. I could order my ship's captain to simply drive your little boats beneath our prow and sink you to the bottom of the sea.”

“You could, but you won't.” Comorra shrugged. “You will instead release our friends. Or you will burn.”

Again, Marcus translated.

As he fell silent, the multitude of cloaked figures in the
low-lying boats all bent double, as if bowing in unison, and then straightened again—with arrows nocked in bows. Flaming arrows. Dozens and dozens of the fiery missiles, and they were all aimed directly at a big square
flammable
target, the sail of Paulinus's very wooden ship.

Clare couldn't help loosing a triumphant little whoop.

The last time she'd been in a situation like this—and it was either comical or depressing that she could frame things in such a way, but there you go—it had been the Romans who set fire to their arrows. Connal and Comorra had obviously learned a trick or two from their enemies and had equipped their boats with braziers to ignite their arrows.

What Clare couldn't fathom, though, was how they'd known, as Comorra had said, that they had “friends” on board. Gnarly Druid powers might have something to do with that. Whatever the case, with the scathach on the ship and the fire-wielding Iceni in their boats, Paulinus was pretty much backed into a corner. If it had just been the scathach, he probably would have kept on fighting. He had superior numbers. And he wanted the gold in the hold of Mallora's ship. Badly. But he wasn't going to get it if his superior numbers were mostly on a ship that was going up in flames. Ribbons of black smoke drifted through the still air, wreathing the impromptu flotilla in funereal garlands.

“A truce,” he said.

“My terms are thus,” Comorra replied, Marcus translating almost instantaneously as she spoke. “Release the other ship. Along with any other Celts aboard transported as slaves. You may have the sailors from both vessels along with any of your soldiers who've survived. You will not set foot on this island, on pain of all your deaths, swift and sure.”

As she gestured to the hump of land behind them Clare fervently hoped that last part didn't hold true for the Celts as well as the Romans.

“You may replenish your fresh-water supplies at the other islands close by,” Comorra continued. “The springs are not hard to find. And there are sea beasts to hunt and plentiful fish. Within two days' sailing in every direction are mainland shores where you may make camp. Go in peace and with luck you may survive. Stay, and you will perish. I promise you that.”