Celtic Fire

by Joy Nash

  “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.

  Eventually, Lucius lost count of the blows.

  The wind died at midday, but it was near sunset before Rhiannon rode to Vindolanda.

  She’d passed the long hours of the battle sequestered in Madog’s hut with Owein for her guard. He sat by the door, not meeting her gaze, his shoulders rigid and his hand on the hilt of Madog’s sword. He didn’t answer when she tried to speak to him. If the lad she’d raised lived within him, he was well hidden.

  Madog had stayed in the stone circle to pray. Her last glimpse of Owein’s mentor showed the Druid standing between the smoldering fires, hands clasped about his staff, the skull of Lucius’s brother swaying in the dying light. The shredded whisper of Aulus’s soul called to her: Tell him. If only she had listened.

  E
dmyg came at midday. He stooped before the door, ignoring Owein, and barked an order at Rhiannon to rise. He’d brought Derwa, saddled and decked with flowers. He lifted her onto the pony’s back but didn’t relinquish the lead, even after he had swung onto his own mount. They set out on the trail, Owein following.

  The walls of Vindolanda loomed high against a blazing sunset. The gates were flung wide, but the siege had not been bloodless. A pile of headless corpses lay outside the eastern gate. Their severed heads were mounted on spikes flanking the gates. Crows already picked at the eyes of one unfortunate man. Rhiannon’s stomach lurched when she recognized Vetus. She quickly scanned the others but found no sign of Lucius, nor of Marcus or Demetrius.

  They traversed the main avenue past the charred ruin of the fort hospital. Apparently, fear of illness had caused the Celts to torch the building. Warriors, many staggering with drink, cheered Edmyg and Rhiannon’s progress and crowded behind as they passed. Edmyg steered Derwa into the gates of the fort headquarters and into the barren yard. Rhiannon felt Owein’s presence at her back, but it brought no comfort.

  Men filled the space. Some had scaled the columns supporting the roof of the perimeter walkway to perch on the eaves. A lone form sat higher, near the peak of the roof.

  The throng on the ground parted before them, opening a path to the center of the yard where a thick stake of newly cut wood had been sunk. A man hung bound at its base.

  Lucius.

  His head was bowed and his hands stretched overhead, tied with rough rope to an iron spike hammered into the wood. His legs were spread and tied at the ankles to shorter stakes set several paces to the fore. The position didn’t allow him to lie flat or to sit upright. He’d been beaten and stripped of all but his ragged tunic. Flies were already buzzing around the worst of his wounds. His chest heaved with the exertion of drawing air into his lungs.

  He lived yet. But for how long? If Rhiannon could somehow contrive to free him, were his injuries too great to allow his escape?

  Cormac and Brennus stood nearby, watching Rhiannon’s advance. Her gaze tangled briefly with the dwarf’s. He gave her a smug salute. His glance toward Lucius told her he’d noticed her horror before she’d carefully wiped it from her face.

  Edmyg maneuvered their mounts to within a few paces of Lucius and addressed the crowd. “I give you Rhiannon, queen of the Brigantes!”

  A cheer went up, but Rhiannon barely heard it. At the sound of her name, Lucius’s head had come up. He stared at her with shock, then hatred.

  “You,” he croaked. “You are the barbarian queen of whom my brother wrote?” He began to laugh.

  Edmyg dismounted and planted his boot in the prisoner’s side with a savage jab. Lucius’s mad cackle ended in a grunt.

  “Nay—don’t hurt him further!” Rhiannon cried.

  Cormac grinned. “We’ve barely scratched him, lass. The quartermaster sorely wanted to break his legs, but the dog will need his limbs whole to dance in Madog’s circle.”

  Rhiannon spun on Owein. “Nay. Not that.”

  “ ’Twill be done at dawn,” her brother replied. “I will wield the sword.”

  Rhiannon swayed on Derwa’s back and would have fallen if Edmyg hadn’t caught her.

  He lifted her from the pony and set her on her feet. “How pale ye are. Surely the Roman’s cock wasna so skillful that ye mourn its loss?”

  Rhiannon pulled from his grasp. “Release him, Edmyg. His death will bring the wrath of Rome down on our heads.”

  “I think not, wife.” His lips parted in a snarl. “Did spreading your legs for him give ye so much pleasure? Perhaps I should let ye keep him as a slave, as he kept ye. I would enjoy watching you suck the marrow from his bone, I am thinking.”

  “Ye are a disgusting swine. Remember ye are naught but a sword in my service.”

  Edmyg caught her chin in his hand. “Dinna speak to me like that again, woman. I am yer king.”

  “Nay. I have renounced ye.”

  The back of Edmyg’s hand struck Rhiannon’s face. Rhiannon cried out in shame and rage. How dare he strike her? To her surprise, Brennus was the first to leap to her aid, lunging at Edmyg with a fierce snarl. The two warriors fell in the dirt, grappling.

  Lucius groaned. Rhiannon dropped to her knees and stretched out her hand, her fingers hovering over his bruised cheek. His eyes opened, took in the sight of her, and closed again.

  “Whore,” he said.

  Rhiannon had no answer. A fly landed on his sweat-soaked forehead. When she went to brush it away, a hand caught her wrist and hauled her to her feet.

  She looked up into Owein’s hard eyes. “Dinna shame yerself by touching him,” he said.

  “Ye don’t understand.”

  “I understand well enough, sister. Dinna let the blood of Cartimandua show. Our people deserve better.” His gaze flicked past her shoulder and turned grim. “ ’Twould seem Edmyg’s conceit has flung him into a boiling cauldron.”

  She turned. The scrapping warriors had gained their feet and were circling each other warily, swords drawn. Brennus, Rhiannon realized with a start, wielded a weapon with a hilt and crosspiece fashioned in the shape of a wolf’s head—Lucius’s own blade.

  “The woman goes with me,” Brennus said.

  “Nay. She is mine.”

  Cormac sidled up to Rhiannon. “See what comes next.” His low voice barely contained his glee.

  “I delivered the garrison,” Brennus said. “I was promised a throne in return.”

  “I promised ye nothing,” Edmyg replied. “Ye’ll nay be taking Rhiannon save over my dead body.”

  “So be it.” Brennus lunged and his sword clashed with Edmyg’s once, twice.

  Cormac chortled. “The true battle begins. The Gaul will take it.”

  “Edmyg is your brother,” Rhiannon said, aghast. Around her, wagers flew as the men, Brigantes and Gauls alike, moved back to make room for the dueling warriors.

  “Aye, but my bet is on Brennus, his mail shirt, and his Roman sword. Edmyg has naught but pride. I’ve said oft enough ’twould be his downfall. I’m counting on it now.”

  “ ’Twas you who promised Brennus the throne!”

  “Aye, and the queen as well. ’Twas the bait the wolf couldna refuse. I am no fool, Rhiannon, and ’tis a wise man who seeks the sturdiest shelter in which to pass the storm.”

  “A storm of your own making,” Rhiannon countered. “How could ye betray your own brother?”

  “I was the elder brother. By rights, ye should have been mine first, along with the throne. And ye would have been if not for my stunted limbs.” He paused, watching as Edmyg parried an attack from Brennus. “ ’Tis a natural alliance between the Gauls and our people. We are one blood, and the Brigantes have fought alone for years with little to show for it. This fort is a boon without price and the garrison soldiers nearly double our strength. With their aid, we can hold our land.”

  “A fool ye be if ye think that, Cormac. The Romans will never retreat. Ye’ll be fighting all your life.”

  “I’ll gladly do that, lass, rather than bow to the likes of him.” He spat at Lucius.

  Owein tugged at her arm. “Rhiannon, get back. I’ll nay have your blood spilled.” He urged her out of the path of the combatants. She let him pull her to safety, watching in horror as Edmyg and Brennus fought for the right to her body and through it the throne. The warriors circled the post where Lucius hung. Dear Briga! If a sword went astray, Lucius could do naught but watch it come.

  Brennus attacked with a wide slice inward. Edmyg caught the blade with the edge of his sword and threw it over. The opponents clashed with violent fury, grunting curses, blades clanging. Brennus gave a thrust, missing Edmyg by a mere breath. Edmyg lost his balance and fell on Lucius’s outstretched leg. Rhiannon lurched forward, but Owein held her fast. Lucius’s face turned gray behind his bruises as his jaw clenched against a cry.

  Edmyg scrambled to his feet, narrowly avoiding a killing blow. Brennus’s blade thudd
ed into the earth near Lucius’s hip. Rhiannon slumped against Owein, shaken.

  The deadly battle continued. Edmyg managed to nick the Gaul’s arm with a swipe that seemed more luck than skill. Brennus swore an oath and doubled his efforts, slashing with deadly urgency, forcing Edmyg back. When Edmyg lifted his arm to make his next thrust, his enemy’s blade plunged into his gut.

  Rhiannon cried out. Edmyg looked down at the hilt protruding from his stomach with an expression of disbelief. Brennus twisted his sword once and withdrew. A shout rose from the crowd. Edmyg staggered and fell, his hands clutching the wound until his strength deserted him. A tremor shook his body and then he lay still, staring at the sky.

  “ ’Tis done, then.” Cormac sounded suddenly weary. Brennus thrust his bloody sword into its sheath. When his head rose, his gaze fixed on Rhiannon.

  “Nay,” she whispered.

  “Who will challenge my right to be called king?” Brennus shouted.

  Bryan stepped forward from a knot of Edmyg’s best warriors and for one wild moment, Rhiannon thought her cousin would challenge Brennus. Her hope was dashed when the warrior placed his fist over his heart.

  “I promise you my allegiance, king.”

  One by one the other clan chieftains came forward and pledged their fealty. Rhiannon gripped Owein’s arm. “I canna go with him.”

  “Ye must. The hand of Kernunnos directed this contest. Refuse the god’s will, and we will all fall.” He gave a grim smile. “The Gaul canna be worse than Edmyg.”

  “I would rather die than bed him.”

  Owein opened his mouth to answer, then fell silent upon Brennus’s approach.

  The Gaul dropped on one knee before Rhiannon. “My queen. I offer you the protection of my body and my sword.” He bowed his head, but the steely glint in his eye told Rhiannon his words were spoken solely to appease her kinsmen.

  She looked away. It was a mistake, for she found Lucius’s dark eyes upon her, filled with loathing. She held his gaze until tears blurred his image.

  Brennus rose and caught her upper arm. “Come.” He guided her toward the portal leading to the street. His grip was like iron, but even if she could wrench out of his grasp, where would she run? Her kinsmen had accepted this man as their king. Her only hope to avoid her fate was to contrive Lucius’s escape and flee south with him.