I. Warrior
AD 118
Red tongues of flame licked the slope of a thatched roof. A Legionary’s helmet flashed in the sunlight. Soldiers advanced, swords drawn. There were so many. More than Owein could count.
The attackers had hacked through the front line of Celts. As the youngest of the warriors with only sixteen years, Owein had been left in charge of the village. But he hadn’t stayed at his post; he’d run ahead to the fighting.
He’d not expected the Romans to slip in behind and attack the children and elders.
Owein had managed to stay alive during the battle, though not without cost. He’d lost his sword when a Roman blade sliced his upper arm. The limb dragged, bleeding freely as he ran darted toward the screams. He felt no pain. At least, not yet.
A child’s shrill cry assaulted his ears. Moira. Enid’s little lass. He lurched toward the sound, not willing to believe he couldn’t save her.
A rough hand halted his progress, spinning him about. “By the gods, lad, ye canna mean to go back.”
With difficulty, he focused on the speaker. His kinsman, Cormac. “I must,” he gasped out.
“They are lost,” Cormac grunted, all but dragging Owein from the slaughter. “There’s naught ye can do.”
A scream split the air. Darkness rushed the edges of his vision. He swayed on his feet.
“Nay. Nay—”
Cormac words were true. There was nothing Owein, or anyone else, could do. The Roman attack had been too swift, too brutal. The clan was no more. Under cover of darkness, Owein and his kinsman fled.
The weeks that followed were a blur of flight, hunger, guilt, and fear. Cormac’s prodding was the only thing that kept Owein on his feet. Left to his own devices, he would gladly have made the choice to die.
“There’s naught ye could have done to save them,” Cormac grunted, crouching low on a bluff overlooking a muddy road. The dwarf’s stunted limbs gave him the advantage when it came to evading Roman patrols; he could wedge his body into the tightest of crevices.
“The Romans are savages, for all they call our people beasts. They dinna rest until they’ve taken all.”
Owein drew his knees up to his chest and bowed his head, trying to keep his silhouette as small as possible, a difficult task for one as large as he. The moor offered little opportunity for shelter; he could only hope the ten soldiers on the windswept trail did not look up.
“How could Rhiannon have given herself to one of those brutes?” Owein muttered. A year had passed since his older sister had left her people to travel south with a Roman commander and his young son. She’d claimed she’d fallen in love the marauding dog. Owein, to his great shame, had told her to follow her heart.
“Perhaps ’twas a good thing she did,” Cormac said. “If she’d stayed with the clan, she’d be dead.”
Owein took what comfort he could in that grim fact. “Do ye think—”
Cormac gripped his arm. “Quiet, lad.”
The centurion leading the Roman patrol shouted his men to a halt, his eyes scanning the hillside where Owein and Cormac hid. Abruptly, his gaze sharpened. Owein’s breath stalled. Had they been seen?
The centurion’s hand strayed to the hilt of his sword.
Closing his eyes briefly, Owein whispered a Word in the language of the Old Ones. He wasn’t sure the Druid spell would work. His talent was Sight, not persuasion.
The centurion frowned. Looked away. A moment later, he shouted an order for his men to resume their march. When the patrol was out of sight, Cormac heaved a sigh of relief.
“The Horned God’s mercy is with us today,” he muttered.
Owein struggled to his feet. His limbs felt like lead in the aftermath of the magic he’d wielded. Aye, the Horned God had responded to his plea, but Owein knew better than any man that the god’s favor was not given freely. Payment was demanded, in the form of pain and weakness. A sharp, familiar ache sprung up behind Owein’s right eye. His limbs dragged as if he
AD 118
Red tongues of flame licked the slope of a thatched roof. A Legionary’s helmet flashed in the sunlight. Soldiers advanced, swords drawn. There were so many. More than Owein could count.
The attackers had hacked through the front line of Celts. As the youngest of the warriors with only sixteen years, Owein had been left in charge of the village. But he hadn’t stayed at his post; he’d run ahead to the fighting.
He’d not expected the Romans to slip in behind and attack the children and elders.
Owein had managed to stay alive during the battle, though not without cost. He’d lost his sword when a Roman blade sliced his upper arm. The limb dragged, bleeding freely as he ran darted toward the screams. He felt no pain. At least, not yet.
A child’s shrill cry assaulted his ears. Moira. Enid’s little lass. He lurched toward the sound, not willing to believe he couldn’t save her.
A rough hand halted his progress, spinning him about. “By the gods, lad, ye canna mean to go back.”
With difficulty, he focused on the speaker. His kinsman, Cormac. “I must,” he gasped out.
“They are lost,” Cormac grunted, all but dragging Owein from the slaughter. “There’s naught ye can do.”
A scream split the air. Darkness rushed the edges of his vision. He swayed on his feet.
“Nay. Nay—”
Cormac words were true. There was nothing Owein, or anyone else, could do. The Roman attack had been too swift, too brutal. The clan was no more. Under cover of darkness, Owein and his kinsman fled.
The weeks that followed were a blur of flight, hunger, guilt, and fear. Cormac’s prodding was the only thing that kept Owein on his feet. Left to his own devices, he would gladly have made the choice to die.
“There’s naught ye could have done to save them,” Cormac grunted, crouching low on a bluff overlooking a muddy road. The dwarf’s stunted limbs gave him the advantage when it came to evading Roman patrols; he could wedge his body into the tightest of crevices.
“The Romans are savages, for all they call our people beasts. They dinna rest until they’ve taken all.”
Owein drew his knees up to his chest and bowed his head, trying to keep his silhouette as small as possible, a difficult task for one as large as he. The moor offered little opportunity for shelter; he could only hope the ten soldiers on the windswept trail did not look up.
“How could Rhiannon have given herself to one of those brutes?” Owein muttered. A year had passed since his older sister had left her people to travel south with a Roman commander and his young son. She’d claimed she’d fallen in love the marauding dog. Owein, to his great shame, had told her to follow her heart.
“Perhaps ’twas a good thing she did,” Cormac said. “If she’d stayed with the clan, she’d be dead.”
Owein took what comfort he could in that grim fact. “Do ye think—”
Cormac gripped his arm. “Quiet, lad.”
The centurion leading the Roman patrol shouted his men to a halt, his eyes scanning the hillside where Owein and Cormac hid. Abruptly, his gaze sharpened. Owein’s breath stalled. Had they been seen?
The centurion’s hand strayed to the hilt of his sword.
Closing his eyes briefly, Owein whispered a Word in the language of the Old Ones. He wasn’t sure the Druid spell would work. His talent was Sight, not persuasion.
The centurion frowned. Looked away. A moment later, he shouted an order for his men to resume their march. When the patrol was out of sight, Cormac heaved a sigh of relief.
“The Horned God’s mercy is with us today,” he muttered.
Owein struggled to his feet. His limbs felt like lead in the aftermath of the magic he’d wielded. Aye, the Horned God had responded to his plea, but Owein knew better than any man that the god’s favor was not given freely. Payment was demanded, in the form of pain and weakness. A sharp, familiar ache sprung up behind Owein’s right eye. His limbs dragged as if he
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