Druids of Avalon - Short Stories (2 page)

The world went dark.

The creaking jolt of a cart wheel woke him. His mail shirt was gone; his ankles and wrists were bound with coarse rope. His struggles to free himself only served to bloody his skin.

“The big barbarian’s awake,” a voice shouted.

“Get him up.”

The cart creaked to a stop. Rough hands hauled Owein to his feet. He struggled, only to receive a resounding blow to his head for his trouble. The rope binding his ankles was cut. A soldier knotted a new tether about his neck and fastened it to the cart rail.

The vehicle resumed its roll, following in the wake of a column of marching soldiers. Owein’s leash jerked. He stumbled in wagon ruts, only just managing to keep his feet. It was that or be dragged to an ignominious death.

They reached the Roman fort before nightfall. There, Owein was leg-shackled inside a pen with a two other Celts. Fallen warriors all, they avoided each others’ gaze in shame. A soldier slopped moldy bread and brackish water into a pail. Owein forced himself to down both. He needed whatever strength he might gain to attempt his escape. He hardly cared that he might be killed in the process. In fact, he welcomed the notion of death. But he would not die caged like a beast.

When the cage door opened the next morning, Owein fought with inhuman strength. It took four soldiers to subdue him, but in the end his struggles were for naught. Stripped to the skin, bearing new bruises and lacerations among his many scars, he was dragged to a wooden stake and bound with his hands behind his back. Cold sleet struck his skin as a fat man in a dirty toga prodded and poked about his body. An unsmiling Roman centurion looked on.

The man stepped back with an air of decision. “I’ll take the lot,” he said. “Twenty gold aurei.”

The officer’s lips twisted. “For three healthy males? That’s preposterous. Good quarry slaves are worth twice that amount.”

“They are untamed. And I’ll be saving you the trouble and expense of transporting them all the way to Eburacum,” the man retorted. “Think on that.”

“All right, then. I let them go for twenty-five.”

“Twenty-three, and that’s my final offer.”

“Sold.”

AD 125

“I like it fast and hard. Dirty.”

Owein kept his expression impassive. With luck, Aurelia would assume her words had no meaning for him. It was a rare slave who understood Latin.

She shifted on her bed of silk and satins, luxuriating as if in a bath. She was naked. Her breasts and hips were lush, her belly gently rounded. Her hair was a dark, glossy cascade of curls. Her complexion was pale and delicate, her dark eyes encircled with kohl.

He felt no arousal, not even when she crawled to the edge of the bed and clutched his hand.

“Fast and hard. Now. I don’t care if you mark me. Doesn’t every slave dream of ravaging his master’s wife?”

Boldly, she cupped his sex. It remained flaccid in her hand. Owein locked his knees and fixed his eyes on the wall as Aurelia petted him. When she obtained no response, her red lips drew into a pout. Easing back on the silk-draped mattress, she parted her legs, leaving none of her charms to his imagination.

Did the woman have no shame? No pride? Owein, who had bowed under a Roman lash for two years, would not bow to this. He would not pleasure this Roman bitch in heat.

Owein had only to think of Nia’s bloody body to resist Aurelia’s bold encouragement. Any arousal she managed to stir quickly fled when confronted with his memories. He stared down at her, not bothering to hide his contempt. When she realized he would not be moved, she sprang forward, sinking her fingernails into his thighs.

“You filthy barbarian swine,” she spat. “You’ll rue the day you crossed me.”

Owein didn’t care.

Ropes burned his wrists.

Owein strained, twisting with savage strength. Pain shot up his arms, causing his shoulders to spasm. His ankles were lashed to the wooden frame as well, his legs splayed wide.

The slave master approached slowly. He snapped the wooden handle of the flagellum against the palm of his opposite hand, allowing Owein plenty of time to contemplate his fate. A slow, painful death, ordered as punishment for the rape of his owner’s wife. A charge Aurelia had invented to avenge her pride.

The rhythm of the slaver’s whip commanded Owein’s complete attention. The thongs swung in the sunlight, the sharpened bits of iron imbedded in the leather glinting ominously. Cold sweat gathered on Owein’s brow. He’d seen the damage a flagellum could inflict. Had heard its victims scream and beg for mercy that did not come.

Thirty-nine lashes. A death sentence. Each blow would send dozens of jagged blades into his flesh. Each would rip skin from muscle, muscle from bone. He would be a raw, bleeding mass of meat before the blessed end came.

A small crowd had gathered—mostly ragged, dirty slaves who kept their eyes cast downward. They’d been ordered to witness Owein’s fate, but would take no pleasure in it.

Aurelia would, though. She was there, in the front of the gathering, clinging to her husband’s arm.

Owein captured her gaze. The pure, raw hatred he turned upon her caused her smug expression to falter.

But only for an instant. When the first blow fell, she was smiling.

He awoke in a ditch, choked by blood and pain, the memory of his own screams echoing in his skull.

His back was on fire; his head felt nearly severed from his body. His limbs wouldn’t obey his commands.

He squinted at his surroundings the best he could. He wasn’t within sight of the quarry camp. That surprised him; normally flogged slaves were dumped in a shallow pit near the privies. Inexplicably, Owein was surrounded by greenery. A thrush sounded in the canopy high overhead. The scent of loam tickled his nostrils.

Had he crawled here? He must have, if the sting of his forearms and knees was any indication. The trickle of a mountain stream teased his ears. His throat burned with thirst, but try as he might, he couldn’t find the strength to drag himself to the water.

How long he lay, drifting in and out of consciousness, he didn’t know. When he next opened his eyes, he found a grizzled face peering down at him.

“By the gods’ mercy! He lives.”

The speaker was a Celt. Owein closed his eyes again. It hardly mattered.

A second voice sounded, grave. “Barely, Aiden. He is all but dead.”

“Nay,” the man named Aiden answered. “Eirwen will save him.”

The woman’s unbound hair fell in a golden stream to the small of her back. Her tunic, woven in a pattern that included every color of the rainbow, draped the inviting curve of her bottom. She stood with her back to Owein, in the center of a simple round hut that was much like the one he’d grown up in. He lay on his stomach with his head pillowed on his arms and watched as she folded a length of cloth.

“Who are ye?” he said quietly.

The woman spun about. Her blue eyes were wide, her expression radiant. “Ye’ve awakened!”

“Aye. Who are ye?” He shifted, ignoring the stiffness of bandages and the agony the movement brought. His entire back felt like a single open sore.

She came to him, crouching beside the pallet. “My name is Eirwen. ’Tis good to see ye awake at last.”

“Ye’ve been tending me.” He could remember snatches of it now. “How did I get to this place? I dinna remember much after … ” He trailed off.

A flash of distress crossed her face. “My grandfather and uncle found ye some miles to the north.” She bit her lower lip. “Near the Roman quarry.”

Sudden nausea surged. He pushed himself up abruptly, willing it to pass. The sudden movement sent a sharp ripple of pain across his back. He gasped with the force of it.

Eirwen gave a small cry. “Nay! Ye mustn’t rise. Not yet.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Please.”

Owein pushed into a crouch, his back hunched against the pain. He felt like a trapped animal—fierce with panic. He refused to lie down, but his shaking legs didn’t feel equal to the task of standing. When he jerked his head up, the room wavered.

“Ye lost much blood,” Eirwen said, offering him a cup with quiet efficiency.

He took with an unsteady hand, grateful she didn’t move to help him. He managed to bring the cup to his lips and drink. The herbs were bitter, but comforting.

“I thank ye.” He paused, looking about. The room was steadier now. “Where is your grandfather now, lass?”

Eirwen took the empty mug. “Aiden is checking his traps,” she replied. “He’ll return soon.” She hesitated, then met his gaze squarely. “He says ye are Druid. A Wise One.”

Owein couldn’t hide his surprise. “How did he know?”

“Then it is true?”

“Aye,” he said after a small pause. “ ’Tis true.”

Eirwen gave a small smile. “Grandfather claims a small talent. He has no magic of his own, but he can sense it in others. He sees the Light about ye.”

Owein looked away. “His sight is false, then. Whatever Light I once knew is long gone.”

In the days that followed, Eirwen tended him with diligence and patience, meeting Owein’s black moods with unflagging good humor. His nightmares of Nia, at first so painful in his mind, slowly faded to a dull ache. Aiden, the grizzled old Celt who had found Owein half-dead, shared Eirwen’s dwelling. The man was a garrulous old soul. His insistence on addressing his guest as “Wise One” rather than by name grated on Owein’s nerves. He didn’t feel equal to such an honor and doubted that he ever would.

Eirwen’s kin lived in a pocket of mountain wilderness far from Roman settlements and mostly overlooked by the Roman army. The members of the clan numbered some twenty-five souls, varying in age from elder to babe. Many visited Owein daily, and it was clear Aiden had told them of their guest’s Druid status. They bought him gifts and sought advice Owein didn’t feel worthy to give.

He regained his strength slowly, first venturing from pallet to stool, then from the hut to the village common. It was there Aiden found him.

“The clan wishes ye to stay, Wise One. We want ye to be our priest and guardian.”

“I’m nay suited to such a task,” Owein said quietly. “Whatever Light I once had … I hardly feel it now. Only darkness.”

“Ah, Wise One, I know the past weighs heavily on ye, but I can tell ye, all sorrows fade with time. Ye are too young to be digging yourself a grave. My advice to ye is to take Eirwen to wife and make a new start, here, among people who have need of ye.”

Owein’s brows went up. “Eirwen?”

Aiden chuckled. “Come now, ye canna tell me that ye havna noticed my granddaughter’s interest.”

“I hadn’t,” Owein mumbled.

“She would make ye a fine wife.”

“I dinna think I would be a good husband.”

Aiden met Owein’s gaze, his eyes solemn. “I know ye can never forget what the Romans took from ye. But when ye’ve lived as many years as I have, ye learn to find happiness where ye may. We are sheltered in this bleak pocket of the hills. We keep to ourselves, pose no threat to the Legions, and so far the Romans have let us be. The clan welcome ye as its own. We invite ye to make a new beginning here.”

“A new beginning,” Owein echoed. He felt a hundred years old, far past the time for such a thing.

“Daylight never fails to break the night,” Aiden observed.

Owein swallowed. “I canna see the dawn.”
Aiden inclined his head. “Ye will, Wise One, ye will. I promise ye.”