Celtic Fire - By Joy Nash Page 0,2

scraped a path over the dirt floor. The spring wind sent a swirl of dust into the air.

Madog entered with Edmyg dogging his heels. “The clans must gather today, not on the morrow,” the Druid muttered.

“Kynan’s dun alone answers my call, and reluctantly at that,” Edmyg replied, scowling. “The other chieftains will nay come while the moon of Cutios shines. They await the fires of Beltane.”

“They be fools, then,” replied Madog. “Cormac’s message was clear. The new Roman commander arrives on the morrow afore the sun sets. Once he disappears behind the high walls of Vindolanda, we’ll not be easily drawing him out again.”

“He’ll nay reach the fort,” said Edmyg. “We’ll attack on the road with the Horned God at our backs.”

Madog stroked his white beard. “Kernunnos or no, we’ll have need of every man in Kynan’s dun and our own.”

“We will have them.” Edmyg’s gaze lit on Owein. “The lad will come as well. ’Tis past time for his weaning.”

Rhiannon sprang to her feet and drew herself up to her full height, which, to her misfortune, barely reached Edmyg’s shoulder. “Owein cannot join ye. He’s weak still.”

“He’ll ne’er be strong if ye persist in coddling him,” Edmyg retorted. He took a step toward her.

Owein jerked to his feet and stepped between them, the sudden movement causing him to sway. Rhiannon put out her hand to steady him, but he brushed it off and looked at Edmyg. “My sister is forgetting I am a man grown. I’ll accompany ye.”

“Ye serve her well in this, lad,” Madog said. “We’ll be driving the Romans south afore the next snow.” He lowered himself to a stool by the fire and nodded for Edmyg to do the same. Owein took a third seat.

“Rhiannon will sit the throne of her grandmother,” the Druid continued. “Ye’ll erase the memory of her shame, lass, once the Romans are gone.”

“Aye,” Rhiannon said. She’d been weaned on tales of redeeming Cartimandua’s folly. Two generations past, the great queen of the Brigantes had spurned one king in favor of a less popular consort, plunging the clans into civil war. In the end, only the Romans had benefited. Another reason why Rhiannon could not spurn Edmyg, despite his perfidy. She would not repeat her grandmother’s selfish mistake.

Now a new war approached, one in which the clans would unite against the conquerors. Bloodshed was as certain as the sun’s rising. The thought of the Brigantes’ crossing swords with the formidable Roman army left Rhiannon sick with dread. How many of her kin would perish?

“Now then, have ye food and cervesia for an old man?”

Rhiannon nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She took the flask of barley beer from its hook and filled three mugs. She set them on the low table, then moved to the cauldron and ladled the remains of the past evening’s stew into wooden bowls. Taking up her own portion, she joined the men by the fire.

Edmyg used a barley bannock to retrieve a hunk of meat from his bowl. “We’ll take the Romans where the road crosses the fens,” he said, chewing around a large mouthful. He washed the stew down with a swig of cervesia, straining the liquid through his blond moustache. A portion dribbled onto the braids in his beard. “The forest is dark there even at midday.”

Rhiannon put her meal aside, her meager appetite now completely gone. The fens were a day’s journey to the south. If Edmyg meant to be in the marshes tomorrow, he would have to travel through the night. Owein’s breathing had eased, but his strength was still fragile. The journey, coupled with a battle, would surely bring on a relapse.

But Edmyg’s will was set, as was Owein’s, who was determined to prove himself more than a lad. And the Great Mother knew a woman had little hope of shoveling sense into a man’s head when it was filled with thoughts of war.

As the sun rose into a line of clouds, the clan gathered in the muddy yard to prepare for the raid. The honing wheel turned, scattering sparks from iron blades. Above, the pointed roofs of the roundhouses scratched the gray sky. A wall of logs ringed the huts, capping the crest of a steep hill. The palisade would protect the women while their men fought.

A raven sailed into view overhead, then disappeared just as quickly. Rhiannon shivered. The creature of Owein’s vision. Did it foretell victory or death?

She plunged her frayed willow twig into a wooden bowl and mixed