Druids of Avalon - Short Stories by Joy Nash Page A

carried a sack of lead in each hand. But he said nothing as he stumbled after Cormac.
    The dwarf forged west, into country that grew increasingly mountainous. Owein followed, his strength sapping with every mile. Just when he was sure he could go no farther, his rough kinsman called a halt, hunkering down in a copse of evergreens that was blessedly free from wind. Owein collapsed beside him. In a heartbeat, he fell asleep.
    The rustle of footsteps on dry grass woke him. Two shadows slipped into the copse. Celts ready for battle, swords drawn. Owein rolled into a crouch, his hand on his own sword. The head warrior was a large, bearded man garbed in animal skins. His companion was small and lithe. A boy.
    Owein blinked. Nay. A woman.
    The lass could be hardly older than Owein himself. She wore a tarnished mail shirt and a man’s
braccas
, and held her sword at the ready. And yet her garb and stance could not disguise her beauty.
    Despite his weariness, despite the hopeless endeavor Owein’s life had become, he could not look away from her. His lower body stirred with an unfamiliar ache. The lass’s hair and eyes were the color of honey. Would she taste as sweet?
    She met his gaze squarely, her brows arching. Owein’s cheeks heated. Had she read his thoughts?
    “The point of a sword is no greeting for a friend, Bryce,” Cormac told the man, rising.
    “Cormac,” the man replied. Clearly, he recognized Owein’s kinsman. He sheathed his sword. “Welcome.” A sudden frown marred his features. “How goes it in the north?”
    Cormac spat. “Roman everywhere, building their forts and their Great Wall. The clan is gone. Dead, or taken as slaves. Owein and I barely escaped.”
    Bryce muttered his dismay. Owein’s eyes remained fixed on the lass. She guarded the trail, one hand on her weapon, with the air of one who knew what she was about.
    Bryce caught Owein’s eye. “My niece,” he said, nodding. “Nia.”
    Nia took Owein into her bed that very night. Too embarrassed to tell her he’d never before lain with a woman, he fumbled to please her. He must have done well, for afterwards she smiled and snuggled into his arms.
    She told him about her life. Her parents had been killed by a Roman raid on her village ten years earlier. After the dead had been buried, Nia’s uncle had trained her to both sword and bow. Every hand, even of the women and lasses, was needed to defend what was left of their clan.
    Her kin numbered thirty. More than half were unfit for battle—children, elders, and those wounded in battle. Hemmed by the Legions constructing Emperor Hadrian’s Great Wall to the north, and the expanding Roman forts and settlements to the east, they had been forced farther and father west. So far they had survived, each season moving higher into the Cambrian mountains. Their freedom shrank with every Roman advance.
    Cormac and Owein were accepted into the clan, and Owein’s life took on a new purpose. By day, he dedicated himself to the defense of his new clan. By night, he loved Nia, fiercely and often. Yet he could not shake a sense of doom. It hung over his head like the sharpened edge of a sword.
    “Let’s leave this place,” he told Nia one night. “There’s nothing for us here; the Romans have taken everything. In the northlands, beyond the Wall, we might find peace. In Caledonia, there are still valleys the Romans fear to tread.”
    “The clan could never make the journey over the Wall,” Nia replied. “The elders and the children—they would die.”
    “We could go alone. Make our own life in the high mountains.”
    Nia shook her head, her eyes bright with tears. “As fine as that would be, Owein, I cannot. How could I leave my clan? The children and the elders? I made a vow to protect them.”
    Owein closed his eyes against the image of his burning village. He’d made the same vow to his own clan, and had broken it. How could he think to renounce his duty a second time?
    “Ye could go,” Nia said