Druids of Avalon - Short Stories by Joy Nash Page B

in a small voice. “A man alone could slip over the Wall in the night.”
    Owein let out a long breath. “Nay,” he said, his arms tightening around her. “I’ll go nowhere without you. Ye are my home now.”

II. Slave
    AD 123
    Nine men and five women crouched in the heather, waiting. Owein shifted, his gaze never straying from the rock that marked the entrance to the mountain pass. Bryce was hidden there, ready to give the signal to attack.
    Beside him, Owein felt Nia stir. She breathed onto her fingers, trying to break the cold. Their lovemaking last night had been desperate, with an edge of violence that had left Owein too shaken to sleep. Disease and hunger had all but sapped the clan of its spirits. Roman outposts had sprung up on all sides of their valley. Owein could hardly stand the bleak stares of the children and the elders. The clan could not live in hiding much longer—everyone knew it. And yet no one spoke of it.
    Nia shivered. Owein wished he could wrap her in a comforting embrace, but he knew she would not accept that, any more than she had accepted the last of his meager rations two nights before. She was strong, as strong as any of her kinsmen. That she’d held onto that strength through so many years of war and hopelessness humbled Owein.
    He exchanged a glance with his kinsman, Cormac. The dwarf crouched on the hillside across the trail, his sword drawn and ready. It would end today, unless they bought a few more weeks or months with the supplies carried by the approaching Roman patrol. Food and bedding along with weapons and armor. Owein was prepared to kill for those things.
    Movement flashed near Bryce’s rock. Owein leaned forward, his gaze narrowing. Thoughts faded, the mountain at his back faded—even Nia’s form retreated to the edge of his consciousness.
    The Romans advanced through the narrow pass in single file, like pearls on a string, unaware that death poised over their heads. Bryce gave the signal. As one, the warriors leapt.
    Owein launched himself at the nearest soldier, a war-cry tearing from his throat. His victim’s dark eyes went wide.
    The slash of a blade, a spurt of blood. The body thudded to the ground. Owein yanked his weapon free. His head jerking up, he sought his next adversary.
    An eerie battle calm descended, blanketing Owein like a dream. The grunts and screams of his companions and enemies floated like mist. His own cries seemed to ring far from his ears. His sword clanged dully against a Roman
gladius.
Even the jolt of contact was unreal.
    His hatred formed a shield about his body. His opponent’s snarls and curses did not touch him. Pain, fear, and defeat—they were words with no meaning.
    He would not rest until every Roman was dead—or he was. He swung his sword low, slicing under his opponent’s armor. The soldier fell.
    Triumph flashed, as fierce and sexual as an orgasm. He spun about, ready for more.
    Only to see a Roman plunge his sword into Nia’s belly.
    For an instant, Owein’s world hung suspended. An image from the night before flashed through his brain—Nia arching against him, calling his name as her pleasure broke. Then the memory snapped. Nia slumped forward, a gurgling sound in her throat.
    The Roman gave his sword a savage twist and jerked his elbow backward. The blade emerged from Nia’s body covered with blood, trailing a rope of gut. She stared down at it, uncomprehending. Her knees crumpled.
    “Nay—” Hot, boiling rage surged in his gut, shattered in his vision. Nia’s life could not end this way. She was far too fine, far too good. He lunged forward, flinging himself at her murderer, an animal’s cry in his throat.
    The sound never emerged. A blow came down on Owein’s skull sending him careening into darkness.
    “Ho, Titus! Look! This one’s alive.”
    A rough hand slapped his cheek. Owein’s eyes snapped open and confronted the point of a sword. At the end of the gleaming shaft, a dark face leered.
    Nia’s death roared