Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Sorcha hurried through the dark and deserted settlement towards the light that spilled from her roundhouse. The comfort and pleasure of her longed-for coupling with Lucius faded with each step she took. All that remained was discomfort—physical and mental.
What was wrong with her? She was missing the ceremony that celebrated the entry of her brothers’ spirits into the Otherworld, where soon their god of reincarnation would dip them in the cauldron of life and send them to the world of the living again.
Wasn’t it enough to owe Lucius her life twice over? Why did she have to be besotted with him as well? He was a Roman soldier.
Now she had lain with him.
Was there no end to her stupidity where he was concerned?
She had gone to him to apologies for mistreating him, a hostage, so dishonorably, and to give him food. Why had her carefully planned speech and actions gone awry?
Because she had allowed herself to care for him too much. It had started with grudging gratitude for saving her, evolved into admiration, and had now progressed to full-blooded lust.
Sorcha slipped through the doorway into the roundhouse. The druid priest from Mai Dun concluded his invocation of the god to bring a speedy return to this world of each of her brothers and the warriors who had been defeated at Mai Dun.
Although this was a celebration of their passing from this life to the Otherworld, some of the recently widowed women from their hillfort wept openly.
Alina, as the chief mourner in her daughter’s absence, sat erect in Sorcha’s chair, her bearing regal.
Only her sunken eyes revealed her grief as she raised her cup to toast the departed.
Afterwards, a Mai Dun woman stood and began to relate a humorous tale of her loved-one’s life. More such remembrances of the departed would be told—precious moments from their lives that brought them into the present once more.
Sorcha chastised herself again for missing most of this evening’s important event by succumbing to her feelings for Lucius.
Would her mother forgive such an insult?
As Sorcha approached Alina, there was only welcome in her mother’s gaze, as though she thought that something important had kept Sorcha from her duty to attend this ceremony.
How wrong she was. Gaining comfort from a Roman hostage she ought to despise did not qualify as important business in any society.
Sorcha’s brothers made room for her on the bench positioned beside Alina’s chair, and she joined in another incantation for rebirth of the departed. The amber-colored bead resting against her skin warmed and comforted her.
Around her, the ceremony proceeded in its sad-joyous manner.
Despite her good intentions, Sorcha’s thoughts wandered. She needed to know where the Roman army was encamped. Was it heading in this direction? If so, how would Dun Creg defend itself against its siege-power? How many soldiers? How long before it arrived? So many questions without answers.
Would they be able to trade their hostage for their continued existence? A gaping, aching hole opened in her chest at the thought of returning Lucius to his people.
Tomorrow she would take Maonos and scout along the Cantuc Hills above the valley of streams for signs of the Romans.
* * *
Next morning, Sorcha and Maonos trotted through the Dun Creg gateway into the soft-lit dawn.
Their horses’ hooves brushed dew-covered grass as they left the roadway for the tree-lined hills that overlooked the valley leading southeast. They rode the strong army horses they had liberated from Lucius and his men in the spring.
By keeping to the steep western slopes of the hills, they stayed under cover of trees—birch, oak, alder, and ash.
Later, they detoured across heathland of gorse and lavender-flowered heather to check that the east-facing hillforts along the way were still deserted.
They rode past their gaping entrances and found them still empty.
From those high points, they could see another range of hills to the northeast, and in the middle ground a hill rising from the marsh northwest of Dun Cam. Fluffy white clouds hung in the sky like hanks of uncombed wool. A cooling breeze lifted the damp hair from Sorcha’s forehead.
By late afternoon, Sorcha and Maonos overlooked the farthest end of the valley and had seen no sign of the invaders.
“We drink and eat, then continue towards Dun Cam until we find the Romans’ camp,” Sorcha said.
“Should we camp in the open overnight when the Romans may be close?” A frown of concern wrinkled Maonos’s forehead.
Sorcha shook her head. “We’ll return to the last hillfort for shelter.”
Maonos dipped his chin. “That would be best.”
All was quiet and still on the ridge except for the sigh of a light breeze in the branches above and the fruity chirrup of a pied flycatcher. They stopped, still in tree cover, beside a trickling brook that slid downhill to feed a stream far below.
Sorcha scanned the woods around them for movement, danger, anything that could be causing the uneasiness that prickled its way up her spine. Nothing moved. She transferred her reins to one hand and allowed Maximus to drink. Her right hand eased her dagger from its sheath at her waist.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Maonos follow her lead.
A raven cawed from close by, and Maximus raised his head from the brook, ears pricked and flickering to catch any further sound. Sorcha tensed, and her mount sidled. She adjusted her weight and clutched her weapon.
From the trees behind them came a rush of sound. Sorcha clamped her legs against Maximus’s flanks, and the horse leapt forward. “Go,” she screamed at Maonos.
Ahead, two Romans rose from the undergrowth to hurl javelins at them. One flew past Sorcha’s head. The soldiers were drawing their short swords and charging toward them. Sorcha urged Maximus faster, closing the gap between them.
Before the running men could get close enough to dismount her, Sorcha hurled her dagger at one.
It hit his belly with a satisfying thud.
He staggered but remained standing. He waited for her, swaying on his feet, his sword in his hand.
She drew her sword and rode at him. She slashed at his arm and dislodged the weapon from his hand.
He crumpled beneath her horse’s hooves.
Sorcha looked around for Maonos. He had loosed an arrow at the other Roman, which had found its mark in his neck. Maonos looked as though he was slowing his horse to finish off the attacker. “Keep going,” Sorcha yelled. “There may be more of them. I’ll follow you. Get help!”
Maonos obeyed and surged ahead of her, heading up the ridge. He topped it and disappeared from view.
The raven’s call came again. Why would the bird be calling except in alarm? Sorcha’s horse slowed. She urged him forward, but he would not increase his speed. She slapped the flat of her sword on his rump. He fought the bit, trying to change direction.
The call kept coming. Closer now. Maximus tugged at the reins in her hands and struggled to turn, while she fought to keep him moving forward.
A horse and rider charged through the trees on the slope above her. Sorcha reached for her dagger to throw, but it was gone, stuck in a Roman. The horseman bore down on them.
Sorcha allowed Maximus to turn towards the man as he wished. She pushed him faster in that direction and crouched lower in the saddle, tucked into Maximus’s neck to avoid low branches and any weapon thrown at her.
Within seconds she would reach the oncoming horse and rider. She braced for the impact. “Sorry, Maximus,” she whispered.
Three strides.
Sorcha straightened in the saddle.
Two.
Sorcha raised her weapon in readiness for the Roman’s attack.
A loud whistle rang out, and Maximus halted, his haunches buckling beneath him under the strain of his abrupt action. Sorcha lurched in the saddle. A blow from the Roman’s sword wrenched her sword from her grip. No!
Weaponless, Sorcha leapt from Maximus’s back and ran for her life in the direction her brother had taken.
The Roman on horseback followed. “Halt, woman!”
Sorcha ignored him and kept pushing uphill. Her heart pounded hard enough to burst from her chest.
He rode up beside her.
She veered away. Harsh breaths rasped her throat.
He closed the gap again. This time he directed his horse’s shoulder against her.
Sorcha toppled to the ground, rolled and got up to flee again.
The Roman circled her, cutting off her escape.
She dodged one way, then another.
His horse knocked her to the ground again. Thank the gods it wasn’t trained to bite as well, or she would have lost her face.
Sorcha toppled against a rotting log, half covered by leaf litter. The impact knocked the breath from her body. She tried to drag air into her lungs and failed. Panic clutched at her. She pounded her chest and struggled to draw a breath.
Finally, her lungs worked. She sucked in shallow, painful gasps.
The man stood above her, his sword sharp against her neck. Brown eyes blazed in his pale face. Light-brown hair, cropped Roman-style, touched the top of his cloak. The biceps of his sword arm bulged.
Did all Romans look like Lucius? The man’s resemblance to him was uncanny.
“Ubi est is? Where is he?” he demanded.
Maonos? She was never telling him where he had gone. Sorcha shook her head.
“Lucius—ubi est is?”
He wanted Lucius! If she told him, would he order the Romans to besiege Dun Creg? She shook her head again, hoping he would believe she knew nothing about Lucius.
He pricked the point of his blade into the soft skin beneath her chin. Sorcha gasped as a trickle of blood slid down her neck.
“Tell me now, or I’ll take you back to Vespasian and he’ll hand you over to the centurions for their pleasure.”
She didn’t understand all that he said, but those words she knew, combined with his threatening tone, froze her entrails. If she told him Lucius was dead or she didn’t know, would he kill her because she was no further use to him?
Probably.