Chapter XII: The Graticule
Bloody waters run deep where the Stour meets the Lug.
Aedan steers their raft into the pinkish foam, passing loose intestines that wobble as hungry fish take their due. Onshore, slimy crimson sucks at his feet, but he thinks only of what awaits beyond the reeds.
A dining table made of human bones greets him along the brush line. Half-skulls sit upon its ribcage top—ghoulish bowls filled with a stew of eyes, ovaries, and testicles. Tongues and cocks frame a centerpiece of stacked hands, and upon the top palm is a plucked owl, smoke still curling from its roasted skin.
Segobax, the golden-haired leader of the Segontiaci, takes umbrage at such barbarity; his dead father’s reputation for devouring an enemy’s eyeballs is not worth mentioning.
Carbilius, the barrel-chested leader of the western Bibroci, reminds everyone that Caesar is a man of reason. Segobax cracks-wise that proof of this Roman’s reason ‘is the neatly folded robes under the tree decorated with dead druids.’
Ostin’s white cloak sits among them, the same one he wore the night he replaced Fintan the Owl with his son. All eyes turn to Aedan, whose black gaze lingers on a ravaged young Ancalite.
“Your less murderous replacement?’ Segobax asks him.
“Their battle king knows nothing of this.” The lanky druid extends a hand toward the dead Ancalite, his bare corpse slung over a fallen tree with Ostin’s walking staff rooted in his torn ass. “This is the work of the Lion,”
“Eadaoin and our women are his prisoners,” Carbilius asserts. “He’s not laid one hand on any of them, nor does he allow any of his cohorts a taste. You’re saying an honorable man like that is responsible for this nasty shit?”
“Honorable he may be, but he’s no taste for women.” Aedan touches the bite marks on the dead druid’s buttocks. “Resistance fuels his fires, and no woman resists quite like a man resists,”
“His appetites are vicious beyond reason,” Segobax pulls a face. “Perhaps this battle king is ignorant of his underling’s brutality,”
“Caesar knows the actions of every man he commands.” The body’s contusions warm Aedan’s fingers. “He allows the Lion to feed his cock, a reward for keeping us from hindering his advance.”
“These bodies are fresh.” Carbilius studies those hanging with bones hammered into their palms. “If the Lion is here, then he’s close enough to strike,”
“He’s been in these parts for weeks and has yet to find us,” Aedan speaks what he knows from stalking the Roman from his treetops.
The half-naked brute singles out the thinnest brunettes, hauling them into the trees, his masturbatory sanctuary. He pisses in the mouths of those who yield too quickly, then guts them with his sword.
Those who fight earn a beautifully savage fucking.
After beating them senseless, the Lion pulls their arms back like reigns, shoves their face into the mud, and impales their holes with his exquisite cock. Some struggle even then, making him anchor their heads with his booted foot.
Aedan watches from the trees, pulling at his arousal until the Lion finishes. The Roman’s handsome face is so vulnerable when his cock spits, but Aedan’s climax comes when the Lion begins chewing on his spent victim’s buttocks.
“Mandubracius supplies Rome with grain and soldiers,” says Segobax, drawing Aedan from his memories. “Why should we commit our warriors to this brand of suicide?”
“Ostin summoned us,” Carbilius reminds.
“Ostin’s dead,” Segobax kicks the robe pile. “Cassibelanus wishes to cull our warriors in defeating the wolves because once they’re gone, we’ll not have enough men to defend ourselves from him,”
“Mind your tongue,” Carbilius glances at their escorts. “These men are loyal to him.
Aedan walks past them.
“The wolves won’t stay once they get what they want,”
“And what do they want?” Segobax asks.
“Assurances,” he tells them. “He wants assurances that when he returns to the continent, we’ll stay out of whatever uprisings occur there.”
“I’ll swear my inaction today,” Segobax says. “I don’t give a shit what happens across that damned water.”
Carbilius steps to Aedan. “How do you know this?”
“Ostin,” Aedan replies. “It’s why he urged negotiations,”
“Ostin wanted to turn you over at Tamesa,” Segobax reminds. “Your life for that of the Lion’s, yes?”
“And here I stand,” Aedan says stonily. “The battle king doesn’t want me. He wants my mother. He holds her due for the death of the Lion’s father,”
Carbilius gives a start. “Why would she do that?”
“Fintan.” Segobax looks to Aedan. “Did the Lion’s father kill him?”
Aedan nods. “So says Taran,”
“As the hot days are long,” Segobax sighs. “A fucking Ancalite makes things worse,”
“Cut them down,” Carbilius orders.
“Leave them,” says Aedan.
This time, Carbilius steps into him. “Why would we do that?”
“That’s what the Lion wants,” Aedan replies. “You put them on our rafts, and they’ll bleed a trail in the water for him to follow.”
“He’s right,” Segobax says softly. “We’ll tend to them another day.”
“As we speak,” Aedan calls, bloody mud squishing between his toes. “The Lion’s scout tells him we’ve arrived.”
Aedan leads them behind an unremarkable waterfall, his torch guiding them down a steep passage where wetness gives way to warmth. Radiant water illuminates a towering cavern, where rocky decks climb into darkness.
The cave’s bountiful light comes from an ignitable fluid within the grotto, and nervous eyes regard them until Aedan extinguishes his torch in a bladder-lined basket near the entrance. He leads them to the highest ledge and down a narrow passage made navigable by tin cups of burning water within the rockface’s many niches.
Woven blankets hang from iron rafters inside the antechamber, where a round wooden table offers bread, fruit, and barley ale. A fire rages within the hearth, and a steamy cauldron of hazelnut broth hangs over it.
Aedan climbs the rocky mantle and squats beside his perched owl.
The first to greet them is Cingetorix of the Cenimagni, a fire-haired man standing a foot taller than most, and his mustache grows longer than his braided hair. He embraces the effete Segobax, who, after such uncouth handling, rearranges his rings and smooths his frocks.
Carbilius greets the shortest among them, Taximagulus of the Cassi, who expresses condolences at the loss of the man’s brother, who ruled the eastern faction of Bibroci. The bald chieftain, brought up for a time among druids, speaks little, his thick beard hiding youthful acne scars.
Segobax whispers to Taximagulus, and Taran eavesdrops as Carbilius tells Cingetorix of the Roman camp at Tamesa. After several moments, his mother enters and notices him.
“Get down here,” she orders.
Aedan shakes his head.
“Then take her out,” she points her head at the owl. “The sun’s gone down,”
Aedan shakes his head again.
“The Lion’s killing owls, now.” Segobax saunters past with an ale in hand. “Did you tell her what we found?”
“Pay him no mind,” Taran calls from the table. “That one forgets his tongue with his manners most days,”
“Oh, I doubt our scraggly little hoot-hoot ever forgets his tongue.” Lugotorix is the last to enter the room, his habit since learning to walk. His grandfather’s bastard and Aedan’s elder by four years, the raven-haired cunt straddles the line between chunky and trim.
“His tongue’s always lapping at something,” he adds, shoulders draped in fur and face clean-shaven.
Segobax takes both the young man’s hands in his, and their girlish exchange prompts humored glances, even from Ciniod.
“Your ass is too thick for that skirt,” says Aedan.
Lugotorix regards him without turning.
“Why don’t you fold up somewhere and suck yourself,”
“You’re just jealous because I can,” he counters.
Lugotrix let’s slip a laugh.
“Dear boy, that’s nothing to brag about,”
“Can you still see your cock?” he taunts. “Or does your belly get in the way?”
Lugotorix spins around in anger.
“Come now, that’s enough,” says Taran.
Ciniod hisses at her son. “Find somewhere else to be,”
“The Owl stays,” Carbilius declares.
“The Owl died across the water,” Cassibelanus declares, entering the room.
Cingetorix walks into his embrace. “You’re late, my old adversary,”
Cassibelanus glances at Aedan.
“The Romans butchered Ostin and his druids,”
Taximagulus paces while Lugotrix stands wide-eyed.
“Ostin’s dead?” Taran gasps, then looks to Aedan. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“You never asked,” Aedan drones.
Ciniod defends, “He’s only been here a few moments,”
“And here he’ll remain,” Carbilius says, staring down Cassibelanus. “That was Ostin’s wish,”
“It was his wish for a time,” Cassibelanus reveals. “This one has shown himself to be an unsavory druid,”
“Is there any other kind?” Segobax asks.
“Unsavory or no,” says Taximagulus. “He fought on at Tamasa after you and yours fled from an elephant,”
Ciniod hides her smile.
“I heard you attacked that Roman monster by your lonesome,” Cingetorix smiles at him. “While the others ran for the trees like children,”
“He fought fearless, to be sure,” Lugotrix says. “Then he attacked a Roman head with his-”
“—Tamesa is behind us,” Ciniod interrupts.
“Yes, and that loss makes one thing very clear,” Taran adds. “We must combine our forces and drive them out,”
“Or they’ll destroy everything we know,” Cassibelanus agrees. “As they did on the continent,”
Taran nods, “There’s nothing left of the Morini,”
“Kombius seems well enough,” says Aedan from his perch.
“Seen him at the Roman camp, have you?” Lugotrix asks.
“Kombius walks among them?” Taximagulus asks.
Aedan nods again. “As a guest, not a hostage,”
“You would know,” Taran snaps. “Spying on that monster who wants to kill you,”
Lugotorix teases. “Our hoot-hoot is in love?”
“That’s enough.” Ciniod looks at each man. “The gods will want blood for Ostin.”
Cassibelanus aims a cold gaze at her.
“Let’s begin while the night is still young,” says Taran. “Please, everyone, sit.”
The tribal leaders take their place at the table, but when Ciniod tries to sit, Cassibelanus pulls another into the last open chair. “Lugotorix will represent the Ancalites,”
“My son is Fintan’s heir,” Ciniod snaps.
“No druid leads a tribe,” Cassibelanus counters.
Taximagulus’s brow lifts.
“Lugotrix follows his father,” Taran says. “He will lead the Ancalites,”
“Of course.” Ciniod calms, and passing beneath Aedan on her way out, she snaps her fingers. “Come, boy, let’s get that owl outside,”
“No,” Taximagulus calls out. “Fintan’s son stays.”
“Agreed,” says Segobax, sipping his ale.
Aedan savors the tension as his mother exits with her head high. He jumps down and walks to Cingetorix, who pats his thigh, inviting him to sit. Segobax sucks his tongue and scoots over, offering Aedan room beside him. Hands under the table, Aedan catches Cassibelanus, Taran, and Lugotrix trading glances—his mother’s exclusion no accident.
Talk among them turns heated when Carbilius calls Taran weak, his words born from losing a brother and his brother’s portion of their tribe at the Avona. Cingetorix resents Lugotrix’s elevation over Ciniod, but Cassibelanus reminds them that her thirst for vengeance created the Lion; they cannot trust her temperament.
Of course, Aedan foresaw the Lion’s bloodthirsty quest, but he’s not volunteering that truth, not when his mother losing face provides such enjoyment. His silence, however, provokes Segobax, who asks how he would handle the Roman invaders.
“The wolves erected a large bladder-lined water well. A timber frame pool taller than most men.” Aedan looks at Carbilius. “Eadaoin and the women, chained at the ankles, form a bucket line from the river to feed it twice daily.”
“That’s smart,” Cingetorix says.
“They watch the women,” says Aedan. “But no one minds the buckets,”
“You mind everything in that camp,” Lugotrix frowns. “Yet report nothing,”
“We must coat Eadaoin’s buckets in yew juice,” Aedan tells them.
Segobax chuckles. “Now that is smart,”
“And gutless,” Cassibelanus yells.
Segobax rolls his eyes. “Must we shout?”
“How does our most capable fighter suggest something this cowardly?” Taran wonders.
“This is why the wolves will win,” Aedan speaks coldly. “You want some grand battle for the ages, and Rome counts on such vanity,”
Cassibelanus starts. “Vanity?”
“Your cousins in Belgica kept the same mind,” Aedan recalls. “And your all-or-nothing tactics are too similar. The wolves know now how to defeat it with half the numbers,”
“If they truly provide half their number,” Cingetorix nods. “We can repel them,”
“Agreed, but not as craven snakes,” Cassibelanus grouses. “We fight with spears, torches, and swords, like men.”
“Yes, and you’ll die as real as you fight,” Aedan says.
Lugotrix tuts, “And you’ll be slithering up a tree for warmth,”
“No tree could replace your wide carcass for comfort,” Aedan cracks.
“Enough,” Taran scolds. “Or I’ll dismiss you both,”
The meeting continues late until a plan comes.
Their forces will split into three: A surprise attack on the Roman beachhead, a raid on their Tamesa camp, and a confrontation with their advancing legions at the Lug. Though no one dissents, plenty of suspicious minds note how Cassibelanus’s faction holds a less risky position along the Lug.
Aedan departs first, and while seeking his mother in the cavern, a firm hand finds his nape and another his crotch—a gentle squeeze stills him as hot breath warms his ear.
“Don’t turn around, my morbid little Owl,” whispers Taximagulus. “Thirty of mine will gather the yew berries. Meet them in the north woods on the morrow, make the paste needed, and get it done.”
Aedan gives a single nod before thick hands release him.
Down the ledge, a smaller, smoother hand takes his wrist. Avalin stands before him with a gourd lamp held high. Lack of sleep devours her loveliness, and her voice lays heavy like her heart.
“They’ve got my boy,” she says, a gentle hand on his cheek.
“They’ve got many boys,” he reminds her.
“If you’re part of the raiding party at Tamesa,” she says, revealing her hidden ears at the meeting. “Find my Kelr and bring him home,”
Aedan blinks. “I will not.”
“What? Why?” Avalin stammers.
“He got caught because he refused to listen,”
“He cares for you,” she says, eyes wet. “And you care for him,”
“He’s nothing to me,” says Aedan. “Except in the way,”
“Please,” she sobs. “If you’re your father’s son—”
“You invoke Fintan to move me?” Aedan tempers his anger. “The Owl would leave your boy to rot for telling the Romans of our river defenses.”
“Kelr wouldn’t, he would never,” she blathers. “He’s a good man,”
“No, he’s an entitled boy, down to your constant coddling,” he says. “Perhaps some time among the Romans will mature him enough to be worth something before he dies.”
Avalin’s bottom lip trembles.
“That’s a horrible thing to say, Aedan.”
Rome never wastes time establishing roots.
Cut trees frame their new fort, their penetration lasting; unlike the spindly logs around their marching camps, they burn before advancing. Lofty watchtowers crest the corners, with connecting banquettes full of pacing archers.
Ditches mark the land on three sides, deep rips that look like Taranis dug the soil out with his fingers. A stretch of the Tamesa protects the southern wall, and as days grow short, cold air collides with the heat, bringing downpours that expose the barrier’s foundations.
Such erosions go unseen on stormy nights, which is how Aedan gets inside.
Romans store nothing along their inner walls, yet the naked druid crosses an open stretch without fear, the heavy rain cloaking his presence. He comes upon a pole of wood strips, each skinny board bearing strange letters that point to grassless paths.
Leather-bound tents line one trail, the voices of tired men drifting from their drawn flaps. Another road boasts larger tents, each with a partnering three-horse stable.
Looir is in none of them.
An innermost lane reveals two longhouses without windows. A pair of sentries walk around them, meeting in the middle and making small talk before repeating their orbit.
Inside the first, he finds cattle separated by sacks of barleycorn. Wooden racks hang from the rafters with animal skins stretched tight over their grills. His ornery spirit nags at him to cut the livestock free, but his mission takes precedence.
Aedan climbs to the roof of the smaller lodge and drops in through an air transom. Here, the Bibroci women sleep with nothing more than some hay to keep them from the dirt. None of his bitches from the farmhouse raid are among them.
One wakes upon seeing his figure against the wall. Hair braided and face flush, she elbows the girl beside her, and soon, word of the Owl’s arrival travels to their sanctioned leader, the druidess Eadaoin.
Soon, the square-jawed woman appears and sits crossed-legged before him.
“Tell me Ostin survived Tamesa,”
Aedan swings his head.
“He came here, you know, offering your life up for the Lion.”
Aedan crouches to her level and smirks.
“That Lion,” she adds. “He’s as strange as you when full of blood,”
A voice rises from the darkness. “He keeps us safe,”
“Without him,” another speaks. “We’d all be pregnant,”
“Pregnant or worse,” gripes a third.
Eadaoin rolls her eyes.
“The Lion’s got his advocates here,”
“Where are my bitches?” he asks.
Eadaoin averts her gaze.
“They planned an escape and got killed for their trouble,”
“The Lion?” he presses.
“No,” she tells him. “He wasn’t here when it happened,”
Aedan mourns his women, brave to the end.
“Are there no men left among you?”
“Is there a man among us?” Eadaoin speaks over her shoulder and grunts when no one says a word. “Nothing nice to say about your Lion now, have you?”
“We got one man that we know of here,” one girl grouses.
Eadaoin snaps, “Who said that?”
“It makes no matter,” Aedan speaks. “If he hides among you, he’s safe.”
“No man is safe around the Lion.” Eadaoin swallows hard. “No druid, that is,”
“Then it’s good there are no male druids among you,”
Eadaoin sighs and then kicks the nearest sleeper.
“Get up,” she says, then turns to Aedan. “My brother is among us,”
Alon the Bibroci, a failed druid’s apprentice, rolls over and regards him with those bright acorn-colored eyes. Unlike the others, his face is clean, his pointy chin shaven, and his short locks in braids.
“Tell the Owl what you know,” she orders.
The petite man’s diminutive voice comes like a whisper.
“One of them knows I’m here, but he says nothing to the Lion,”
“His name is Castor,” adds Eadaoin.
Aedan simpers. “The pretty one with the bitchy face?”
“That’s him,” Eadaoin replies, nodding.
“What is…” Aedan tests Alon. “What is the Lion’s name?”
“He’s called Skipio by his tent-mates,” says Alon. “Decurion by his underlings,”
Aedan knows how his bitches ended up dead.
“The battle king calls him Lucius Scipio Servius.” Eadaoin puts herself between his glare and her brother. “All these damned wolves have three names. Some go by the middle name, and others by the first,”
“Marcus Castor Junius calls him Skipio,” says Alon.
“Marcus Castor Junius calls him Skipio,” Aedan snidely apes. “Have you picked out a bridal garland for your wrists yet?”
Soft laughter ripples through the dark.
“I could ask the same of you,” Alon counters. “Castor tells me you stalk Lord Skipio like a smitten letch,”
The Owl’s smile fades.
“Was it you or Kelr who told Lord Lion of our stake defenses?”
Alon goes wide-eyed. “What defenses?”
“He couldn’t have told them anything,” Eadaoin shakes her head. “We’ve been prisoners here since Avona,”
“You’ve all been here too long.” Aedan looks past her and at the many lumps in the shadows. “Tonight, we’ll begin your first steps to freedom.”
Eadaoin leans closer, her eyes eager.
“Will there be an attack?”
“Where are the buckets used to refill their above-ground well?”
“I don’t know,” she answers.
“Do they take you outside the wall to collect water?”
“No,” she tells him. “There’s a sluice outside the southern wall, near the third tower. Water runs through it and then seeps through a cloth. We draw the filtered water.”
“Are the buckets dry when you get them?”
Eadaoin shakes her head.
“No, they’re floating in the clean water pond when we get there,”
“In the morning, you’ll reach under here.” Aedan draws part of the fortification’s wall in the dirt between them. “There’ll be a bucket against the wall, where the tower-walker cannot see,”
Other women join their huddle, and one pushes Alon aside.
“It’s filled with yew juice paste,” he says to their smiles. “Smear your buckets with it before the water assembly begins, then sink it in the pond,”
“Wait,” Alon objects. “Won’t that kill them?”
“Some of them will die,” Eadaoin laughs. “Most, it will make too sick to fight,”
“You do your part,” Aedan nods. “And your uncle’s men will be back at sundown,”
“I have one condition.” Eadaoin asserts. “Take my brother with you,”
Some of the women retreat, others suck their tongues.
“It’s just a matter of time before one of this lot outs him,” she says with volume, and when Aedan aims a wordless scowl, she adds, “You will take him or line the buckets yourself,”
He climbs to the transom. “I count to ten, then I leave alone,”
Outside in the downpour, Alon drops into the mud behind him.
“Stop looking at me,” the Bibroci snaps. “Your ugly face turns my stomach,”
Aedan dips his head and stares into him.
“Shut your mouth, or I’ll fuck it,”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” Alon grimaces. “I heard how you defiled that centurion,”
Aedan says nothing as he thinks of how the Bibroci will drown on their way back to the hideout. Together, they scramble across the clearing under stinging rain.
“We must hurry—” Aedan finds Alon no longer there. “Smegma licking cunt!”
He sprints to a canopied stall, where three horses stand while chowing long grass. One is his war prize, and beaming, he kisses the beast’s long muzzle.
“Looir,” he mouths the word without a voice.
The beast merrily bobs her head before emitting a squeal.
“Luna?” a husky voice calls from the tent.
Three heartbeats pass before the muscular Skipio emerges naked, his thick manhood swinging as he struts to the horse. Hairless but for the golden thatch around his cock, he snatches a brush from the saddle stand.
“Did you have another dream, girl?” This gentle voice becomes him. “You’ve had quite an adventure on this island, haven’t you?”
Looir moves into his embrace as he brushes her shoulder.
“Do you dream of the Owl?” he asks her. “I dream of him, too,”
Aedan shivers in his patch of darkness.
“Did he braid your mane and make you a barbarian?” Skipio drags the brush over her croup, his lips down in prideful admiration. “I’m going to fuck his ass hard enough to make his mind go feeble,”
♡ Aedan lifts his back from the wall. ♡
He reaches from the darkness, fingers stopping short of the man’s smooth, sun-kissed skin. He longs for a handful of that taut, supple ass—but then, like a bad smell, Reed Eyes intrudes.
“Pilus Junius took his hidden Gaul through the gate.”
“Where are they?” Skipio demands, tossing the brush.
“At the camp cistern,” he replies. “Something about the Owl poisoning our water,”
Skipio’s face turns boyish when he laughs.
“He fell for my trap,”
“The water crews will miss having those wenches refill the cistern every day,” Actus laughs with him. “Now they’ll have to go back to doing their job,”
Aedan slips out of the stall, his shaky Latin discerning he’s been made a fool.
Caring little if the watch guards spot him, he stomps back to the wall and clumsily slips under the barrier. He strokes through the murky depths to where the undertow cannot catch his legs, and he breaks the surface, pouting like a wronged dog.
Bootprints lead into the trees along the opposite bank, where a dull glow awaits.
Aedan climbs a tree to its highest branch and finds Bitch Face with the traitorous Alon under his torch.
“You’re sure he’ll come through here?” he asks in their language.
“That sandy patch is the only way to cross without getting pulled away by the river,” the Bibroci explains. “He’ll swim there, and if he comes through here, then I know for sure where he’s going,”
Bitch Face wraps a gentle arm around him.
“If you know where he’s going, please tell me,”
“I want assurances,” Alon fingers the man’s hair.
“I’ll take you with me,” Bitch Face promises. “You’re not like the rest of these painted animals. You’ve got a Roman soul,”
Aedan considers hocking spit onto their heads.
“There are some small falls two miles from where the Lug meets the Stour,” Alon reveals. “Behind the first set is an entrance to a large cavern,”
Bitch Face kisses him passionately—it’s enough to make Aedan retch.
“Stay here until I return,” he hands him the torch. “Do not go near the fort until I retrieve you,”
“I won’t,” says Alon, a proper lap dog.
A few peaceful moments pass before Aedan descends to a lower branch, debating how long it might take to choke the treacherous cunt out between his thighs.
Suddenly, a tunic-clad Skipio strolls from the trees.
“What’s a little thing like you,” the brawny man sneers. “Doing so far away from your sister?”
Terrified beyond reason, the stupid Bibroci throws the torch at him and makes for the woods. The Lion catches his throat and hoists him high before tearing away his smock with a single tug.
“Please,” Alon screams in Latin. “I belong to Castor,”
“Please,” Skipio mocks. “I belong to Castor,”
Alon’s pathetic fingers go for the Lion’s eyes, but the man lets him drop before backhanding him into a stupor.
Aedan touches his cheek, thirsty for a blow like that.
“You belong to Rome.” The Lion pins his forearm to Alon’s chest and spreads the waif’s thighs with his knees. “I’m going to use you as Cupid intended,”
Aedan grasps his erection and smiles.
“You’re not my Owl,” he grunts. “But I’ll close my eyes, and you’ll do just fine,”
“The Owl is here,” Alon cries as the Roman’s cockhead knocks at his door. “He’s above us, watching,”
Aedan’s heart swings when those gleaming greens find him.
“Finish him, Skippy-oh!” He thrusts out his tongue. “Or are you too weak?”
The Lion’s broad smile evokes a rare one from the Owl.
“Get down here, you skinny Ganymede bitch,” he chuckles in Greek, wagging his arousal. “Let me poke that throat,”
Aedan tips over, catching a low hanger and swinging around it many times for the momentum to launch. Flying high through the trees, he lands and then leaps from branch to branch, an agile squirrel with a Lion on the forest floor in pursuit.
Ciniod studies her reflection in the glass, confident that she’s not the reason why the tribal kings align against her brother. Her pride stings from Cassibelanus’s decision to demote her for a sniveling man-cunt, but there’s no time to revisit such an insult as a scream from the cavern pebbles the skin on her arms.
Frightful cries reveal Roman infiltration as the cavern erupts into madness. Aedan appears, speeding down the rocky corridor to where she stands, foliage stuck in his raven curls.
“We must flee,” he pants.
She grabs hold of his large ears.
“Did they follow you?”
His head swings. “A prisoner among them revealed us,”
“Which one?” she growls.
He takes her hand. “Makes no matter in this moment.”
Back in the cavern, they put their backs to the wall and side-step along the precipice toward the path leading out. Beneath the rocky decks, red capes and helmets spill into the grotto, Romans with swords drawn and torches waving.
The Lion marches through his men, his headdress wet from breaching the water curtain. He hacks his way past the first round of warriors, his powerful arm showing no mercy for a woman or child.
Tara rushes him, blowing dust from his hand, but the poisonous spray clings to the furry snout, protecting his princely face. A ruthless sword pushes into the druid’s stomach as distant mossy eyes savor the kill.
Ciniod screams for her brother, catching the Lion’s attention.
“Toss your torches into the water,” he bellows, his gaze on the pair. “Then get against the wall and hold your breath,”
Aedan seizes her wrist and pulls her into a crevasse, where a slow and careful climb down into the darkness begins.
Suddenly, a blast rattles the world around them, and a hot rush of air carries through the crack, jarring their hold on the slippery rocks. As if born to such perils, mother and son hug their knees on the way down, dropping into the narrow torrent that snakes below.
Aedan crawls under the safety of a boulder, groaning in agony as he rolls onto his back. Cinoid follows, edging beside him with her lips to the sand.
Somewhere above, the Lion’s roar echoes.
“Bring me the Owl, my cock wants him alive!”
The corners of her son’s mouth twist up, denting his cheeks.
“Don’t even think about it, boy,” she warns. “Or by Karnon’s hand, I’ll sew that hole of yours up myself,”