He threw back his head.
“Blood!” he shouted.
All conversation died. Heads turned.
“Blood shall flow! Roman blood!”
Clara yanked desperately. “Owein! Be silent.”
He shook her off. “The winds of power rise.”
Muttering erupted from all corners of the room.
“Madman …”
“Witless lout …”
“Get the bastard out of here.”
Owein’s body jerked, as if some unseen force had punched him full in the gut. He staggered backward, slamming into the table behind him.
“By Pollux!” A Roman with a wild dark beard leaped to his feet and shoved Owein backward. “Keep back, you barbarian swine.”
Owein turned a baleful eye on him. “Beware, Roman. Your days on the isle of the Celts are dwindling. By the stones and the sky, I vow it will be so!”
Clara grabbed a fistful of his cloak. “Owein. We must leave this place. Now.” But he would not be dislodged, no matter how hard she tried.
“Drunken idiot,” someone muttered.
The pock-faced man rose to his feet. “No.” His voice rang through the room. “Not an idiot. A Druid.”
A deadly silence fell. Owein pivoted slowly, his arm outstretched. “Aye. I am Druid. Did ye think us gone? I tell ye, we are not. We will rise again.”
The dark-bearded Roman touched the hilt of his sword. “Only to fall harder than before.”
Owein fixed a hard stare on the man. Dancing light from the tapers glinted on his red hair. His lips parted.
A single rasping syllable emerged from his throat.
All at once, every flame in the tavern flickered.
By Owein’s command?
Clara wondered wildly.
“The Druid casts a curse!” a man shouted. The buxom barmaid screamed. Terror rippled through the room. For a moment, time hung suspended.
The reprieve would not last. They had to get out.
The door was not far and no one had yet thought to block it. Clara angled her shoulder into Owein’s side, trying to shove him toward the exit. She might have more readily moved a mountain.
The bearded Roman stepped forward. “Celt scum. I’d wager Commander Gracchus would like to admire you in chains.” He spat at Owein’s feet. “Perhaps I’ll make him a present of you.”
The pock-faced man shifted uneasily. “Have a care,” he muttered. “A Druid curse can wither a man’s cock.”
Owein’s gaze focused on the Roman, his expression one of pure disgust. “Roman dog.”
He advanced a step. Benches scraped on the stone floor. Men shifted away, apparently unwilling to come to the aid of their rash comrade. But the bearded Roman stood his ground.
Owein stared at the man, unblinking. “Ye will die within a year,” he pronounced. “Drowned in the sea.”
The bearded man drew his sword and angled the tip at Owein’s belly. “Then I’ll be safe enough killing you now.”
Clara screamed as the Roman lunged.
The sound seemed to pierce Owein’s trance. In a single motion, he shoved Clara aside and spun in the opposite direction. The Roman’s blade thudded harmlessly into the table between them.
Clara recovered, gaining her feet. “The door’s behind you. We must get out, quickly.” Owein’s pack and cloak remained under the table, but there was little she could do about that. She only prayed he stayed lucid long enough for them to make their escape.
It was not to be. The Roman surged, blocking the path to the door. His blade flashed.
A bloom of red appeared on the sleeve of Owein’s linen shirt. He stared at it, his eyes once again losing focus.
“Blood,” he whispered.
“Watch out!” Clara cried.
The Roman thrust. Owein sprang away, his dagger appearing in his hand. He dropped to a crouch, his body coiled like a warrior-god of legend. His fierce blue eyes never wavered from his opponent, but Clara sensed he wasn’t free of his trance. The otherworld lingered—helping or hindering, she couldn’t tell.
His brows drew together tightly and the muscles in his neck bulged like cords of iron. His breath came hard. It was clear he was in pain, and not only from his wounded arm. She remembered how weak he’d been each time a vision faded. How long before he faltered?
The battle shifted, placing the door to the yard at Owein’s back. If he could manage to strike a quelling blow, they might be able to make a run for the gates. But it wouldn’t be an easy task. Clara eased close to the fight, crouching low. Her own dagger was strapped to her calf. She’d endured Owein’s instruction, but did she have the stomach to use a blade in a real fight?
Easing up her tunic’s hem, she groped for the weapon. Her hood slipped from her shoulders. An instant later, her head jerked backward, her neck wrenching painfully. The pock-faced man! He’d grabbed hold of her braid and was using it as a tether. Clara’s fingers skittered over the dagger’s hilt as he gave a savage jerk. She ended flat on her back, gasping for air.
His grotesque visage leered down at her. His scabbed lips parted, revealing a rotten, gap-toothed grin.
“Yer man’s havin’ some trouble, lassie.” His rough words slurred together. “Best come with me.”
“No.” Clara struck out blindly, her fist connecting with his shoulder.
The weak blow seemed to boost his spirits. “So ye like it rough, aye? Well, dinna fear.” He jerked her braid, snapping her chin to her chest. “I prefer a feisty wench.”
He yanked Clara to her feet. From the corner of her eye she saw Owein and his opponent grappling for the single sword. The Roman threw Owein off.
The pock-faced man snapped the braid down, forcing Clara’s gaze toward the ground. “Better than a lead on a dog,” he chuckled. Wrapping the length of hair firmly around his fist, he started for an empty corner of the room.
“No!” choked Clara. She tried to twist away, but the movement only afforded the man an opportunity to shorten her tether.
“Ah, come on, lassie, what’s the fuss? Ye’ve taken one Celt sword between yer legs. What’s another?”
Clara stumbled, bent nearly double. Frantically, she groped for her dagger. All her strength was nothing against this man. Could she fend him off? Or would an attack only enrage him?
As the dagger slipped from its sheath, a desperate idea sparked. With a quick motion she slashed not her attacker, but her plait, severing it cleanly.
Deprived of the tether’s leverage, her captor stumbled, cursing. He recovered quickly from his surprise, however, lunging at Clara and catching her cloak before she could scramble away.
“Bitch,” he spat. “Ye willna best me.”
Clara slashed at him with her knife, using the underhanded motion that Owein had taught her. It was for naught. Her attacker’s hand clamped like a manacle on her wrist. His grip tightened painfully, grinding muscle and bone. Her hand spasmed and the dagger loosened from her fingers.
Anger surged. She would
not
be taken by a lout who dumped his seed beneath a tavern table! Swiftly, she caught the dagger in her left hand. With a deft motion born of Owein’s relentless coaching, she dipped her shoulders and let her weight drop. The pock-faced man stumbled.
She thrust the blade upward, directly into his groin.
Her attacker let loose a bloodcurdling shriek, his hands wrapped around the hilt of Clara’s knife. The dagger looked like nothing so much as a blood-soaked phallus. Clara recoiled, her stomach heaving. The pock-faced man crumpled to the ground.
She wanted to fall to her knees and retch—and perhaps she would, later. At that moment, an instinct for survival she hadn’t known she possessed kept her on her feet. They had to escape.
She whirled about. Owein and the Roman were grappling hand to hand, both weapons lost. Onlookers shouted jeers and encouragement. Owein’s arm dripped blood and his gaze was unfocused. Did he even see his opponent? Or did he struggle with some creature from the otherworld of his gods?
He battled like a man possessed, but Clara could feel his strain. Taking advantage of his weakness, she slipped into his mind. Could their union help her to urge him from the tavern?
She eased along the perimeter of the room, inching toward the door. The portal was blocked by the rotund form of the innkeeper. He had sword in hand, but made no move to enter the fray. His bulk quivered as he shouted encouragement to Owein’s opponent.
The gate key jiggled at his belt. Clara drew up short. Without the key, there would be no escape. Hardly daring to breathe, she approached. The innkeeper was so intent on the fight that he took no notice of Clara’s trembling fingers. She unhooked the key from his belt. Gripping it like a weapon, she pressed her spine against the wall.
Closing her eyes briefly, she concentrated on strengthening her mental connection with Owein. The hot flames of his rage seared her. She struggled to remain calm in the face of his darkness. Instinctively she soothed him, letting the light and coolness of her own spirit flow toward his.
She felt his awareness first, followed swiftly by surprise, then anger. His mind recoiled, trying to wrest free of her invasion.
She held firm. They’d shared a thought before. If she sent him a suggestion now, would he heed it? She could but try.
Owein. Move toward the door.
To her surprise, he shifted immediately, pivoting to afford himself a view of both his opponent and the door. Had she compelled him with magic? Or had his trance made him biddable, like a person walking in sleep?
The innkeeper was their first hurdle to freedom. Hiding the gate key under her cloak, Clara drew herself up to her full height. “You will stand aside and let us pass.” Her tone was that of a patrician lady to a slave.
He grunted. “Why should I?”
“Surely you don’t wish a Druid curse upon your head?”
“Curse?” He snorted. “Mumbled nonsense, more like.” But he didn’t look so certain. “I’m of a mind to keep your husband. There’s a fine reward for delivering a brigand to the fortress.”
“You’ll be lucky to escape with your life if you try to hold him. Didn’t you see the tapers flicker at his command?”
The innkeeper’s gaze darted to Owein. “A coincidence. I’d just opened the door. A gust must have entered.”
“Are you sure? Because it seems quite a chance to take with your life. If I told you some of the things I’ve seen him do …” She shuddered. “You’d not be so glib.”
She sent a thought toward Owein.
The tapers. Make them flicker.
She felt a Word in her mind, and a stabbing pain at the base of her neck.
The flames surged, then died, plunging the room into darkness.
“By Pollux!” The innkeeper’s voice nearly failed him.
Clara felt his bulk shift, freeing the door. An instant later, Owein was at her side. Clara lifted the latch and wrenched the door open. Owein thrust her before him into the yard.
The world was a blurring swirl of white.
“Go, lass.”
Owein’s hand closed on Clara’s upper arm. Her shoulder was nearly ripped from its socket as he dragged her across the yard toward the gate. The snow had fallen thickly while they’d been in the
mansio.
It rose in white waves to cling to her tunic.
With shaking hands, Clara fitted the key in the gate. She could hear shouts from the doorway—would any be so bold as to follow? The iron bars creaked open. Owein slammed it behind him and started for the road.
“Wait,” she said.
“Lass—” She could feel his desperation, his fear that his legs wouldn’t hold him upright much longer. His vision had passed and the strength was seeping from his bones. Her stomach rolled and her hands trembled. The magic was affecting her, too, though not, it seemed, so much as he.
“I’ll not have any of them following us.” She inserted the key in the lock and turned it. Only then did she allow Owein to drag her across the road and into the shelter of the trees.
He managed only a few steps before pitching headfirst to the ground. His fatigue lapped like an ebbing tide at Clara’s spirit.
He struggled to support himself on one arm. “Do they follow?”
She peered through the trees. “No. At least, I think not.”
“Good.” He sank into the snow, his breathing labored. Instinctively, Clara reached for him with her mind, wanting to give him her strength.
He mustered enough will to block her.
“No,” she said. “Please—”
“I’ll not be led about like a dog.”
“Did … did I do that?”
He gave her a level look. “Aye.”
“I … I wasn’t sure.”
“Ye gave your word ye would keep out of my mind.”
“You needed me. If not for my aid, you’d still be in that tavern, trying to best a sword with a dagger.”
“I dinna need your help,” he muttered. Leaning heavily against a stout tree, he heaved himself to his feet. His legs protested his weight. They buckled, sending him back to his knees in the snow.
“It would seem you do need my help,” she said quietly.
“I need but time.”
A shout came from the direction of the inn. “Time is something we don’t have,” Clara said tersely. Crouching at his side, she draped his arm over his shoulders. “Can you stand if I take some of your weight?”
He hesitated. “Aye, I think so.”
They made their way farther into the forest, sloughing through drifts of powdery snow that hid dangerous patches of ice. They fell twice, and each time it was harder than the last to regain their footing. At least the storm was lifting, Clara thought. The snow came more sparsely, lit by the light of a hazy moon. The wind gusted, sending a wild froth of snow careening into her face. Overhead, the black limbs of the trees groaned.
“We need shelter,” she said, more to herself than to Owein. Indeed, she wondered if he could even hear her. He’d sunk back into his trance. His erratic gait caused her to misstep more than once, and his shallow breathing told her the pain hadn’t abated.
Their forward progress was slow. Toward what? Clara couldn’t guess, but Owein, in his otherworldly state, seemed to have a purpose. Did a second vision guide him?
She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, scanning the darkness for any formation that might provide shelter. But they’d left the high country behind; in this wood she could see no cave, no fortuitous overhang of rock. Only black trees, white snow, and the otherworldly glimmer of moonlight.