Love's Blazing Ecstasy (23 page)

“Tyrone behind you!” she shouted out, but her warning was too late as she saw her cousin ruthlessly run through from the back, his lifeblood pouring upon the ground.

“May he move to another life quickly,” she intoned, making the symbol of the circle of life with her hand. “May all his other deaths be painless.”

Her heart nearly stopped as she saw the same group of soldiers who had so callously cut down Tyrone now head toward her father’s lodge. Would they be so cruel as to murder a helpless man in his bed? She knew that the answer was yes; these ruthless, honorless barbarians who would ask for peace with one breath and in the
next instant swoop down upon an unarmed village, hacking and killing, would be capable of any crime.

Heedless of her own safety, Wynne pushed through the throng of soldiers, searching  for a sword and finding what she sought. Like a Goddess of War she again mounted
Tara and rode among the warriors, swinging her sword with a crazed vengeance powered by hatred and grief. Fighting passionately, she worked her way to the door of the lodge. But, like all the bravest among her people, Wynne was outnumbered.

Seeing the avenging
blond Celt astride her horse, a band of cavalry came upon her from behind while she was busily engaged in battle. The sword was struck from her hand, and she was torn off her mare.

“I haven’t had a woman in months,” shouted one man.

“By the gods, this one is a real beauty,” said another.

Terror overcame Wynne, yet she fought valiantly against her attackers, biting and scratching those who held her, but it seemed as if a hundred men assaulted her, their intent in their eyes. She was to be a prize of war, vanquished by the most cruel of acts.

“She’s a tiger,” laughed one man who held her. Looking into his face, Wynne could see the grin of a wild beast of prey. She struggled even harder, yet against so many strong men her energy was wasted. There was no chance of escape.

Wynne felt herself being carried off toward the granary and closed her eyes to block out the hated faces above her. Could she ever wipe from her senses, her mind, the sight, smell, or sounds of this day?
Would all the water and fire in the world wipe from her the filth of these blood-spattered hands.

She heard the soldiers arguing over who would be the first to enjoy her body, and cursed the day she had ever set eyes upon the
Roman lover who had brought her people to this end. The sound of his language was now hateful to her ears.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Isolde upon the ground, fighting with every ounce of her being against the assault to her body, crying out in her humiliation and pain, in her rage at the sweating, stinking, thrusting
Romans who were defiling her, who had killed her husband.

“Isolde!” Wynne tried with all her might to break free so that she could help her cousin’s wife; knowing that the same fate awaited her.

She was silenced by the strong hands of one of her captors as another Roman fumbled clumsily at the neck of her tunic, tearing it from her body, leaving her bruised flesh bare to the waist for evil eyes to feast upon and grasping hands to defile. Closing her eyes, weakened by her struggles, Wynne felt the hem of her tunic being lifted by yet other hands, and awaited the final humiliation, the fierce entry into her body. Oh, if only she were dead…!

A cry of outrage and anger broke through the darkness of her nightmare as she felt the hands on her breasts go limp. Opening her eyes, she saw Edan and cried out his name. His hair looked like flames of fire, his eyes were wild with rage as he fought like a wild boar to save her, striking fierce blows at his
Roman foes.

“Leave her alone, you heathen scum!” he shouted as he cut down two of her tormentors.

Determined to aid him, Wynne struggled anew, springing up like a wildcat.

“Wynne, get back!” Edan thundered, fearful for her safety. But Wynne would not listen, her hatred for the
Romans now was too fierce. She fought like one possessed, lashing out wildly, kicking, using every muscle of her body against her enemies, moving with the grace of a deer. She did not see the Roman soldier come from behind her.

A searing pain tore through her head and she moaned in pain, reaching her hand up to her temple as she collapsed, trying with all her might to swim through the blackness swarming before her eyes. She struggled to remain conscious, not wanting to leave the world yet. Her efforts were in vain as she was engulfed in icy darkness, and she gave herself over
to the mercy of the gods.

“Wynne.  Wynne!” Edan’s tormented cry rent the night as he bent over her still form. All else was forgotten as he ran his fingers through the silken tresses of her hair, pausing to touch the area around her temple where the side of a Roman sword had struck her. His accusing eyes sought out the one who had dealt the blow..

“You killed her!” Edan said, taking his vengeance upon
a soldier who lay wounded and weaponless on the ground, babbling in Latin.  Once the soldier was dead he turned again to Wynne’s still form. The anguish he felt was like a sword wound in his belly, burning upward to his heart. He looked at her—her eyes closed, her face pale—she was not moving and did not seem to be breathing. Frantically he felt for her pulse and found none. Gathering her into his arms he wept like a child. “A whole ocean of Roman blood will not bring you back to me.”

A soft moan brought Edan from his mourning. Not daring to believe in miracles, he nev
ertheless looked at her face, felt the breath of her life stir against his cheek.

“You’re alive!” he exclaimed, hugging her to him again. “You have not entered the world of the spirits yet.” Her body was so lovely, so strong and yet also so fragile and soft. Removing his own cloak, he wrapped it around her, then lifted her up in his arms to take her to safety, away from the fighting, to the outskirts of the village.

“You will be safe here, Wynne,” he whispered, wishing that he could stay with her, but he could not; his duty was to fight these cursed Romans until he had no more strength left, until he was either killed or captured.

With a last lingering look at the unconscious golden-
haired young woman he would always consider his betrothed, Edan made his way again back to the fighting. He heard the sound of horses’ hooves as more Romans swooped down upon his people, heard the shouts and cries of his kinsmen as they fought on bravely, and knew at that moment he had never hated so fiercely as he did now.

Like the war god Mars himself, Valerian rode into the fray, searching frantically for any sign of Wynne. His eyes were nearly blinded by tears at this senseless bloodletting. His heart was grieved that his own people were the agents of such brutality. What had happened to the Roman dream of civilizing the world so that it could live in peace?  The truth was all too plain to see. The empire thought no price too costly for its own glory. He hated not only his country but himself as well for all the times he had allowed himself to be used as a pawn to further the ambitions of men like Severus.

Fearfully he searched among the dead, feeling blessed relief that he could not find
Wynne among them. She must be alive, but where was she? His instincts told him that she would return to her father. But where was Adair’s lodge? Would she be there?

Fighting against his own men as well as against the Celts to whom he was the enemy, Valerian, still astride the black stallion, made his way through the throng of flying swords and hurled rocks and thrusting javelins, approaching a hut that fit Wynne’s description of Adair’s lodge.

Oblivious of all else but his need for finding Wynne, Valerian grew careless, not seeing the hate-filled eyes that watched him. Recognizing the magnificent horse Sloan, and thus knowing the identity of its rider, Edan vented his rage on the man he knew to be responsible for this day of death and treachery. It was the Roman, the one who had possessed Wynne, had brought destruction and death with his lies to her.

“
Roman swine!” Edan’s long red hair flew wildly about him as he ran forward, shouting his harsh battle cry, pulling Valerian down off Sloan. Locked together in combat, the two men rolled upon the ground.

Freeing himself from the Celt’s grip, Valerian stood back. “I don’t want to harm you,” he said, panting. But Edan only looked at him in puzzlement, not knowing any of the
Roman’s words. He supposed the Roman to be gloating over his victory. Valerian turned and walked away.

With a bellow of rage, Edan lunged again, his sword upraised, his eye
s wild with hatred. At the sound of the Celt’s sword whistling through the air, Valerian ducked just in time, and the blade found a tree trunk instead of his neck. Thanking the gods for saving his life, he stood his ground, watching as the Celt moved forward.

Edan let out a battle cry and threw himself once more at Valerian. Again he swung his sword, and again he missed Valerian, this time by only
a hairbreadth. Edan was no longer thinking clearly and was charging like a madman.

“There has been enough killing. I don’t want to shed your blood,” Valerian cried out but his words were useless, for clearly the Celt was intent upon his death. Reacting to the warning of his senses, his sword arm swinging forward, Valerian
blocked his attacker’s thrust. Edan’s sword fell to the ground, yet he would not give up the fight, but dealt Valerian a deadly blow to the stomach which made him curl up in agony.

Fighting against the blazing pain inflicted by the Celt, Valerian somehow managed to get to his feet. Panting as he gathered his strength, he carefully aimed a kick which caught the red-haired Celt in the head. Edan staggered and fell to the ground, watching  through a red haze as his enemy again made his way toward the lodge of Adair. He struggled to get up but
before he could regain his footing, he was taken prisoner by Roman soldiers and marched at sword point toward the Roman camp.

So intent was Valerian on finding Wynne, he did not see the soldiers approaching him until it was too late.  “Arrest that man!” he heard Severus shout at his back. “Strip him of his arms and bring him to me at once. He is a traitor.”

Valerian ignored the soldier who had come to take him, and continued his forward stride, but the soldier blocked his way.

“Here, take my sword,” he exclaimed, throwing it upon the ground at the soldier’s feet. “I have no use for it now. I don’t want to be a part of this carnage.” In disgust he tore off his helmet and threw it too upon the ground.

Valerian’s eyes met those of the young soldier whose duty it was to subdue him. He saw such devastation there, such unbearable self-loathing, that he had not the heart to say more. This young soldier was experiencing the same disillusionment, realizing the cruelty of war and feeling the guilt of striking down unarmed people.

“Please, before you take me to your tribune, there is someone I must find. I must know if she is safe and unharmed,” Valerian pleaded, hoping to find sympathy from the young man.

He could see the uncertainty in the eyes of the soldier, who could not have been much older than his friend Burrus. Before the young man had a chance to make a decision, however, Valerian again heard the cold, cruel voice of Severus at his back.

“Bring that man to me at once!” he ordered.

Valerian was seized by four men and dragged off to meet his judgment. Forgotten now were the discarded sword and helmet, which now lay like relics of the past in the dirt.

Under cover of darkness, Brenna crept out of her hiding place like a serpent from under a rock. She felt no sorrow for the fate of her people; on the contrary, she had long sought the destruction of the tribal leaders. Now it would be so easy to pick up the pieces of this shattered band, become their priestess at the right arm of Duncan, who would be chieftain.

Entering the lodge she had shared with her husband, Brenna was surprised to find him lying by the doorway. So he too had been killed. With a gesture of impatience she kicked at the body with her foot in an effort to move it out of her way, then drew back as a moan escaped his lips.

“What’s this? You’re alive?” Was she never to be rid of the burden of her shattered husband? In alarm she realized how the people of the tribe would flock around Adair, hungry for the leadership and wisdom of the Druid. She knew that she could not let him live.

Remembering the sword that had gleamed from the ground not far from the lodge, that
Roman’s sword, she moved forward to claim it. With all the deaths, those armored demons had caused, how simple it would be to lay one more death upon their heads. With a laugh she picked it up, carried it back to the lodge, and without a thought of remorse, plunged it into Adair’s body.

Adair felt the searing pain of the sword in his side, felt it drive into his very soul. He lay gasping on the ground, looking up at his assailant.

“You,” he moaned in disbelief. Killed by the very hand he had so loved, for he knew the wound to be mortal. As a Druid he was not afraid of dying, merely of leaving Wynne to the fate he knew awaited her.  That more than anything else tore at his soul. 
Wynne…..!
Without another word, nor even a groan, he slipped into his final sleep, the sleep of death.