Cormac's prodding was the only thing that kept Owein on his feet. The weeks that followed were a blur of flight, hunger, guilt, and fear. Under cover of darkness, Owein and his kinsman fled. The Roman attack had been too swift, too brutal. There was nothing Owein, or anyone else, could do. "There's naught ye can do." A scream split the air. "They are lost," Cormac grunted, all but dragging Owein from the slaughter. "By the gods, lad, ye canna mean to go back." With difficulty, he focused on the speaker. A rough hand halted his progress, spinning him about. He lurched toward the sound, not willing to believe he couldn't save her. The limb dragged, bleeding freely as he ran darted toward the screams. He'd lost his sword when a Roman blade sliced his upper arm.
Owein had managed to stay alive during the battle, though not without cost. He'd not expected the Romans to slip in behind and attack the children and elders.
But he hadn't stayed at his post he'd run ahead to the fighting. As the youngest of the warriors with only sixteen years, Owein had been left in charge of the village. The attackers had hacked through the front line of Celts. A Legionary's helmet flashed in the sunlight. Warrior AD 118 Red tongues of flame licked the slope of a thatched roof. Druidįind out what's happened in the years between Celtic Fire and The Grail King, in three free "between the books" short stories.
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