Druids of Avalon - Short Stories Read Free

me.”
    Owein didn’t care.
    Ropes burned his wrists.
    Owein strained, twisting with savage strength. Pain shot up his arms, causing his shoulders to spasm. His ankles were lashed to the wooden frame as well, his legs splayed wide.
    The slave master approached slowly. He snapped the wooden handle of the flagellum against the palm of his opposite hand, allowing Owein plenty of time to contemplate his fate. A slow, painful death, ordered as punishment for the rape of his owner’s wife. A charge Aurelia had invented to avenge her pride.
    The rhythm of the slaver’s whip commanded Owein’s complete attention. The thongs swung in the sunlight, the sharpened bits of iron imbedded in the leather glinting ominously. Cold sweat gathered on Owein’s brow. He’d seen the damage a flagellum could inflict. Had heard its victims scream and beg for mercy that did not come.
    Thirty-nine lashes. A death sentence. Each blow would send dozens of jagged blades into his flesh. Each would rip skin from muscle, muscle from bone. He would be a raw, bleeding mass of meat before the blessed end came.
    A small crowd had gathered—mostly ragged, dirty slaves who kept their eyes cast downward. They’d been ordered to witness Owein’s fate, but would take no pleasure in it.
    Aurelia would, though. She was there, in the front of the gathering, clinging to her husband’s arm.
    Owein captured her gaze. The pure, raw hatred he turned upon her caused her smug expression to falter.
    But only for an instant. When the first blow fell, she was smiling.
    He awoke in a ditch, choked by blood and pain, the memory of his own screams echoing in his skull.
    His back was on fire; his head felt nearly severed from his body. His limbs wouldn’t obey his commands.
    He squinted at his surroundings the best he could. He wasn’t within sight of the quarry camp. That surprised him; normally flogged slaves were dumped in a shallow pit near the privies. Inexplicably, Owein was surrounded by greenery. A thrush sounded in the canopy high overhead. The scent of loam tickled his nostrils.
    Had he crawled here? He must have, if the sting of his forearms and knees was any indication. The trickle of a mountain stream teased his ears. His throat burned with thirst, but try as he might, he couldn’t find the strength to drag himself to the water.
    How long he lay, drifting in and out of consciousness, he didn’t know. When he next opened his eyes, he found a grizzled face peering down at him.
    “By the gods’ mercy! He lives.”
    The speaker was a Celt. Owein closed his eyes again. It hardly mattered.
    A second voice sounded, grave. “Barely, Aiden. He is all but dead.”
    “Nay,” the man named Aiden answered. “Eirwen will save him.”
    The woman’s unbound hair fell in a golden stream to the small of her back. Her tunic, woven in a pattern that included every color of the rainbow, draped the inviting curve of her bottom. She stood with her back to Owein, in the center of a simple round hut that was much like the one he’d grown up in. He lay on his stomach with his head pillowed on his arms and watched as she folded a length of cloth.
    “Who are ye?” he said quietly.
    The woman spun about. Her blue eyes were wide, her expression radiant. “Ye’ve awakened!”
    “Aye. Who are ye?” He shifted, ignoring the stiffness of bandages and the agony the movement brought. His entire back felt like a single open sore.
    She came to him, crouching beside the pallet. “My name is Eirwen. ’Tis good to see ye awake at last.”
    “Ye’ve been tending me.” He could remember snatches of it now. “How did I get to this place? I dinna remember much after … ” He trailed off.
    A flash of distress crossed her face. “My grandfather and uncle found ye some miles to the north.” She bit her lower lip. “Near the Roman quarry.”
    Sudden nausea surged. He pushed himself up abruptly, willing it to pass. The sudden movement sent a sharp ripple of pain across his back. He