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.”

CONT -->