Bloody waters run deep where the Stour meets the Lug. Two rafts enter the pink foaming shallows, cutting through loose intestines that wobble from the pecking of hungry fish.

Slimy crimson sand sucks at the druid’s feet, but what awaits him beyond the reeds proves his discomfort worth it. Here, flies scatter like black rain and reveal a dining table made of human bones.

Half-skulls sit upon its gruesome ribcage, each ghoulish bowl heavy with a stew of eyes, ovaries, and testicles. Cut tongues and cocks frame a centerpiece of stacked hands, where the top palm holds a plucked owl, smoke curling from its roasted skin.

Segobax, the golden-haired leader of the Segontiaci, takes umbrage at such barbarity, though his dead father’s reputation for devouring an enemy’s eyeballs rings fresh in everyone’s mind.

“Caesar is not behind this,” says Carbilius, the barrel-chested leader of the western Bibroci. “He’s a man of reason,”

“Reasonable and tidy,” Segobax cracks. “Look at how neatly folded these robes are under this tree adorned with dead druids,’

Ostin’s white cloak, the same one he wore the night he replaced Fintan the Owl with his son, tops the pile. All eyes turn to the new Owl, whose black gaze lingers on a ravaged young Ancalite.

“Your less murderous replacement?’ Segobax asks.

“Their battle king knows nothing of this.” Aedan reaches for the bare corpse slung over a fallen tree. His fingers glide over Ostin’s walking staff, rooted deep in the dead Ancalite’s torn ass. “This is the work of the Lion,”

“Eadaoin and our women are his prisoners. He’s not laid one hand on any of them, nor does he allow any of his cohorts a taste.” Carbilius brings a fine cloth to his mouth and studies the scene with disdain. “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 cannot help but touch the bite marks on the dead druid’s buttocks. “Resistance fuels his fires, and no woman resists quite like a man resists,”

“His vicious appetites transcend 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.” Fresh contusions warm Aedan’s fingers. “He allows the Lion to feed his cock, a reward for keeping us from hindering his legion’s 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,” says Aedan, whose knowledge comes from stalking the treetops.

Once bound and helpless before Aedan’s fire, the brutal Lion takes back his power by ravishing the thinnest druids.

Half-naked and dripping with sweat, the Lion stays frighteningly calm when hauling his prey into the trees. Those who yield too quickly get a mouthful of piss before he guts them like venison.

Those who fight back earn a beautifully savage fucking. He slaps them about, engaging in bullish conversation, handling them as an angry child does a doll. He tears free their robes, pulls their arms back like reigns, and shoves their face into the mud.

Aedan often watches from the highest tree, pulling at his arousal while the Lion impales his prisoner’s dry holes with that exquisitely oiled cock. At his most vulnerable moment, the Roman is more beautiful than anything Aedan’s seen, yet Aedan’s climax comes only when the man begins chewing on his victim’s buttocks.

Segobax passes between him and the gruesome display.

“Mandubracius supplies Rome with grain and soldiers,” he says, circling the other chieftain. “Why should we commit our warriors to this brand of suicide?”

“Ostin summoned us,” Carbilius reminds.

“Ostin’s dead,” Segobax kicks the robe pile, then whispers, “Cassibelanus wishes to cull our warriors in this fight, for when Rome departs, we’ll not have enough men to stop him from taking what’s ours,”

“Mind your tongue,” Carbilius whispers back, glancing 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 says. “Assurances that when he returns to the continent, we’ll stay out of whatever uprisings occur there.”

“I’ll swear my inaction today,” Segobax declares. “I don’t give a damn what happens across that damned water.”

Carbilius steps to Aedan. “How do you know this?”

“Ostin,” he replies, still drinking in the bloody scene. “It’s why he urged negotiations,”

“Ostin the Ageless wanted to turn you over at the Tamesa,” Segobax reminds him. “Your life for that of the Lion’s, yes?”

“And yet here I stand.” Aedan gives the chieftains his full attention. “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.

“Fintan,” Segobax declares.

“Taran says that the Lion’s father killed him,” Aedan affirms.

Segobax sighs. “As the hot days are long, a fucking Ancalite makes things worse,”

Unable to stomach the scene, Carbilius turns from it.

“Cut them down,” he shouts.

“Leave them,” Aedan yells.

Carbilius steps into him. “Why would we do that?”

“That’s what the Lion wants,” he tells him. “You put them on our rafts, and they’ll bleed a trail in the water for him to follow.”

“The Owl is right,” Segobax says softly. “We’ll tend to them another day.”

No one touches anything, and before long, the visiting chieftains retake their places on the rafts.

Distance grows between them, and the carnage and whispers prevail when falling water drowns out the noisy birdsong.

Near the falls, Aedan pulls their rafts away from shore and then leads his party behind the water, where torchlight reveals a steep passage. Many steps down, wetness gives way to warmth in the cavern’s belly.

A radiant grotto illuminates rocky decks that climb high into the darkness. Ignitable fluid within the ground spring provides bountiful light yet makes for nervous eyes until Aedan extinguishes his torch in a bladder-lined basket.

He leads them up the winding ridge, where the highest ledge offers a narrow passage. Tin cups of burning water sit within the rockface’s many niches, guiding them to an antechamber.

Woven blankets hang from iron rafters, and a round wooden table offers bread, fruit, and barley ale. On the hearth fire hangs a steamy cauldron of hazelnut broth, drawing the chieftains in like famished children.

The first to greet them is Cingetorix of the Cenimagni, a fire-haired man standing a foot taller than most, his mustache longer than his hair braid. He embraces the effete Segobax, who, after such uncouth handling, sourly rearranges his rings and smooths his frocks.

Carbilius embraces the shortest among them, Taximagulus of the Cassi, who expresses condolences at the loss of the man’s brother. Bald and brooding, the Cassi warlord spent some of his boyhood among druids. He speaks little, and that thick beard hides a bevy of youthful acne scars.

Aedan climbs the rocky mantle and squats beside his father’s perched owl. Segobax whispers to Taximagulus while Taran eavesdrops on Carbilius, telling Cingetorix about the Roman camp at Tamesa. After several moments, Ciniod enters and notices her son.

“Get down here,” she whispers, but Aedan shakes his head. She looks at the owl beside him. “Then take her out, the sun’s gone down,”

Aedan shakes his head again.

“The Lion’s killing actual owls, now.” Segobax saunters past her with an ale in his hand. “Did you tell her what we found?”

“Pay the boy no mind,” Taran calls from the table. “He 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 tongue’s always lapping at something,” he adds, shoulders fur draped and face clean-shaven.

Grandfather’s bastard and Aedan’s elder by four years, the raven-haired dolt straddles the line between chunky and trim. Segobax sets his ale down and takes both the young man’s hands in his, and their womanly exchange prompts humored glances, even from Ciniod.

“Your ass is too thick for that skirt,” Aedan says.

Lugotorix regards him without turning. “Why don’t you fold up somewhere and suck yourself,”

“You’re just jealous because I can,” taunts Aedan.

Lugotrix laughs, “Dear boy, that’s nothing to brag about,”

“Can you still see your cock?” Aedan asks. “Or does your belly get in the way?”

Lugotorix spins around in anger.

“Come now, that’s enough,” scolds Taran.

Ciniod hisses at her son. “Find somewhere else to be,”

“The Owl stays,” Carbilius declares.

“The Owl died across the water,” booms the towering Cassibelanus, who walks past Aedan’s position without so much as a scowl.

Cingetorix enters his embrace. “You’re late, my old adversary,”

“The Romans butchered Ostin and his druids,” Cassibelanus says, eyes on Aedan.

Taximagulus begins pacing while Lugotrix goes wide-eyed.

“Ostin’s dead?” Taran gasps. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“You never asked,” Aedan replies.

Ciniod steps to her brother, “He’s only been here a few moments,”

“And here he’ll remain,” Carbilius decides, staring down Cassibelanus. “That was Ostin’s wish,”

“It was his wish for a time,” Cassibelanus reveals. “But 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,”

“I heard you attacked that Roman monster by your lonesome,” Cingetorix smiles up at Aedan. “While the others ran for the trees,”

“My boy is fearless,” Ciniod brags.

“He fought fearless, to be sure,” Lugotrix grins. “He even attacked a Roman head with his—”

“—Tamesa is behind us,” Ciniod interrupts.

“Yes, and that loss makes one thing very clear,” Taran says. “We must combine our forces and drive them out,”

“Yes,” Cassibelanus trumpets. “Or they’ll destroy everything we know,”

“Would they go that far?” Segobax wonders.

“They already have, on the continent,” Taran tells him. “There’s nothing left of the Morini,”

“Kombius seems well enough,” Aedan says from his perch.

Taximagulus starts. “Kombius walks among them?”

“As a guest,” Aedan nods. “Not a hostage,”

“You would know,” Taran barks. “Spying on that monster like a lovesick wretch,”

Lugotorix teases, “Our hoot-hoot is in love?”

“How does one catch feelings for an enemy that wants him dead?” Segobax asks.

“That’s enough.” Ciniod looks at each man. “The gods will want blood for Ostin,”

“Lady,” Cassibelanus levels a cold gaze. “You don’t speak for Ostin,”

“Let’s begin while the night is still young,” Taran says, eager to avoid conflict. “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 his grandfather’s heir,” Ciniod argues.

“No druid leads a tribe,” says Cassibelanus, but Taximagulus’s brow lifts.

“Lugotrix is the logical choice,” Taran says. “He will lead the Ancalites,”

“Of course.” Ciniod passes beneath Aedan on her way out. “Come, boy, let’s get that owl outside,”

Taximagulus calls out. “Fintan’s son stays,”

“Agreed,” says Carbilius, downing 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 until Segobax tuts and scoots over, offering Aedan room beside him. Hands under the table, the druid catches Cassibelanus, Taran, and Lugotrix trading glances; his mother’s exclusion is no accident.

Talk turns heated when Carbilius labels Taran weak, his words born from losing a brother and a portion of their tribe at the Avona. Taximagulus resents Lugotrix’s elevation over Ciniod, but Segobax reminds them that her thirst for vengeance created the Lion, and thus, her temperament remains dangerous.

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 Cingetorix, who asks how he would handle the Roman invaders.

“The wolves have erected a large water well. A timber frame pool taller than most men that’s lined with bladders.” Aedan turns his gaze to Carbilius. “Eadaoin and the women form a bucket line from the river and feed it thrice daily.”

“That’s smart,” Cingetorix says.

“They watch the women,” says Aedan. “But no one minds the buckets,”

“You mind everything in that camp, don’t you?” asks Lugotrix.

Aedan ignores him. “We must coat Eadaoin’s buckets in yew juice,”

Segobax chuckles. “Now that is smart,”

“And gutless,” Cassibelanus cries.

Segobax rolls his eyes. “Must we shout?”

“How does our most capable fighter,” Cassibelanus demands. “Suggest something so cowardly?”

“And that is why the wolves will win,” Aedan accuses coldly. “You want some grand battle for the ages, and Rome counts on this vanity,”

Cassibelanus rails, “Vanity?”

“Your cousins in Belgica kept the same mind,” Aedan tells him. “Your all-or-nothing tactics are too similar. The wolves know now how to defeat such a mindset and have done so with half the numbers,”

“If they truly provide half their number,” Cingetorix nods. “We can repel them,”

“Agreed, but not as craven snakes,” Cassibelanus points out. “We fight with spears, torches, and swords, like true warriors,”

“Yes, and you’ll die as true as you fight,” says Aedan.

Lugotrix tuts, “And you’ll be flying up a tree for warmth,”

“No tree could replace your wide carcass for comfort,” Aedan counters.

“Enough,” Taran scolds. “Or I’ll dismiss you both,”

The talking continues until a final plan appears.

Their forces will split into three: A surprise attack on the Roman beachhead, a raid on their Tamesa camp, and a confrontation with advancing legions at the Lug. Though no one dissents, distrustful minds note that Cassibelanus’s faction holds a less risky position along the river.

Aedan eagerly departs, 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, and get it done.”

Thick hands release him.

Moments later, a smaller, smoother hand takes his wrist on the highest deck. Avalin stands with her gourd lamp held high. Lack of sleep devours her loveliness, and her voice lays heavy like her heart.

“They’ve got my boy,” she croaks.

“They’ve got many boys,” says Aedan.

“If you’re part of the raiding party,” she whispers, revealing her hidden ears at the meeting. “Find my Kelr and bring him home,”

“I will not.” Aedan blinks at her outrage. “He got caught because he refused to listen,”

CONT -->