that made up the earth and the plants pushing through it. Then he imagined scooping out a handful. At first nothing happened, then the ground trembled and a clod the size of a large dog jumped out and landed at his feet with a whoosh of air and a thump. He gave it a cautious nudge with his boot and the soil fell apart so it looked like the other, smaller pile he’d dug out by hand.
“Finished already?” Roan said as he turned.
“Trying to stay warm.” Dai gave him a tight grin, hoping Roan hadn’t seen.
“Deep hole.”
“Don’t want anyone digging them up by accident. How would the archaeologists explain finding old Celtic weapons and jewelry in Australia?” Probably by concocting a tale about Celts traveling farther than first thought and then they would spend vast amounts of money searching for a nonexistent settlement.
Roan nodded and picked up the swords. One for every man cursed. Six in total, but the sword for Meryn was a stand-in. When their cousin faded to goblin, he took his weapons with him. The sickly, gray thread still connected Dai to his goblin cousin. Meryn deserved so much more than an eternity of roaming the Shadowlands. He was Roan’s second, a battle planner to match the Romans. Dai shuddered as if the cold from the Shadowlands was still chilling his blood. Maybe burying their swords wasn’t a good idea.
“You sure you want to part with it?” Dai raised an eyebrow.
The blade hadn’t left his brother’s side in nearly two thousand years. While he’d acquired others, that was the one he’d been cursed with.
“I’ve got to.” Roan cradled the bundle, holding the memories for the last time.
Dai had surrendered his sword, but he’d kept his throwing knives. He couldn’t bring himself to be totally defenseless. There had been too many years where he was forbidden to carry any weapon in case he slit his master’s throat. He still wanted to hear the bastard beg for his life, but that chance was long gone even if the nightmares of Claudius weren’t.
Roan placed the swords in the ground. The clanking was muffled by the cloth. It felt like they were burning the corpses of the men again. If Dai hadn’t told Roan there was a traitor and suggested they stall the rebellion, the druid wouldn’t have argued with Roan about the delay and the curse would never have been laid.
“Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if we hadn’t been cursed?”
“We’d be dead and I wouldn’t have met Eliza.”
True, the rebellion would have gone ahead as planned and the Romans would’ve been waiting. But at least they wouldn’t have had to live as goblins. “She made two thousand years in the Shadowlands worthwhile?” All the fighting, all the death?
Roan sighed, a puff of cloud in the cool night air. “I have to believe it was all for something.”
Dai nodded; suffering had to be for something. What had he got? A library he couldn’t touch, magic he couldn’t use, and a wealth of scars not even the ink on his skin could hide.
“What about you?”
“I was ready to die.” That was no secret. While for years he was the one who’d urged Roan to keep fighting the curse’s grip while Dai searched for a cure, in the end it was Roan forcing Dai to stall when Dai’s fear of turning goblin was turning his thoughts to suicide.
“Don’t waste your second chance. Live for those who died.” Roan stood up.
None of the men had deserved to die, yet he envied them their peace. Fighting to stay human in the Shadowlands was like trying to hold a handful of water. It didn’t matter how careful he was—drops escaped, some evaporated, and eventually there was nothing left but a thirst for gold that could never be slacked.
Was it his responsibility to make up for their lives? What about his life? His life was over long before the curse. It had ended the day he was taken hostage, a good behavior bond to make sure his father, and then Roan, did as the general asked. In return, Dai was
“Finished already?” Roan said as he turned.
“Trying to stay warm.” Dai gave him a tight grin, hoping Roan hadn’t seen.
“Deep hole.”
“Don’t want anyone digging them up by accident. How would the archaeologists explain finding old Celtic weapons and jewelry in Australia?” Probably by concocting a tale about Celts traveling farther than first thought and then they would spend vast amounts of money searching for a nonexistent settlement.
Roan nodded and picked up the swords. One for every man cursed. Six in total, but the sword for Meryn was a stand-in. When their cousin faded to goblin, he took his weapons with him. The sickly, gray thread still connected Dai to his goblin cousin. Meryn deserved so much more than an eternity of roaming the Shadowlands. He was Roan’s second, a battle planner to match the Romans. Dai shuddered as if the cold from the Shadowlands was still chilling his blood. Maybe burying their swords wasn’t a good idea.
“You sure you want to part with it?” Dai raised an eyebrow.
The blade hadn’t left his brother’s side in nearly two thousand years. While he’d acquired others, that was the one he’d been cursed with.
“I’ve got to.” Roan cradled the bundle, holding the memories for the last time.
Dai had surrendered his sword, but he’d kept his throwing knives. He couldn’t bring himself to be totally defenseless. There had been too many years where he was forbidden to carry any weapon in case he slit his master’s throat. He still wanted to hear the bastard beg for his life, but that chance was long gone even if the nightmares of Claudius weren’t.
Roan placed the swords in the ground. The clanking was muffled by the cloth. It felt like they were burning the corpses of the men again. If Dai hadn’t told Roan there was a traitor and suggested they stall the rebellion, the druid wouldn’t have argued with Roan about the delay and the curse would never have been laid.
“Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if we hadn’t been cursed?”
“We’d be dead and I wouldn’t have met Eliza.”
True, the rebellion would have gone ahead as planned and the Romans would’ve been waiting. But at least they wouldn’t have had to live as goblins. “She made two thousand years in the Shadowlands worthwhile?” All the fighting, all the death?
Roan sighed, a puff of cloud in the cool night air. “I have to believe it was all for something.”
Dai nodded; suffering had to be for something. What had he got? A library he couldn’t touch, magic he couldn’t use, and a wealth of scars not even the ink on his skin could hide.
“What about you?”
“I was ready to die.” That was no secret. While for years he was the one who’d urged Roan to keep fighting the curse’s grip while Dai searched for a cure, in the end it was Roan forcing Dai to stall when Dai’s fear of turning goblin was turning his thoughts to suicide.
“Don’t waste your second chance. Live for those who died.” Roan stood up.
None of the men had deserved to die, yet he envied them their peace. Fighting to stay human in the Shadowlands was like trying to hold a handful of water. It didn’t matter how careful he was—drops escaped, some evaporated, and eventually there was nothing left but a thirst for gold that could never be slacked.
Was it his responsibility to make up for their lives? What about his life? His life was over long before the curse. It had ended the day he was taken hostage, a good behavior bond to make sure his father, and then Roan, did as the general asked. In return, Dai was
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