Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered by James Mace Page A

injured during the assault were trying to climb their way back to safety. The fortunate ones were grabbed by their friends and dragged out of the ditch. Those too badly hurt to be moved were left to their fate.
    A cheer erupted from the Roman camp as the auxiliary infantrymen caught their breath. Relief soon turned to anger, with several of their men plunging their weapons into the enemy wounded.
    “Belay that!” a centurion shouted, smacking the offenders with his vine stick. “These fucking pigs will not be granted a quick death. First, they will tell us everything they know and then crucifixion for the lot of them.”
     

     
    It was dark when Elisedd opened his eyes. He was tied to a stake atop a pyre; his wife, Runa, was bound to a second pyre and still unconscious. A ring of torch-bearers stood in a semi-circle around them, all wearing hooded cloaks pulled over their heads. Standing in the middle was a stern-looking King Seisyll and the dreaded mystic, Tathal. The high druid was wearing his finest white robe, bound in the middle with a bronze-plated belt. His hands and face were painted with a series of patterns in blue ink, except around the eyes, which were smeared black. And though he carried his long staff, it was the bronze curved dagger in his belt that captured Elisedd’s gaze.
    “You have failed us,” said King Seisyll, his arms folded, his voice like ice.
    Knowing he was already condemned, Elisedd became defiant. “It is you who have failed! We were under your protection, yet where were the Ordovices when my people were being slaughtered?”
    “Aeron, god of battle and slaughter, rewards courage,” Tathal spoke. “Had you and your warriors appeased him, you would have been welcomed into the afterlife as heroes. Instead, Aeron demands that those who cower before our enemies be sacrificed.”
    “A pit of vipers fuck your mother!” Elisedd snarled.
    The druid gave a short, demonic laugh and turned to the king, who nodded. Tathal drew his long dagger. Torch-bearers stepped forward to ignite the two pyres.
    Runa stirred as the wood started to crackle. The Deceangli chief would accept his own fate, however painful it may be, but the thought of seeing his beloved tortured by that loathsome druid drove him beyond breaking.
    “Stay away from her, you unholy bastard!”
    “Not to worry,” Tathal said, a sneer crossing his face. He brandished his blade towards Runa. “It is you who have offended the gods. Your wife’s end will be quick.”
    Runa’s eyes opened, and her head whipped around as she regained consciousness. She cried out before coughing violently on the thick, acrid smoke. Before the flames could completely engulf the pyre, Tathal stepped forward and slashed his dagger across her throat. Elisedd gritted his teeth, tears streaming down his face as his wife’s eyes clouded over, blood gushing down her chest.
    “And now we must deal with the traitor,” the druid said, running his fingers over the bloody knife.
    One of his acolytes stepped forward, carrying a stone bowl.
    Torches were set in the chief’s pyre, the damp timber hissing and smoking. As Tathal stepped forward, Elisedd spat at him defiantly. The high druid smirked and plunged the point of the curved dagger into his stomach. The blade was extremely sharp. With a quick upward slash, he disembowelled his prey. Elisedd tried to gasp as his guts spilled from his torso. With a sickening splat a pile landed in the bowl, which the acolyte set to the side, allowing the flames to cook its contents. The flames started to lick higher, and a hot cloud of smoke billowed right into the chief’s face. With the last of his energy, he sucked in his final breath, searing his lungs and sending him to join his wife in the afterlife.
     

     
    It was midmorning the next day when the Twentieth Legion and Indus’ Horse returned. While both Governor Scapula and General Paulinus were filled with anger and frustration at having been so easily duped by