The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy by Jules Watson Page B

so? Rhiann grumbled to herself, burrowing deeper into the warm nest of furs. I am my mother’s daughter. She faced him and scorned him, and I can, too .
    But her mother was long dead now, taken to the Otherworld by Rhiann’s birth. Safe from the reach of one such as he.

CHAPTER 8
    O n the hills east of Dunadd, looking out over the marshy plain, Eremon’s black stallion, Dórn, snorted and pawed the muddy ground. In the two weeks since Rhiann and Eremon’s return, leaf-bud had strengthened its hold, and the marsh and crag below were hazed by a pall of cooking smoke that hung low and still in the sun-warmed air.
    ‘He’s eager for home,’ Conaire remarked, flexing the mailshirt stretched across his massive shoulders.
    Eremon patted Dórn’s arched neck. ‘Eager for honey and mash, more like.’
    ‘We all need to be home.’ Lorn crossed his hands on his own reins. ‘I must fly now to my father’s dun, to deliver this news myself.’
    Eremon glanced at the young Epidii lord, resplendent in a scarlet tunic and checked trousers, a hardened leather jerkin he had freshly greased, and over it a new-dyed green cloak. Lorn didn’t look as if he’d just ridden hard over the mountains and slept for a week on the ground with the scouts, chewing dried venison and hard-baked bread. His silver-gilt hair was neatly tied back with a deer-hide thong; Eremon had watched him comb it from the corner of a half-opened eye that morning. Lorn had even shaved, so the rearing bear tattoo – Urben’s totem – was clearly outlined on his cheek. Eremon, in contrast, probably looked as he felt, and he rubbed his temples now in an effort to soften his headache.
    ‘There’s no need to alarm your clan,’ he replied, squinting in the bright sun that spilled over the heather slopes. ‘I don’t want any rumours spreading that the Romans are marching this way, because at present they are not.’
    ‘Not yet,’ Lorn corrected. ‘But my father must know they have left their camps, for we command the southern defences, in case you have forgotten.’
    Conaire, watching Lorn with veiled eyes, made a sound deep in his throat.
    Eremon sat back in his saddle. ‘No, I had not forgotten,’ he answered dryly. They had seen nothing of Lorn or Urben, until Lorn turned up unexpectedly with a hundred of his own warriors, to continue their training as part of the warband. Nothing had been said, either of Eremon’s return, or Urben’s reaction to it. For the moment, Eremon had decided to let this lie, for he needed the men, and the cohesion of the tribe, and keeping an eye on Lorn was easier with him close by. And though Eremon wasn’t thrilled to admit it, Lorn was a fine warrior.
    ‘All we know is that there is a greater movement of Roman soldiers across their frontier,’ Eremon added patiently, scratching his sweaty neck above his own mailshirt. ‘In the absence of other information, this means little; I don’t want to cause unnecessary panic.’
    Lorn tossed his fair hair in a gesture Eremon had only seen Caitlin use. With her, it was amusing and endearing; with Lorn, strangely irritating. ‘They are moving,’ Lorn emphasized, ‘and this means a change. If they come suddenly west, then by the Mare it will be my people who die first.’
    ‘Eremon’s chain of scouts works perfectly,’ Conaire pointed out, yet Eremon sensed the effort of his even tone. ‘We would know of their approach long before, leaving enough time to move your clan.’
    Lorn turned glacial grey eyes on Conaire. ‘As the Damnonii knew, son of Lugaid? As the Selgovae knew?’
    Conaire flushed, and his head dipped bullishly between his shoulders. ‘The Selgovae didn’t have Eremon. The Damnonii didn’t either, until we went to help them.’
    Eremon shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, for this reminder of the Damnonii brought back the shame. He had helped them to destroy a Roman fort two years ago, but Agricola’s retaliation had been more brutal than any expected,