Aelwyn leaned heavily on his birch staff, running his hand over the crude carving of a crow’s skull as he watched the muscular warrior run up the wooded path of the hilltop. Cawrdaf and the two young warriors running behind him held swords glinting brightly in the moonlight. By long-held tradition, no Celt would brandish a weapon in the presence of a druid on the island of Ynys Mon, their sacred stronghold, but Aelwyn knew tonight was unlike any other.
The druid could see the men’s swords were slick with gore, and their black tunics glistened wet with blood. The large, bearded warrior crested the top of the hill and fell to his knees before the druid, gasping for air.
“Aelwyn,” the man looked up with eyes brimming with tears. “We have failed you. Legatus Paulinus has won the day; the Romans have taken the beach and driven our people back.”
“You have not failed me, Cawrdaf,” the druid urged the man onto his feet, smiling kindly at the exhausted warrior. “Until the end of time, the gods will sing of the valor and bravery of this day.”
“Einion still holds the high ground,” one of the warriors, a young dark-haired boy of no more than fifteen, held his chin up proudly. “He will delay the Romans long enough for the elders to escape.”
