Celts and the Mad Goddess: A historical fantasy trilogy (The Deathless Chronicle I) by P.C. Darkcliff

Author:P.C. Darkcliff [Darkcliff, P.C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: P.C. DARKCLIFF
Published: 2020-09-30T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The gate opened at midday.

Over a hundred Marcomannic warriors galloped into the square. Hunching behind large shields, they encircled the gathered Celts and leveled their spears at their heads. A flock of sheep that grazed around the square bleated and scattered. A baby wailed in fear. Others followed.

Ortaver rode through the gate, leading Garux on a rope.

Garux had trotted beside Ortaver’s horse all the way from the encampment. Sweat ran from his forehead in torrents and stung his eyes. His hands were tied behind his back, and he wheezed through a gag. While Ortaver wore a pointy helmet and a shiny breastplate over his tunic, Garux only had his torn undershirt and filthy braies.

A pile of stones loomed by the gate, and Garux guessed the tribe had barred the gate in preparations for a siege—but removed the stones after the ultimatum. While he was grateful his tribe had decided to save him, he hoped Ortaver planned nothing worse than chasing them away from their town.

As Ortaver halted on the square, Garux scanned the crowd. Defiance smoldered in the Celts’ eyes, and hatred contorted their faces as they glared at the Marcomanni on their prancing warhorses. Their hands were empty, though, and they clenched and unclenched their fists in impotent rage.

Garux had feared that Arvasia and Seneusia had died on the Marcomannic battlefield, and he swayed with relief when he saw them standing in the first row. Arvasia stepped forward and opened her mouth to call to him, but he shook his head. She lowered her eyes and took a step back. He hoped she understood: if Ortaver learned she was the chieftain’s betrothed, he could force her to become his concubine. That was the custom among commanders, and Ortaver would surely love to have two sisters to enjoy.

Garux still didn’t understand how and where had Rawena disappeared last night. She seemed to have dissolved into the darkness when the sentinels came. He had seen her at the encampment this morning, but not during the march toward their town. She had likely stayed well behind, out of sight of her tribespeople.

Garux tore his eyes away from Arvasia and let them glide over his tribe. Vitis, whose left eye was bandaged, nodded and smiled, as did Agira and most commoners. Many tattooed faces glared at Garux with disgust, and he didn’t blame them.

The Celts cringed and murmured when another wave of Marcomanni poured in. Dozens of foot soldiers dispersed around the town to check that nobody hid in their homes, while others scaled the battlements to overlook the square from the parapet.

Garux scowled when he looked up and saw Ortaver grin from the saddle. That bastard had just taken over one of the largest Celtic towns in Bohemia without losing a single man. And he led the town’s chieftain on a piece of rope.

A jubilant light shone in Ortaver’s small, ugly eyes as he ogled the workshops where his craftsmen would make new weapons to kill more Celts, the houses he would allocate to his warriors, and the fort he would occupy with his captains.

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