GAVIN LED THE way back to the edge of the glen, now bathed in sunlight. Gray ash whitened the lush grasses, and a few small fires still smoldered. Broken black rock surrounded the spring, and huge puddles of water swamped the surrounding soil. The clan stood with their laird and lady as they spoke with the copper-haired spearman, and swung around with hands on their sword hilts the moment they spotted Gavin. They relaxed almost immediately, yet still remained in protective ranks around Lachlan and Kinley.

The laird walked out to meet him. “’Twas a glorious victory.” His gaze shifted to Cailean. “The boy?”

“Safe and no’ a mark on him, my lord,” the druid said. “Thanks to you, your men, Gavin and Catriona.”

Kinley made a scoffing sound. “Come on, I want credit for doing the most damage. Well, me and the rabbits and puffins and sunshine.” She kicked a pile of ash on the ground. “A few got away with your uncle, but not enough to form even a tiny little Roman detachment. The legion is toast.”

“Daimh is dead,” Catriona told her, and gave a brief account of what had happened in the falls cave, and added, “We cannae thank you enough for saving us, my lady, my lord.”

“How did your men come through the spring and Daimh’s enchantment?” Gavin asked.

“It was the druid children,” the laird answered.

Catriona glanced around them. “Where are they?”

“Our new friends went to have a look around the village,” Kinley said. “Come on and we’ll introduce you.”

Gavin took her hand when she hesitated. “You’ve always wanted to meet other druids.”

“I ken, ’tis just…” She grimaced and touched the front of her skirt. “I’ve such an odd feeling. ’Tis like the baby dances inside me.”

They walked from the glen to the village, now filled with the young druids. Some ran about chasing each other and Catriona’s animal friends, while others stood before the cottages holding hands. All of the children turned and smiled as Catriona and Gavin drew closer.

The oldest among them walked up with a younger girl skipping alongside him. “Fair day to you, my lord, my lady.” He looked all over Catriona before he said to the girl, “I ken she would be tall with those long legs of hers.”

The little druidess shrugged. “’Tis no’ always so. I had long legs.” A comical expression of disgust filled her face as she glowered down at herself. “I’m even smaller this time.”

Gavin felt his lover shaking, and bent his head to hers. “If ’tis too much for you, sweet Cat, my cottage awaits.”

She swallowed hard and shook her head. “I’ll be well again. ’Tis just I cannae believe it.” Still holding his hand, she walked up to the children. “Why come now? Why no’ before this?”

“For some years we waited,” the older boy said. “You had found your place in the future, and we wished you to be safe as well as happy.” His expression darkened. “We thought Daimh might watch for us, too, and use us. We couldnae permit that.”

The druidess’s small face grew weary. “Aye, so we abided in the well of stars until we thought enough time had passed. Even then we had to be clever. None of us came back in the same year, or to the same tribe. We scattered ourselves across the land, among the smaller, remote settlements.” She kissed the boy’s cheek. “My brave one came first, to learn how to ward himself and the rest of us. Our families thought us strange, for they couldnae sense our souls, but still loved us.”

Catriona drew in a sobbing breath. “Will you go back to them? Your new families?”

“We can if we must,” the boy said, and looked around them. “We would rather reveal ourselves, and form a new tribe. We dinnae wish to dwell here, for ’tis a dark place to us.” He smiled at Gavin. “And you and your highlander dinnae wish to hide any longer, either.”

Gavin felt completely perplexed. “Who are you children?”

The boy sighed. “You shall both need much training, my son. We have but the bodies of children. Our souls have reincarnated. I’m called Teren now, and my dearest love is named Isabeau. Before this life, we were Tavish and Isela Haral.”

Catriona slipped from Gavin’s grasp and fell to her knees before weeping into her hands. But the little druidess came to wrap her small arms around her.

“Oh, dinnae cry, Daughter,” Isabeau said, stroking her hair. “I promised you that I’d come for you.”

Gavin looked around the village at all the other children. “Does that mean when I think?”

“Uh-huh.” Kinley’s eyes grew dreamy as she gazed at the young faces. “They’re all reincarnated souls of the Moon Wake tribe.”

* * *

In the bowels of the black ship, Quintus Seneca felt the last rays of the sun vanish again from the sky. He paced the length of the light-tight compartment, his uniform still shedding ash from the battle. Unable to bear the flutter of his scarlet battle cloak, he tore it from his shoulders and flung it to the deck.

The disastrous battle had destroyed all but a handful of his men. All he had left were the five that had reached the black ship before the sun-disc dissolved, and the useless recruits he’d left behind on Staffa.

The glorious Ninth Legion wasn’t simply finished. It no longer existed.

Heavy footsteps trudged down the stairs as Titus Strabo climbed down into the cargo hold. His dark hood and cloak had been covered with so much undead ash they looked pale gray now, and when he revealed his face his eyes glittered with contempt.

“Report,” Quintus snapped.

“Report…what, Tribune?” The prefect took the final step to plant his feet on the deck. “We were defeated, resoundingly so. A thousand men, now dust. Three ships left behind, burning along with their undead crews. The turncoat druid, vanished. The McDonnels rally around their laird, happy in their victory. Again.” He gestured toward the stairs. “It is safe now for you to come up. The captain wishes a word with you.” He started back for the upper decks.

“Strabo, wait,” Quintus said quickly, drawing him to a halt. “You were correct in your advice to me, and I not wise enough to accept it. I am sorry. Truly, for you and for the loss of so many, but we cannot allow it to defeat us. We will rebuild the Ninth. We shall have our vengeance.”

“Yes, my lord,” the prefect said before he left.

Quintus shook out his cloak, replacing it before he dusted off his uniform and cleared his thoughts. What he had to do now was inspire loyalty. He knew of only one manner in which to do that.

Up on deck, the cold night wind rushed over him as he stepped out, making his cloak flutter. He saw Strabo standing with most of the mortal crew at the stern, while far fewer undead occupied the bow. The prefect held a long dagger, which he raised above his head.

“This madness ends now,” he shouted, staring past Quintus at the other undead. “We are barely a hundred left, if that. Too many Roman lives have been sacrificed on the altar of Quintus Seneca’s idiocy. As a Roman, and the prefect of the Ninth Legion, I condemn him to his fate.”

Quintus stood waiting as Strabo strode toward him, his murderous mortals crowding after him. The tribune looked over at the navigator, and gave him a small nod.

The mortal tugged on a rope hanging from the deck, which tipped over the bucket of lamp oil he had secretly rigged there at Quintus’s command.

The oil splashed down on Strabo and his mutineers, causing them to slip and fall onto the deck.

“I have defeated more assassination attempts than you might count, Prefect. Serving under Gaius Lucinius taught me that.” He felt no joy as the navigator handed him the flaming torch. “You should not have hidden the weapons, you know. I’d have had no idea of your plot if you’d left them out in plain sight. I never have paid attention to the stores of arms. Oh, but you were quite right about the druid. In the end he proved to be traitorous scum.”

He tossed the torch on top of the pile of oil-soaked bodies. The mortals screamed and flung themselves over the railings, but Strabo remained crouched on the deck, his uniform flaming and the untouched side of his face blackening as he stared at Quintus. He said nothing, and when the flames ate through his skin he fell to the deck as ash, snuffing them out.

“How noble.” Quintus glanced down at the burned mortal crewmen treading frantically in the sea, and gestured for the navigator. “Bring some archers here and finish them.”

The mortal bowed. “As you command, Tribune.”

He walked to the bow of the ship, where his remaining soldiers averted their gazes. Fire had left black scorch marks on their armor, and the dust of their comrades grayed their faces. He counted three he recognized from their original ranks, but the rest were mortals and slaves they had turned undead.

Counting himself, the Ninth Legion had been reduced to just four Romans.

“I do not blame you for refusing to come to my aid,” he told them. “I do thank you for choosing not to help Strabo kill me.” He looked at each of their sullen faces. “When we arrive at the stronghold, you shall have your pick of the mortals, or the undead whores being trained, if you prefer. You may do as you wish with them for as long as they live. There will be many to go around now.”

The men gave each other uncertain looks.

“It is not a trap,” Quintus promised them. “I value each of you. I wish to earn back your trust. This is a new beginning for the Ninth Legion. We will learn from this tragedy. We will be stronger for it. But if you still feel that I do not deserve to live, please, come forward. Share in Titus Strabo’s glorious mutiny, and die in flames.”

No one moved.

“My thanks.” He deliberately turned his back on them. “Dismissed.”