AFTER SURVIVING TIME travel, killer roots, and the bird attack in the room of big carved rocks, Althea felt meeting the rest of the Skaraven would be a breeze. That assurance evaporated the moment she and Brennus walked into a cavernous area occupied by immense, tattooed men.

She forgot to blink as she took in the small army of warriors. Built on a mammoth scale, their bodies had been so well-developed she could see every bulging muscle under their poorly-fitted garments. Every Skaraven stood well over six feet, with oversized hands, long-yoked shoulders, and clearly powerful limbs. Most wore their newly shorn hair close-cropped, like Brennus. He had told her it was to keep their vision clear in battle and not give an enemy something to grab.

The men, who had been busy working on various tasks and projects, all stopped and stared at her. The intensity in their eyes reminded her both of starving wolves and dazzled teenagers.

“This is Lady Althea Jarden,” Brennus said, his voice booming in the utter silence. “The famhairean took her and four other females from the future. She escaped them and later stopped two from ending me. In return for the life-debt, she asks that the clan help free those still held.” He eyed someone at the back of the assembled men. “I asked for guidance, and my raven spirit healed her wounds.”

The men didn’t make a sound, but Althea thought from the way they all looked at each other that the raven healing was a big deal.

“’Tis my intent to rescue the four lasses still held by the famhairean, and to find the means to defeat them forever.” Brennus looked around the hall. “What says the clan? Do you join me?”

“Bràithrean an fhithich,” the men roared, thrusting their right fists into the air.

The chieftain met her gaze. “The brethren of the Skaraven agree, my lady.”

Although their shouts startled Althea, their lack of hesitation made her smile. They might look like an army of medieval mercenaries, but their willingness to fight to free the others made it clear that they had good hearts. She also found it interesting that the clan had been given a choice by Brennus, not what she would have expected in this era.

“My thanks,” she said to the clan, remembering her manners and the way Brennus had expressed his gratitude to her. “If there’s anything I can do, please tell me.”

Some of the men shared odd looks, while others chuckled.

“She speaks of the quest,” Brennus said, making a cutting gesture, which silenced the clan as all eyes returned to him. “Name yourselves to the lady.”

What followed had to be the strangest mass introduction Althea had ever experienced. Nearly all of the clansmen assembled into ten lines, and each one marched up to take a knee in unison before her and the chieftain. Each one then stood and said two words before retreating to reform their line.

“Bridei, Woodsman.”

“Ailpin, Hunter.”

“Manath, Flamekeep.”

At first Althea thought they were giving her their full names. After several repetitions, the noticeable pauses, and some very odd surnames, it finally dawned on her. Bridei’s last name wasn’t Woodsman, he was a woodsman.

The last four men to introduce themselves came from behind the ranks and took positions in front of them like leaders. They bowed but didn’t kneel or speak.

“My advisors and clanmasters,” Brennus murmured to her before he nodded to them, and they gave their name and position.

She recognized Ruadri, the shaman and the largest man in the hall. Weapons Master Kanyth looked so much like Brennus she guessed they were related. Taran spoke so softly that she barely heard him, and Cadeyrn looked at her as if she were a bug. Her back started to tingle oddly, making it hard to stand still.

“I’m very glad to meet all of you,” she told the men.

Instead of dismissing them, Brennus told the men to gather, and they moved out of their ranks to crouch in a large, perfect circle around Althea. Kanyth brought a wooden stool for her to sit on before he dropped down at her right side along with Ruadri. Taran and Cadeyrn did the same at Brennus’s left.

“Tell the men how you came to be here, my lady,” the chieftain said.

Althea had never been adept at group speaking, and being surrounded by so many big men was intimidating. But lives depended on this, so she did her best to describe how she’d been taken and the events that had followed. She felt a little ridiculous as she detailed the strange freezing power she had acquired, but none of the Skaraven laughed at her. She did notice the hatred that flared in almost every face when she spoke of the strange men working with the druid couple.

“I’m convinced that the guards aren’t human,” Althea finally said. “They may look like men on the surface, but they’re something else.” She turned to the chieftain, shimmying her shoulders to try to stop the now seriously annoying tingling. “You called them the famhairean. What does that mean?”

“Giants,” Brennus said. “A druid tribe fashioned them from fallen sacred oaks into statues of immense warriors. They placed them around their village and their ritual meadow to frighten away invaders. ’Twas thought over time the tribe’s magics changed them from dead wood to living creatures. They came fully to life after Romans massacred the Wood Dream. They’ve been killing mortal and druid kind ever since.”

“So, they were trees first,” Althea said. She pushed aside her disbelief and thought for a moment. “That explains why they’re so heavy and awkward, and their faces are cracked, like oak bark. Are they made entirely of wood?”

The chieftain gestured to Ruadri, who said, “The bodies they inhabit, aye, my lady. The life within them, no. Like the sacred grove that brought you to this time, they are eternal. Immortal.”

Althea flashed back to her memory of falling through the tunnel of writhing branches. Then a new realization dawned on her and she shivered.

“Then the two giants that attacked your chieftain aren’t dead,” she said. She looked up at the rest of the clan, and suddenly realized the enormity of what she was asking of the Skaraven. “Can anything destroy them?”

“We dinnae ken, my lady,” Ruadri said. “The druids trapped their spirits in a wood henge to remain imprisoned for all time. Yet somehow they escaped.”

“Something in the future must have smashed the henge,” Kanyth put in.

“The geomagnetic disturbance unleashed by the solar storm could have been the culprit,” she said and saw the Weapons Master’s expression and grimaced. “Sorry. I’m a scientist in my time, but that won’t make sense to anyone for another five hundred years. What I mean is, a change in the sun’s brightness probably caused the henge to fail.” Surreptitiously she reached behind her to rub the prickling spot on her back, but to her frustration she couldn’t reach it.

“The famhairean draw power from the daylight,” Ruadri told her. “’Tis their food. Darkness makes them weak.”

“Lily said they were slower at night. She’s one of the other women.” She gave up scratching her back and sighed. “The famhair who took her almost strangled her.”

“The giants always kill mortals who cross their path,” Cadeyrn said suddenly. “Why did they take five of you? Why let you live after you crossed over into this time?”

Here was the clan’s skeptic, Althea thought. “They said they needed druid kind to open the time portal. I also think that they still needed us for something more, but what I can’t say. None of us are druids, ah, druidesses, but it’s possible that we’re their descendants.” She glanced at Brennus. “I’m really not sure why they needed five of us.”

“Reserves, mayhap,” Kanyth said. “If one dies, another takes her place.”

Before Althea could ask him to elaborate Brennus said, “’Tis growing late. We shall begin preparations on the morrow.” As the men rose he gestured to Ruadri. “The lady requires your attendance.”

Aside from the sensitive spots on her back Althea felt fine, but she was curious about the clan’s healer, so she accompanied him and Brennus to another chamber adjoining the great hall.

As Ruadri lit some greasy plant stalks that served as candles, Althea discreetly inspected the room. Like the great hall it had been sparsely furnished, but rows of chiseled symbols and pictographs covered the stone walls. Ancient-looking stone vessels and pots had been carefully collected in one corner of the floor. Rendered fat, probably for making salves, quivered white on a curved plank of newly-cut wood. Bundles of plants and flowers hung to dry from a rack made of tree branches tied together with vines. She recognized heather, self-heal and yarrow, and smelled the distinct scent of cyclamen coming from a cluster of unfamiliar, broad green leaves.

“What is this, Shaman?” she asked Ruadri, and pointed to the bunch.

“One-bloom mint,” the shaman told her, and showed her a large, white flower he had dried. “’Tis good for clouded eyes.” He gestured toward the long, wide table covered with sacking. “Will you sit, my lady?”

Althea perched on the edge. “The herbal poultice you used on my legs worked almost as well as the raven spirit.”

“Aye, ’tis better than staunch weed. If I may look?” When she nodded Ruadri eased up the end of the trousers Brennus had given her.

The only sign that she had been wounded were some flecks of dried blood that still clung to her skin. When the shaman brushed them away her flesh looked completely unmarked.

“As I reckoned,” the shaman told her after checking the other leg. “Spirit healings dinnae close the wounds as much as scour them away.”

“So no scars,” she said and leaned down, and then jumped as Ruadri jerked away from her. “It’s all right. I just wanted to take a better look myself. Is there some kind of clan taboo about touching a shaman?”

“None, my lady.” He turned away from her and fussed with some of his herbs while he gave Brennus a direct look. “Chieftain, if you would raise the back of her tunic.”

“I can do that,” Althea said and pulled up the chunky hem and folded it over her shoulders before she presented her back to the men. “How does it look? The same as my legs?” When neither man said anything she glanced over her shoulder. “It feels almost like I have a sunburn, but it doesn’t hurt… Why are you two staring at me like that?”

“Your back wounds are healed, my lady,” the shaman said slowly. He started to say more, stopped and shook his head. “Chieftain.”

“I ken. ’Tis for me.” Brennus nodded at the entry to the chamber, and Ruadri abruptly departed.

Althea dropped the tunic and turned around to face the chieftain. “What’s wrong? Why did you send him away?” Her eyes widened as he pulled off his tunic. “Brennus, wait.”

“Only to be sure,” he said, and drew her to her feet. He took hold of her hand, and pressed it over the raven tattoo on his shoulder.

The tingling on Althea’s back vanished, replaced by a sweet warmth that slowly seeped through her skin and wrapped around her torso. Heat flooded her breasts and her face, and she could feel her cheeks reddening from it. At the same time she felt something move under her palm.

“My lady,” Brennus said and tightened his hand over hers.

“I feel it.” She shifted closer to him, unable to bear even the small gap between their bodies. “It’s like when we kissed…just so much stronger. Will you stop calling me ‘my lady’, please? I want to hear you say my name.”

“I shouldnae.” He cradled her cheek with his other hand. “But I will.” He tilted her head back to look into her eyes. “Althea.”

No one had ever said her name with such soft, deep pleasure.

“I’m actually named after a flowering plant,” she murmured, rubbing her cheek against his palm. “Althaea officinalis. The common marshmallow.” A chuckle slipped from her lips. “The ancient Egyptians boiled the plant’s root pulp with honey to soothe sore throats. Two thousand years later, we roast the candy version over campfires.” She paused and looked into his eyes. “Brennus.”

Gentle heat warmed her cheek where his palm caressed it.

“’Twill pass,” he said, though he didn’t sound too certain.

“This is coming from you,” she murmured, her eyelids drooping. “Some kind of magic again? God, it feels so good.”

“’Tis no’ my doing, my lady.” He released her hand, and some of the heat ebbed away. “The raven did heal the wounds on your back, but there are scars. They form the shape of my battle spirit.” He touched his ink. “The same as my skinwork does.”

“So I have a scar version of your tattoo on my back?” When he nodded she felt weirdly elated. “Why would it completely heal my legs but not my back?”

Brennus put his tunic on before he replied. “The raven has chosen you, my lady. It marked you as its own.”

Whatever he was feeling seemed to be rolling off him in dark waves, and it wasn’t the sleepy desire she felt. Was he angry? Offended? Had she somehow blown the chance to free the others? That last thought acted like a bucket of icy water on her head, clearing her mind of the somnolent longing.

“I don’t understand,” Althea said carefully. “Why would it do that? I’m not one of you. I don’t even belong in this time.” When he didn’t respond she said, “If this is inappropriate, then maybe I should talk to one of the women in your clan.”

“The Skaraven have none,” the chieftain said. “Females were forbidden to us.”

“What?” Her jaw dropped. “My God, why?”

“The tribes who sired us did so to use us as warrior-slaves. We were property, not free men.” His voice grew bitter. “They kept us secluded, away from all others. They didnae wish us to breed, and they believed us too dangerous to be trusted with females, so we were forbidden to take wives or even be near females.”

Suddenly she understood, and it appalled her. “That’s why the men stared at me like that. Why Ruadri was so afraid to touch me. You and your clan have never known any women?”

“Before you came,” Brennus said, almost sadly. “We had never spoken to one.”