The Warrior and the Druidess by Cornelia Amiri

with Pict symbols, leapt into the air. Calach charged from the rear. The united Pict army poured into the fort in the thousands, all ready to die rather than be ruled by Rome.
    Awakened from sleep, the Romans were bare of armor and weapons as armed Picts struck with strong shields, sharpened swords and deadly spears.
    Legionnaires scattered like ants in a stomped hill. Many dropped to their knees and begged Brude for their lives. A few Romans were able to grab armor, but most could barely pick up a sword, as they were all asleep when the fort was lit a fire by Caledonii torches. The Picts in bare skin and the Romans in red tunics, metal clanged against metal as they clashed hand to hand.
    Brude swung his long sword. The blade locked with a legionnaire’s. They circled, then stepped back. Brude whacked the legionnaire again. The Roman sidestepped and then thrust his short sword. Brude leapt clear. He swung again, and metal clashed. Calach snuck up behind the Roman and rammed his blade into the soldier’s back. He dropped dead.
    Brude vowed to live as a free Celt or die battling Romans. He blocked the next legionnaire with his round shield and rammed forward. Romans jabbed spears and thrust short swords at him. He charged forward, thwarting the blows with his shield and whacking Roman heads with his sword.
    Bodies fell. The sweet yet acrid stench of blood hung in the air. Scarlet dripped off blades, shields and limbs, both whole and severed. Men jabbed spears back and forth. The Picts used a warrior trick, staring at one man when they were really targeting the man at his side. At the moment of attack, they shifted their gaze and struck in one fluid movement, taking the legionnaires off guard. The Romans’ jaws dropped in surprise as they were struck dead.
    The air pulsed with the din of swords clanging against spears and wooden shields banging metal blades. The Caledonii spearmen attacked in pairs. With their two-against-one advantage, the Calidonii slew the Romans swiftly. Amidst the heat of the blazing fire and dark smoke, the ear-piercing screams of the dying and the haunting war cries of the Picts, men fell.
    A Pict warrior fighting beside Brude, with hair spiked like a badger’s mane and with woad paste like Brude’s, shoved a Roman to his knees with his shield. He grabbed him by his hair, yanked his head up and chopped it off.
    The severed head fell in front of Brude’s feet. He stepped over it.  Breathing heavily from fatigue, he drove onward. He would win or die. He would never be captured or enslaved. He leapt into the air and came down with his blade impaling a Roman. He swung the heavy long sword left and right, pushing on. Roman blood soaked the ground. His life or theirs: whack, swing, thrust.
    For freedom, for the tribe and for the future of his children to be, he moved his shield with his blade in the rhythm of battle. Swords swung on all sides of him. Men yelled in death throes. His face felt sweaty and bloody.
    He ran toward a solider, and, with all his might, he hacked the blade into the Roman’s neck. The soldier gasped as blood poured from his throat. He tumbled to the ground. The more Romans Brude killed, the more came at him, but he didn’t hesitate. He plunged forward.
    His father’s voice interrupted the height of his battle lust. Calach yelled, “Their reinforcements have arrived. Agricola just rode in.”
    Brude glanced at the influx of Roman soldiers. “We face two forces.” He raised his voice to a reverberating bellow. “Retreat!”
     
    * * * * *
     
    Tanwen sat on the grass of the sacred hill, resting her back against the firm long stone. She was in the middle of a trance when her body became tight and her breath shallow. She was overcome with the sense of dread. It was like a weight pushing inside her. The visage of a man formed in her mind— tall for a Roman, standing straight as a spear, the red plume on his gleaming bronze helmet added a foot to his height. His nose and chin were