Free The Warrior and the Druidess by Cornelia Amiri

spell to lull the sentries into a deep sleep, and we shall raid the fort. The gods bid us to take no prisoners.”
    Hurrahs rung through the hall. Spear bearers shook their long weapons so hard, the brass apples on them rattled with the din of impending victory. A zealous energy swelled in her. Rome’s demise was near at hand. A desire to scream the war cry of her now extinct tribe, the Ordovices, bubbled inside her. She almost grabbed a spear and led them all to war, as her grandmother had done.
    Instead, having taken a deep breath, she pointed to the man at her side, her husband-to-be. “Brude, son of Calach, will lead the surprise attack.” In her mind, she saw him battling the Romans, brandishing his gleaming long sword. “Out-manned and caught off guard, the sleeping legionaries will not even have their armor on.” She gazed into the eyes of the chiefs standing before her, and she felt like a war leader, like Boudica. “Do not take time to sever their heads for battle trophies. Hasten to slay as many as you can, and then retreat into the woods before dawn.”
    “So be it,” the men roared. “Victory is ours.”
    Brude swung his head toward Calach. “Father, I bid we march now.” He turned to stare hard in the faces of each of the northern chiefs, challenging them to join Calach. “We ride to war to kill the Roman dogs and leave Governor Agricola shaking in his hobnail boots.”
    Every chief, to a man, matched the young warrior’s gaze. Brude swallowed and kept his body straight with the full aplomb of a great war leader.
    Tanwen schooled herself to not whoop with glee as tremulous pride rippled through her when, one by one, the northern chiefs stepped forward and swore allegiance to Brude.
    Then, in a great flurry, the men scattered to their wheelhouses. Almost as suddenly, each returned, naked save for the permanent tattoos on their legs, arms, and chests. When the Morrigan gazed down on them from the sky, she saw only symbols of her power. No armor was stronger than bare skin with magical markings to insure the gods’ favor. The nobles clutched long swords and the other warriors grasped spears and shields. Tanwen smiled with pride.
    Gethin ran to her, wearing only his braies. Huctia sprinted beside him, dressed in naught but a tunic. Each handed Tanwen a jug of leek oil.
    “My thanks.” She turned to see that the warriors had lined up in front of her. Lossio stood beside her. She called upon the gods to be with the warriors as she and Lossio rubbed their muscular bodies with potent leek oil. Lastly, Tanwen rubbed the oil deep into Gethin’s chest and smoothed the leek potion  over Huctia's toned arms and legs.
    She grasped both of their hands. “Take care, my dear friends, and kill as many Romans as you can.”
    “So be it,” said Gethin.
    “That we will do,” added Huctia.
    Tanwen’s heart beat as fast and as loud as a bodhran as she watched Brude vault onto his stallion. Swirls of blue tattoos etched into his flesh spread up his legs, from just below his knees up his sinewy, muscular thighs. Engraved with the warrior design, his body was an absolute living work of art—and a deadly weapon. Blue Celtic tracery swirled to his buttocks, which were as firm and rounded as a standing stone. His waist was the only part of him not bare; it was ringed by a belt of hemp, dyed blue with woad and tied in intricate Celtic knots, one after the other, from which his sword hung. Wild beasts drawn with swirls of blue flowed up the plane of his back, across the bunched muscles and streamed to his shoulders and down his arm.
    She took a deep breath. Her burning, throbbing body lurched forward, urging her to leap on the horse with him. She clutched her chest. Gods, bring him back safely. He cannot end up covered with blood. He is needed by his tribe, all of Caledonia, and me.
    She hung her head and solemnly prayed to the gods with all her might. Lifting her eyes, she watched the other Pict nobles vault onto their