"With the Scotti invading from Ireland," she said quietly, the word Scotti translating into "brigand" in Stirling's mind, "the Irish are pouring more men and settlers into Dalriada, so these poor wretches have nowhere to go. Their Pictish kin in Fortriu won't give them land—Fortriu has enough trouble, holding its borders against the Irish. Strathclyde doesn't want them, any more than you do, in Gododdin." Covianna sighed. "Most of them want nothing more than passage to Galwyddel, I'll wager. We Britons have long since conquered the Galwyddellian Picts, of course, but it's a better destination for them than many I could name. Galwyddel has need of fighting men loyal to the Britons, if the queen of Galwyddel—and the Dux Bellorum—have the wisdom to gain that loyalty." Covianna glanced at Morgana, then back to Stirling. "If Artorius would grant these wretches safe passage, a place to settle, and a little training, he would gain several hundred infantry to defend the western coast against the Irish."

Her tone hinted most clearly that Artorius would do no such thing, particularly since his sister had just been widowed. At least, he wouldn't without a good deal of prompting from his allies—and Stirling realized abruptly that Covianna wanted him to argue the case to the Dux Bellorum. Her take on the situation made sense. A great deal of sense, both politically and from a military standpoint. Who better to throw into the breach against Irish invaders than desperate refugees who already hated the Irish bitterly? It would certainly save Briton lives. The trouble was, Stirling had no idea whether or not those lives were supposed to be saved. Anything he did out of the ordinary might change history, defeating his whole purpose in coming here. It was hellish, not knowing what he could and couldn't safely do, particularly when the soldier in him recognized a militarily sound solution to multiple problems. Ancelotis, whose brother lay in an early grave, also remained silent, for perfectly understandable reasons.

Covianna's eyes went as chilly as the morning wind off the distant Atlantic. Artorius was shouting commands to the cataphracti officers when a rumble of thunder rolled into their awareness, from further down the Roman road. A living thunder, Stirling realized abruptly, hundreds of horses at the gallop. An instant later, an immense body of heavily armed Celtic cavalry swept across the farthest visible Pictish camps, laying waste in a charge that struck the Picts like an earthquake. The newly arrived army drove the men back with brutal force, hacking down any who offered armed resistance, setting fire to ragged possessions, driving off weary ponies and scraggly herds of Highlands sheep.

Artorius shouted, "Attack! They're trapped between Strathclyde's men and ourselves! Cut them down where they stand!"

Stirling bit his tongue to keep from protesting. He had no right to protest—even if he'd dared risk changing history. Artorius led a second devastating charge that smashed into the desperate Picts, a hammer blow against the anvil of Strathclyde's forces. The Picts reeled, struck back desperately with pikes and arrows and spears, spitting the horses more often than the men, so that riders went crashing to the ground beneath their thrashing, pain-crazed mounts. Stirling had no choice but to follow Artorius' lead; for him to take any other action would amount to treason in the face of the enemy. The cataphracti of Gododdin roared into battle at his heels, even as Stirling struggled to free his heavy sword from its scabbard.

He managed to draw the sword and attempted a few ineptly clumsy swings with it, endangering nothing but his own horse. His mount clamped its ears back and went stiff-legged in a battle maneuver that nearly unseated him. In utter desperation, Stirling yielded to the fierce mind sharing brain space with his own. Ancelotis, clamoring for control of their actions, took over instantly, which left Stirling in the eerie position of passive observer while his body hacked and hewed and cut down men in a broad swath of destruction.

It was over within minutes. The cataphracti hunted down the last of the Pictish men through the forest and butchered them before herding the women and children across open fields toward the Roman road. Stirling found himself trembling with fatigue and shock. He clutched a filthy, gore-stained sword and blood dripped down his armor. He felt sick with the brutality of it, even after the combat and death he'd witnessed in Belfast. It was not at all the same, shooting a man or seeing someone blown to bits by a terrorist's bomb as it was gutting someone on swordpoint at arm's reach. Killing with a blade was far more personal, both for the man killed and the man doing the killing. He found no honor at all in riding down and slaughtering refugees who were all but helpless.

Ancelotis reacted to this with cold rage. Look you there, Stirling of Caer-Iudeu, and tell me again that yon barbarians were helpless! Men of the cataphracti were down by the dozens, wounded horses screaming, riders hacked to death by enraged, desperate men. Artorius himself had dismounted to kneel over one such fallen man. A boy in his mid teens, freckled and fair, with thick, copper-colored hair visible beneath the edges of his helmet, had crouched over the fallen man, as well, his distress so deep, it was clear the dead man could be no one but the boy's father. When Stirling caught a gleam of gold at the boy's neck—and at the fallen warrior's—he realized with a deep chill that a king had fallen in this battle. Another king, dead at the hands of Picts...

Ancelotis groaned aloud and spurred his horse closer, providing Stirling with a name. Dumgual Hen of Strathclyde, may the saints help us... . Stirling slid out of the saddle in time to hear the boy cry, " 'Tis my fault! Mother charged me to watch his back, and I failed him! Artorius, what am I to do?"

Artorius laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Take him home. Bury him with honors and give your mother what comfort and courage you can. No man could have guarded his back any better than you, lad. The pikemen took his horse down so fast, no one could have reached him before the bastards had cut his throat. You tried valiantly, lad, as did I."

The boy's tears tracked messily down his face, but Artorius' words had clearly eased at least some of his wild grief and guilt. The Dux Bellorum hesitated, then added heavily, "Strathclyde's council of elders must name a new ruler, lad, and quickly. Do not be distressed, Clinoch, whatever their decision, whether they confirm you now or name another to hold Strathclyde until you are ready. I will cast my vote in your favor, for I saw how well you fought this day, and I know you to be a steady and wise lad, with the nerve to do what must be done. But your councillors must act in the best interests of your people, just as the councillors of Gododdin have named Ancelotis to the throne until Gwalchmai is older. You must vow to aid them however you can."

The boy's head snapped up and his face washed white beneath its dusting of tan freckles. The full import of his father's death struck with devastating force as it came home that he might well be called upon to take his father's place as king—or, perhaps even worse, not be called.

Ancelotis slid to the ground and strode across to clasp Clinoch's arm in a grip of equals. "I grieve with you, Clinoch, and with all of Strathclyde. Your father will be sorely missed. But," and he, too, laid a hand on the boy's trembling shoulder, "your father has trained you well. My sword and men are at your call, should you need us. I pledge to defend Strathclyde if defense be needed in this time of confusion and grief. But you will avenge him, Clinoch, just as I will avenge my slain brother, this I swear by all that is holy."