Dreaming the Hound

by Manda Scott

  “Is it certain that he followed Philus’ slave band?” she asked.

  Dubornos shrugged. “No, but it’s what he said he would do.”

  Airmid said, “He was a changed man after you spoke to him. Then his two men, Gaius and Titus, came back—he had sent them to follow the slavers. They brought bad news, or so it seemed. Before they left, all three broke the copper armbands that the governor gave them as guest-gifts.”

  Cygfa smiled, sourly. “I think our ‘king’ wishes us to know that he is no longer Rome’s whore, although whether he has the courage to inform the governor of this in the spring, of course, is another question. If he’s lucky, the snow will close the tracks before any of his once-friends who still side with Rome can take horse and ride west with the news.”

  “He’ll still die for treason if anyone in Camulodunum hears of it, now or later.” Breaca turned side on to the wind. “Airmid? Is there anything we can do?”

  The dreamer had not moved. Her body leaned into the wind, as it did when she was least present. She shook her head. “The gods have sent the snow to hold us safe from the legions. It doesn’t matter to them if we don’t find ’Tagos before he is slain by Philus.”

  Breaca knelt and pressed her hands in the snow. Cold burned off the last remnants of sleep. “It might do if, instead, he is captured alive and taken to Camulodunum for questioning—I told him about the she-bear dancing and Cunomar’s honour guard and I would not like to depend on his ability to withstand the inquisitors. I think we should ride out to look for him.”

  Airmid stood at her left shoulder, solid and safe. The other two were already armed. Blades of Breaca’s making splintered the snowlight, dancing.

  Cygfa said, “So do we. That’s why we woke you.” They were four, three warriors and a dreamer, riding slowly, without light, through dense woodland with Cygfa as their scout. It was not true that she could see in the dark, but close enough to make no difference.

  Snow drifted down through the trees, no longer driven by the wind. It was too deep now for easy travel; if the gods required them safe, they had achieved their aim. Their tracks closed over as they rode so that their passing left no trace.

  Breaca was not yet fully awake. Fragmented dreams of the warrior-trials wove patterns across the unlit night, so that she saw Cunomar, endlessly, and the half-dozen of his honour guard who were exceptional. Skull drums tapped out their mind-eating rhythms and each of the white-painted warriors came at her, grinning, with bear claws instead of blades and she must match them with only her blade. In the dreams, as in the night through which she rode, she wished the sword in her hand were the one she had fought with all her life, not the substitute made in secret for the warrior-trials. With her father’s blade, she could have set Cunomar at her right hand and Cygfa in the shield-place at her left and all Rome would not have—

  A horse screamed in final agony and a man shouted and then he, too, screamed; another man howled an order in Latin.

  Cygfa said, “That’s Philus,” and Airmid, “The dead man is Gaius. ’Tagos has only Titus left to defend him.”

  “So they are two against Philus’ two dozen. And we are four so we—” Cygfa spun her horse on the snow. “Gods … is that Cunomar?”

  Breaca nodded. The havoc of the skull drums filled her mind, making it impossible to speak. The blade in her hand sang for the first time since its making. Neither of these could be heard by the others, but the distant sound of warriors running through a forest, and the high keening of the she-bears, was known to anyone who had fought alongside Ardacos in the west.

  Dubornos, calm mind in battle, tilted his head to one side. “Your son is close,” he said. “If we wait, we will outnumber the slavers, but I think if we ride hard we may reach the battleground while they are still many to our few.”

  They should have waited, all of them knew it, but a second horse screamed and Breaca recognized ’Tagos’ bay mare, her gift to him in the summer, and, suddenly, for no clear reason, she knew that she did not want him dead, and that, very badly, she wanted to fight.

  The scar on her palm seared as if newly cut; she had forgotten the joy buried in the pain. For the first time in three years, she felt the pull of true battle and it ran like fire in her veins. Her mare became harder to hold and she did not want to.

  She glanced at Airmid, who could have stopped them and did not. Breaca said, “We will be six against two dozen. If the gods did not condone this, they would have sent more snow to stop us, surely?”

  “Surely.” The dreamer pointed up at the sky. “The snow is on its way. If you must have your battle, have it quickly, else you will be fighting through white blindness.”

  “Thank you. Keep yourself safe.”

  Breaca let her mare have its head. Cygfa and Dubornos raced her across the untrampled snow.

  Their horses were war trained; they ran towards the havoc of combat without urging. At a curve in the path, they came upon the slavers’ camp, in which Philus, untimely, had ordered torches lit and the fire built up and the sudden rush of light showed trees and a small stream and a panic of slavers pressing their backs against the gully sides, facing a few who became less few and then, horrifyingly, too many.

  The snow began slowly, the battle fast and hard. Cygfa fought on Breaca’s left, in the shield-place of highest honour. Very soon—sooner than any of them had expected—Cunomar emerged from the trees to the right with the greater part of his honour guard around him. The rest, led by Ardacos, came at the slavers from the back, sweeping round in a bear’s paw that crushed the enemy as a hammer crushes hot metal on an anvil.

  Over half of Philus’ men were battle-trained mercenaries. They had fought for the legions in Iberia, Mauretania and the Germanies against warriors who sucked the marrow from the bones of their still-living enemies. Instinct and long training served them well. They made a wedge without being ordered and then, when Ardacos’ bear paw began to close, they made a square, turning about and about so that every man faced outwards and their small, round riding shields met at the edges with room to let their short swords stab out between.

  At the back of the square, the slaughter had already begun. There, slavers who were not mercenaries and had no idea of how to conduct themselves in battle had sought protection behind wicker wattles left over from the high days of a herding summer. So doing, they had blocked the only route of escape. Ardacos sent six warriors against twelve men and could have sent half that number. The victory howls of the six youths rang above all the others sounds of carnage as each took life for the first time in the name of the bear.

  The mercenaries knew already that escape was impossible. They could count and understood the odds and if they had not yet encountered the she-bear, they had faced other warriors of other nations who ran unclothed into battle with the veil of their gods about them and their courage bright for all to see. Every man chose one of those coming and spat on his blade, swearing to kill that one before he died.

  Breaca saw her man. His eyes burned her. His short sword sang for her alone. Hers sang with a ferocity that matched the she-bear. She raised it, letting it taste the killing air, and was the Boudica again, and her world was perfect.

  She urged her mare forward with her knees. She could not see Philus, either in the square or in the slaughter pen behind it, but there was no time to look properly; Cygfa had already pushed forward at an angle and cut down on her right to break the arm of a black-haired ex-legionary.

  Blood sprayed from a split vessel and the man dropped to his knees, staring at his own leaking life. Breaca’s man cursed and kicked the fallen body sideways, striving to close the gap in the shield wall.

  Breaca pushed her mare into the space and drove her blade down, back-handed. She met iron, and twice again. Her opponent was good; he fought on foot against a warrior on horseback and gave no ground. Very quickly, he stopped trying to kill Breaca and strove instead to cripple her horse. He might have succeeded but that the mare had been trained by one who valued
her mount’s life as her own and the beast knew how to keep itself safe while seeking to give her rider a still point from which to strike. A strike from her forefoot ripped the man’s helmet from his head and the Boudica’s fourth cut, or her fifth, cracked through his skull to wedge on his upper teeth. She dragged the sword free as he fell.

  The passing of his ghost distracted Breaca, so that she missed the moment when Cunomar, fighting for the first time in full battle, took his man. His battle yell scattered the ghosts and Breaca turned in time to see him stoop to plunge his hand in the blood of the fallen foe and print a bloody palm on his upper arm. He raised his head to cry again and his eyes met hers. His joy was Caradoc’s, but sharper. He grinned and raised his red-stained palm. “For father,” he yelled, “and for Graine.”

  Breaca made the salute of the warrior and saw his world, too, made perfect.

  The din of battle abated. The legionaries’ square was broken beyond redemption and the killing was faster now, as men saw their deaths and embraced them. Dubornos was nearby. Breaca caught at his arm, shouting, “Where’s ’Tagos? Where’s Philus?”

  “There. Together. Fighting.” He pointed with one elbow, swinging his horse round. “Philus has the best of it.”

  She was the Boudica; she had only to think and they followed her. Even as she turned, Cygfa took her place to the left. Cunomar was already running on her right. Dubornos grinned at the impatience of youth and held his horse in, awaiting her word.

  The whisper of the skull drums still rang in her head. Snow melted on her naked arms. Breaca pointed her blade so that the light of Philus’ torches flared along the metal. “Help him.”

  They were too late. She knew that as the mare sprang across the bloody slush. Philus heard them and chose not to turn. ’Tagos heard Cunomar’s bear howl and the sheer power of it stole his attention.

  He would have died, perhaps, in any case; he had never been a warrior of any great skill, but it hurt to see him cut down as the slavers had been, with a blow to the legs that he failed to block and then one to the shoulder of his bad arm that he could never have blocked, but that crushed his ribs and the lungs within them, and then a final one to the head, which did not land, because Philus should have looked, should have known that Dubornos, who was ’Tagos’ cousin, was behind him and would never let the death of his blood kin pass unavenged.

  Breaca heard Cunomar shout his congratulations and saw that he did not begrudge another man a kill that might have been his own. Truly, the world had changed.

  Philus died more swiftly than ’Tagos, who lay, whistling bubbles of blood through a break in his nose. Breaca slid from her horse and knelt at his side in the thickening snow. Her children made an arc about her, with Dubornos, and Airmid, who had not fought but kept the night free from unwanted ghosts.

  ’Tagos’ one hand was chilled, his palm slickly wet. He opened his mouth to speak and no sound came from his battered lungs. He closed his eyes and Breaca watched his brow furrow. With his eyes still shut, he said, “Philus sent a messenger to Camulodunum … Sorry. They will know about Graine. Gaius followed him and came back. He should have—”

  Breaca squeezed his hand. “Gaius has crossed the river to Briga’s care. Whatever he should have done, he knows now better than we do.”

  “As I will. Soon.” A smile ghosted across his lips. “The Eceni have a new ruler, one with the will for war. You can raise your war host when the snow clears and if the legions march west out of Camulodunum the city will be ripe for the taking. Lead your warriors well.”

  “As long as I am able. ’Tagos, open your eyes.”

  He did so, with effort. Breaca leaned over so that he could see her without turning his head, or his eyes. Bending, she kissed him on the mouth, dryly, tasting the blood on his breath.

  Quietly, she said, “Wait for me in the lands of the dead. Airmid and Caradoc will both live beyond us. There will be time enough then to find what we might have been.”

  It was the greatest gift she could offer, freely given. He died with joy in his eyes and his grip firm on her hand.

  IV

  WINTER AD 59—EARLY SPRING AD 60

  CHAPTER 27

  ON THE MORNING AFTER ’TAGOS’ DEATH, BREACA TOOK back the ancestor-torc of the Eceni, that had been her mother’s and her mother’s mother’s, back through the line for uncounted generations.

  Nothing had changed and everything. ’Tagos lay dead, and Philus with him, and there was no going back. Breaca woke to the understanding of that, and lay listening to the wind drive the snow against the walls of Airmid’s hut. She sent her mind forward to spring and what might be done and could see no way to keep the legions at bay while the war host was gathered that might defeat them.

  She felt a draught and heard voices and knew that she was not fully awake. Fragments of dreams held her, of snow and torn flesh and the fading light in ’Tagos’ eyes as he died. Struggling to bring herself into morning, she felt Airmid come close, and with her the ancient dark dryness of the ancestor-dreamer.

  Too fast, she sat up, and opened her eyes to a dazzle of firelight on red Siluran gold. The torc of the ancestors took up all of her vision, a gift and a curse and alive with others’ dreaming.

  “Breaca?” Airmid was there, with a hand on her shoulder. “What do you see?”

  “That the ancestor-dreamer lives within the gold. I didn’t know before.”

  Breaca ran a finger along the cold metal, feeling the solid curve, shaped by centuries of wearing. Outwardly, it was the same as it had always been, a miracle of woven wires, with loops at the end pieces for the kill-feathers, after the manner of the ancestors.

  She had worn it first as a child, when all that had mattered was that she felt royal and could seem so to others. Years after, on the battlefield of the Roman invasion, it had marked Macha’s willing death and the sacrifice made so that others might live. Breaca had felt only grief and loneliness in taking it and later, passing it to Silla, had done her best to shield her younger sister from both of those. When ’Tagos had given the torc to Cygfa in the clearing, the dignity that passed with it had been obvious, but nothing else.

  Only now, because she had known the ancestor-dreamer, did Breaca feel the rhythms of power woven into the gold. Stretching down from the past, they touched equally the shining battle soul within her and the darker core that had called once for vengeance for Caradoc, and, failing to call cleanly, had brought home Valerius instead.

  The memory of that still haunted her nights. She said, “Did my mother see it like this?”

  Airmid sat on the end of the bed and laid the torc between them. “No. Your mother’s power was not of the serpent-spear, nor did she ever have need to call it. The ancestors come only to those who need them, and can stand firm in their presence.” She looked up, and was going to say something in jest and changed her mind and said, seriously, “You can do that. It takes a different courage from battle, but you have it.”

  “Maybe.” Memories of the ancestors’ cave made cold the caverns of her mind. Breaca rose and began to dress, leaving the torc on the bed hides.

  After a while, Airmid picked it up and laid it on the hearth stone by the fire. She took a twist of unwoven wool and dried it of snow. “You are the Boudica,” she said. “Today, after ’Tagos’ death, you lead the Eceni in name as well as fact. It’s not the torc that makes you either of these. You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to. We could lay it in the fire and melt it now and the spears would still give you their oaths in spring, the war host would still gather to the sign of the serpent-spear.”

  “Which would be powerless.”

  “Not entirely. You have your own power and it does not come only from the ancestors.”

  “But I am not fighting this war only for myself.” Breaca came to sit on the opposite side of the fire. Flames spun in the draught and, fleetingly, took on the shapes of the dead: of Macha, of Silla, of ’Tagos, smiling as he died. She looked deeper, to the embers, and sought her
own mother, who had worn the torc with dignity and untainted honour. No-one came, only a scattered childhood memory of the elder grandmother, whom she had loved, and the old woman’s voice, lost in the crackles of the fire. You won’t lose me, I promise you that.

  She had not asked a clear question and it was not a clear answer but, quietly, as if from some distance away, Airmid said, “Not all of the ancestors are dangerous. And the dark is unsafe only to the extent that we fear it.”

  “And fear is the only enemy. You sound like Luain mac Calma.” Breaca reached for the torc and held it a moment near the flames. She was fully awake now, and the prickling danger of the ancestor was less than it had been, gone with the beads of snow-melt. The torc lay across her palms, quiet in its majesty. She said, “It would be a pity to melt it. Graine should wear it one day, and her daughters. I would not leave it to them tainted with my own fears.” She looked up, and found she could smile, which was good. “Do you know the words of the binding-oath?”

  Airmid shook her head. “Not well enough to speak them aloud, but I think they would be more for the witnesses than for you. The torc extracts its own oaths; taking it, knowing what you do, is enough.”

  In the past, there would have been ceremony, and the full three hundred spears of her honour guard to witness the moment when Breaca, first born of the royal line, took back the torc of her ancestors. Dreamers sent from Mona would have offered speeches and told of their dreams. Her daughters would have pledged themselves to follow her, honouring all that she honoured.

  On the day after ’Tagos’ death, it felt better done in private, with Airmid alone to bear witness to the hesitation and the small act of courage that pushed her over yet another threshold so that, with her own hands, Breaca took the torc and fitted it to her neck. It lay solidly alive against her skin, cool and dry and serpentine. The fit was perfect, with the end pieces resting in the hollows below her collarbones and the weight set to the back so that her shoulders took the bulk of it. It had felt exactly the same when she was a child, and far smaller.