Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  was not the only Druid with the army, like Caratac she had become a

  living talisman. And there were times, even here, when the trance of

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  vision came upon her, not as in the ordered ritual of Mona, but as a sud-

  den intuition that left her in a confusion of hope and fear.

  “Our scouts report that the governor has brought the Fourteenth

  Legion down from Viroconium and the Twentieth up from the south,”

  said one of the Ordovice men.

  “The Twentieth, which used to be at Camulodunon?” echoed Epi-

  lios. “I look forward to seeing them again . . .” His grin was a youthful

  reflection of his brother’s—the last two sons of Cunobelin were to-

  gether, leading the men of Britannia to war.

  “They lie in marching camps down by the fords where the rivers

  join. Close to twenty thousand men in one camp, and the cavalry in the

  other.”

  “We have nearly their numbers, and cavalry won’t be much use

  where I mean to bring them.” Caratac gestured to Lhiannon. “Tell

  them, maiden, the vision you shared with me—”

  All eyes turned to Lhiannon as she stepped into the fi relight, put-

  ting back her veil. “This was a dream—it is for you to interpret it, but

  this is what I saw. I was like a bird, looking down on the land of Britan-

  nia. Below me I saw eagles flying, following Caratac from ocean to river

  across the pastures and tilled lands. But when he took to the forest they

  struggled to follow, and when he took to the mountains they grew

  weary. My vision failed then and I could not see the battle’s end. But if

  you fi ght on a hill you have a chance. That is what I see.”

  “The land itself will fight for us, you’ll see.” Caratac bent to his dirt

  map and began to point at the hills and rivers modeled there. “The Ro-

  mans fight like lions on level ground, but our men are like wildcats on

  their native hills. We will tempt them with a little opposition at the

  river crossing and then pull back to this hill—” The stick he was using

  as a pointer stabbed down.

  “The old hillfort?” asked a Durotrige warrior who had been with

  him since Vespasian’s campaign. “You’ll not be planning to trap us

  there!”

  Lhiannon shuddered. There were still nights when she woke whim-

  pering from memories of the fall of the Dun of Stones.

  “No, though it may serve as a last defense if things go ill,” Caratac

  replied. “We’ll take up our positions on the slopes leading up to it,

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  where the lie of the land will crowd them, and anywhere the climb is

  easy we can block with ramparts of stones.”

  “Stones we have in plenty,” said one of the Ordovices, and everyone

  laughed.

  Stones, and cold wind, thought Lhiannon as the breeze that always

  blew strongest at sunset searched out every imperfection in the weave of

  her cloak of creamy wool. The sun had gone down behind the western

  mountains and dusk was drawing a veil of shadow across the lesser hills.

  The men were arguing over which tribes should stand where on the hill

  and had forgotten her.

  Tomorrow they would be on the move again. Lhiannon made her

  way through the camp toward the tent she shared with Caratac’s wife

  and daughter and the few other women whose value as potential hos-

  tages was too great to leave them where they might risk capture. Now

  and again a man would look up as she passed his fire. She smiled in re-

  turn. It cost her nothing to give that comfort. But who, she wondered,

  will comfort me?

  She thrust the thought away. In her first months with the army the

  day’s march would have left her too tired to think of anything but sleep

  when night fell. But after more than two years in the field she was as

  tough as any of the men. Sleep would come hard, with a battle in store.

  But she would have to try. If she was lucky, she would not dream.

  Some men dreamed of wealth or glory. Prasutagos, his wife had

  come to realize, dreamed of buildings. When Boudica’s gaze followed

  the curling smoke upward she still had to blink in amazement at the

  added height that the second level of the new roundhouse gave. The

  area around the hearth was large enough to seat all the chieftains; roomy

  chambers for the household were created by the partitions that ran from

  the main supports to the outer wall. There was nothing like the king’s

  two-tiered hall anywhere in the Celtic lands.

  They had only moved in a month before. Beneath the scents of

  woodsmoke and mutton stew there was still a hint of limewash and fresh

  straw. But for the children, to whom the whole world was made of won-

  ders, their father’s new house had become an accustomed miracle. At

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  the moment, putting off the inevitable banishment to their beds was

  their concern.

  “A story, Mama!” Rigana begged. “Tell us one of the stories you

  learned on the magic island!” Little Tilla clapped her hands.

  Boudica smiled to think that her main use for the lore the Druids

  had taught with such solemnity was as a source of children’s tales. And

  yet these stories were the wellspring of their religion. It was more im-

  portant than ever that their children learn them now, when so many

  were turning to the victorious Roman gods.

  “Well, now—since it is summer, I should tell you about one of the

  gods who make things grow. He plays the harp to order the seasons, and

  in His orchard there is always fruit on the trees. We call Him Dagdevos

  the Good God, or the Father of All, or the Red One All-Knowing, or

  the Good Striker, and He can do anything. He is one of the kings of the

  Shining Ones.”

  “Like Papa,” said Tilla wisely.

  “Just like Papa,” Boudica agreed, keeping her face straight with an

  effort as her husband blushed. “When the monster-people attacked His

  land He had to survive the tests they set upon Him. He had to eat a por-

  ridge made from four-score gallons of milk, and He did it, though His

  belly was so full His tunic scarcely covered him.”

  At this, the look the girls turned on their father was frankly specula-

  tive, and Temella and Bituitos both gave way to laughter.

  “His belly’s not all that was dragging, I’ve heard,” whispered Eoc,

  and the laughter began once more.

  “Oh, do you mean His club?” Boudica asked innocently. “When

  He strikes, it kills instantly, but if He touches you with the other end

  you come back to life once more.”

  “That’s the end He uses on the Lady of Ravens,” Prasutagos retali-

  ated. “Battle goddess though She may be, He has a weapon to win

  Her . . .”

  “But His best possession is a magic cauldron,” said Boudica, though

  by now she was blushing as well. “Some say it is the same as the one into

  which you put dead warriors to bring them alive, but others say it can

  feed an army, and whatever food you like best it will serve.”

  “Would it se
rve honey cakes?” asked Rigana.

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  “An’ bilberries in cream?” her sister echoed. “I want to go there!”

  “Where you should be going now is your bed,” Prasutagos said with

  a comical frown. “You can feast with Dagdevos in your dreams . . .”

  When both girls had been hugged and kissed and handed off to their

  nurses, he turned to Boudica. “You did not tell them the story of how

  Dagdevos makes love to the Morrigan each Samhain to still her rage

  and restore balance to the world,” he murmured with a glance that

  brought the blush back to her skin.

  “I think that one can wait until the girls are older,” she said primly.

  “And I have never quite understood how even gods can manage to do it,

  straddling the stream . . .”

  “Do you prefer a bed, then? For if so, I have one . . .”

  As he took her hand Boudica smiled, knowing herself blessed by the

  gods.

  W ith the other Druids, Lhiannon had made the off erings to Le-

  nos, which was the name they gave the war god here, spilling the blood

  of a bull upon the ground and hanging the carcass from the branches of

  an ancient oak tree. Had it been accepted? There had been no roll of

  thunder, only the ravens, calling as they always did when an army was

  on the move. It took no Druid to interpret that omen—where humans

  fought, ravens would feed.

  But that night, Lhiannon had dreamed again. Once more she

  soared above a battlefield, and this time the Romans, like armored in-

  sects, were advancing up the hill. The eagle god strode before them

  with a tread like thunder and the Britons fell before them, blood splat-

  tering the rocks like rain. She had been weeping when she woke, know-

  ing it for a dream of doom. And she had known as well that there was

  nothing she could do. The Romans were already on their way. Any

  rumor of defeat would break the British army before they struck a

  blow. Caratac could have escaped with a small band into the wilder-

  ness, but a force so great had no choice but to stand. Even to tell the

  king what she had seen might deprive him of the hope that could prove

  her vision wrong. She could only watch, and pray, and hope the gods of

  Britannia were listening.

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  Or is it that we are praying for the wrong things? she wondered sud-

  denly.

  The hill from which they watched the battle unfolding did not give

  her quite the vantage of her vision, but neither did she have the same

  detachment. After slowing the enemy’s crossing with slingstones and ar-

  rows, the British had retreated in good order to the slope of the hill,

  pulling in to meet the Roman advance in depth as it grew steeper,

  shooting and throwing spears from behind the drystone barricades that

  protected them from the ballista bolts of the enemy.

  About midmorning, Caratac’s wife and daughter began to cheer, see-

  ing the Roman auxiliaries driven back by the intensity of the defense.

  But the legions were forming up behind them. And now the blocks of

  marching men were covered by overlapping shields upon which the Brit-

  ish missiles struck in vain. And despite the fury of the defenders, they

  kept on coming, foot by foot and yard by yard, until they reached the

  stone walls and threw them down, and then it was sword against sword

  and shield against shield, and the blood flowed down the hill.

  “Morrigan, goddess of battles, be with them now!” she prayed. The an-

  guish she heard in the wailing of Caratac’s women as they watched the

  British line break and disappear was the same paean of pain she heard

  from the ravens that circled the hill. The goddess is with them, Lhiannon

  shuddered in appalled understanding. To death and beyond. But she cannot,

  or will not, save.

  Someone shouted that soldiers were coming. Too stunned to move,

  Lhiannon stood still in the midst of confusion as the others left her alone

  among the trees.

  A darkness like the wings of a thousand ravens had closed around

  the world. The Roman forces had passed on, pursuing a large band of

  Silure tribesmen who had managed to get off the hill, leaving the battle-

  field to those with the courage to seek for anyone left to save. Lhiannon

  walked like a ghost among them. A pitiful few were able to drink the

  water she carried. For others, a sure thrust of her dagger was the only

  possible mercy. Numbed by the horror of the shattered bodies around

  her, she off ered both with equal calm.

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  And thus, wandering the battlefield in her pale gown, she came

  upon the king.

  It was only by the twisted gold of the torque around his neck that

  she knew him. Caratac was covered with blood, his clothing mostly

  torn away. He was sitting with the body of a warrior in his arms. Lhian-

  non did not recognize the dead man. Perhaps that did not matter. He

  was all of them.

  As she approached, Caratac lifted his head. “The White Lady . . .”

  he whispered. “Have you come to take me, too?”

  “My lord,” shock broke through Lhiannon’s detachment. “You should

  not be here!”

  “No . . . I should not. That is very true . . .” He gazed around him.

  “Oh, my warriors! See how still they lie . . . Why am I living? I fought

  hard . . . I did not flee . . . You know that, don’t you?” he addressed the

  dead man. “You will tell them, where they feast with the heroes, that

  I tried . . .” His head drooped once more.

  “Caratac, get up! The Romans will return and they must not fi nd

  you here.”

  “Does it matter?”

  It was a question that she had been trying hard not to ask. “It might

  matter to the ones who escaped this field,” she said carefully. “They will

  be wanting you to lead them again—”

  “As I led these?” he asked bitterly. But he seemed at last to recognize

  that the man he was holding was past all listening. There was a long si-

  lence. Then, very gently, he laid the body down. “The Ordovices are

  broken,” he said in a more normal tone. “And the Roman swine will be

  putting all their attention on the mountains here. Our only hope is to

  seek support in a direction they will not be looking.” Once more he was

  silent, but he had begun to look like the man she knew. “The Brigantes

  were willing to rise against them before. What say you, White Lady?”

  Lhiannon shook her head. “Don’t look to me for answers, my lord.

  I am empty. When I was at Mona two years ago, the Arch-Druid wanted

  me to go and study in Eriu. It is said they have knowledge we have lost.

  But I chose to come to you. I should have gone—I have been little use

  to you here . . .”

  “We are a sad pair indeed,” Caratac said softly. “But you are wrong,

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  Lady. You have given me a reason to live. Go west to Eriu and fi nd some

  wisdom for our future, and I will go east, to Cartimandua.
”

  You are going to Cartimandua?” Boudica frowned at the man be-

  fore her. “Are you certain that is wise?”

  She had come upon him at the gates of Teutodunon, sitting hunched

  in a hooded cloak, anonymous as any other broken man washed up by

  the wars. When she paused to give him a bannock from the bag she car-

  ried for such eventualities, she glimpsed beneath the rag tied around his

  neck a glint of gold.

  He pulled the scarf away. Her face paled as she recognized the torque,

  and then the fi erce gaze of the king.

  “My lord Caratac! Be welcome! Come in to the dun and let me give

  you a proper meal!” And a bath . . . and dressings for those wounds . . . she

  added silently.

  “No.” strong fingers closed on the hand she held out to him. His

  glance flicked to the road, where a wagon carrying rolls of woolen cloth

  from their weaving sheds to Colonia was rumbling by.

  “You have too many people here who are friends of Rome. For

  your sake and mine it is best if no one else knows that I have come.”

  “But we must talk . . . We heard of the battle. Some said you were

  taken, others that you had been slain—” She halted at the pain that

  darkened his eyes.

  “Perhaps I was, and it is only my ghost you see here. I have felt like

  a ghost these past weeks, making my way unseen across the land. Many—

  too many—of my men lie dead upon that hill.” He hesitated, then

  looked up at her. “Bracios was one of them. Your brother fell defending

  mine.”

  “Thank you for telling me.” Boudica replied after a few moments

  had passed. She had scarcely seen her brother since they were both

  small; she supposed the pang of grief was more for the death of her

  childhood than for him. “But you are alive, and I can see that you need

  feeding . . . If you follow the path to the river you will come to the

  grove of Andraste. Wait for me there.”

  And now, with a basket full of food and drink and ban dages, she sat

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  facing Caratac in the shadow of the circle of oak trees that surrounded

  the shrine.

  “It has been a long time since I had such a vintage.” He took an-

  other swallow from the wineskin. “Of late it has been only water, and

  before that, heather ale. I have rejected all things Roman but this.” He