Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  drove the spear past the rapist’s shoulder and into his victim’s heart.

  This is your work, Lady, she thought despairingly. If it must be done,

  I don’t want to see. This time she willingly abandoned consciousness, and

  the mercy of the Morrigan folded dark wings between her and the pain.

  Even the queen’s escort left a distance between them and the One

  they followed through the streets where blood flowed in the gutters,

  for the calm, clear voice that directed them where to search for valuables

  held a resonance that was more than human, and the mind that directed

  it had a deadly patience that they did not understand.

  But Boudica found herself walking through an oak wood drifted

  with autumn leaves and scattered with what she took to be acorns. As

  she drew closer she could see that they were human heads. Their faces

  were contorted, but she could not tell if it was in exaltation or rage.

  “This is My harvest . . . their blood will feed the land,” came a harsh

  voice from above.

  She looked up. Balancing on one of the branches was a Raven with

  red eyes.

  “Men are no different from any other creature,” said the Raven.

  “When one group is stronger they conquer, and when they weaken,

  another comes and feeds on them in turn. Confl ict and competition are

  necessary. The fury passes through like a great fire, burning weakness

  away, and in its light the essence is revealed. The strongest in both

  groups survive. Blood and spirit are blended and what grows from them

  is stronger still.”

  “Is this the only way?” Boudica cried.

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  “This is the way you must follow now,” came the reply. “Britannia

  is a mingling of many bloods already, from peoples that strove against

  each other as they came to these shores. In time more will come and

  today’s victor will fail, leaving his own strength in the land.”

  “That is a hard teaching,” Boudica said.

  “It is my truth—the Raven’s Way. One way or another the cycle

  must continue. The balance must be maintained. And there is more

  than one kind of victory . . .”

  W hen Boudica came to herself once more she was back in their

  camp, dismounting from the mare. Brangenos caught her as her knees

  buckled and Eos took the rein to lead Branwen away. Red smeared and

  splattered the mare’s white hide. The stink of blood was all around her.

  Boudica looked down and saw her legs splashed with clotting red to the

  knee. Bogle whined and sat down. He was blood-smeared as well.

  “It is a red woman on a white horse that leads us . . .” ran the whis-

  pers, “and with her the hunters of the Otherworld, the white, red-eared

  hounds . . .”

  “Is my horse all right?” Her voice seemed to come from a distance.

  “She needs to be cleansed, like you, but she is Branwen, the white

  raven. What better mount for the Lady of Ravens to ride?”

  But I was the horse, thought Boudica dizzily. She wondered what had

  happened after the goddess severed her from her own identity.

  The faces around her were warmed by a sunset glow, but the hori-

  zon was dark. Slowly she realized that the light was refl ecting off the

  clouds over the burning city. It was over, then—for now—and the dead

  had their pyre.

  “Come,” said Brangenos. As she steadied, he set his hand beneath

  her elbow. “You need water. You need rest.”

  “Yes, but not to drink. First I must get clean.”

  They had made their camp by one of the streams that ran into the

  Tamesa. Ignoring the startled exclamations of her household, Boudica

  plunged through the reeds and into the water, Bogle bounding after her.

  The cold shocked her fully into her body as it washed the blood away.

  When she struggled back ashore she was shivering with reaction. The

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  dog pushed through the reeds and shook himself, sending out arcs of

  spray.

  Temella hurried toward her with a blanket. When she was dry and

  had a bowl of hot soup in her hands Brangenos settled beside her. Be-

  yond the tent poles men bowed as they passed.

  “I saw that man in the city,” she said as a burly figure with an ax

  stuck through his belt went by. “He was killing a Roman who was de-

  fending his home. But he looked different—” She gestured toward the

  crowd. “They all did. Now they look like themselves again. Was it my

  imagination? What did I see?”

  The Druid sighed. “Another spirit can possess men who are joined

  by great emotion. I do not know if it is a curse or a mercy.”

  “The mercy of the Morrigan,” she said bitterly. “Is it like the thing

  that happens to me?”

  “Somewhat, except that this is a shared ecstasy, created when many

  souls under pressure become one.”

  “Will they remember what they did?”

  “In such a state men are capable of great feats of valor—or of cruelty.”

  His lean face was somber. “To be unable to remember the former relieves

  them of the yearning to reach a level they will never again be able to at-

  tain. To forget the latter . . . do you think they could face their own wives

  and children if they had full memory of what they had done?”

  “But if they do not remember, they will do it again,” she said,

  knowing she had no right to judge, having given up her own will to a

  force equally implacable. “And if the Battle Raven rides me again, so

  will I . . .” She swallowed. “Is there no way to make war with honor?”

  “With perfect warriors—with perfect discipline,” he replied. “In

  the old days the champions would go out to fight between the armies,

  and the will of each side rode with its defender, and all were ennobled

  by their strife. The Romans will not allow us that kind of war. What we

  have here is not an army, my queen. It is a mob, a creature composed of

  outrage and pain that burns its way across the land.”

  “She said something like that,” murmured Boudica, and saw his

  gaze sharpen. “While She was doing battle She was also talking to me

  in an oak wood where men’s heads lay on the ground.” Haltingly she

  recounted Cathubodva’s words.

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  “It is a harsh teaching indeed,” the Druid agreed when she was done.

  “But it is all we have. If this fire you have started can kindle the valor of

  all the tribes we may yet drive the Romans from this land. If not, our

  own blood will feed the ground. You cannot stop it now, my queen, you

  can only fan the fl ames and hope they burn quick and clean.”

  Boudica gulped soup, but its heat could not warm her. Now, more

  than ever, she understood why Prasutagos had sought peace so earnestly.

  Suddenly she ached with the need to feel his arms around her, to make

  life in this wasteland. Would he turn from her in horror if he saw what

  she was doing now? But the peace the Romans would have given them

  was a living death, destruction with no hope of renewal.

  “My lady, if you wish I can m
ix you something to make you sleep,”

  said Brangenos.

  She looked up, seeing him suddenly as a man, still strong, despite

  the white in his hair. If she asked, would he lie with her? Their eyes

  met, and she knew his answer.

  “No—” She shook her head, denying him, denying herself the re-

  spite that she craved. “If those who died today could bear their pain, the

  least I can do is endure my dreams . . .”

  The journey by sea had gone by like a dream, but the Summer

  Country seemed scarcely closer to the world of death and battle Lhian-

  non had left behind. As the boatman poled the long, flat craft through

  the marshes, reed and willow closed around them, and their only ene-

  mies were the midges that rose in humming clouds as they passed.

  Each morning the mist rose from the water to veil the marshes in

  mystery. Lhiannon found herself half hoping that when it cleared she

  would find herself in the Otherworld, but the long shafts of afternoon

  sunlight showed the same landscape as before. But with each day the

  pointed tip of the Tor appeared more clearly above the tangled trees,

  until they came with the last light of sunset to the shores of Avalon.

  The little house in which Lhiannon had lived had lost some of its

  thatching—the Druids had not had much time for initiations in recent

  years, and only one old priestess, a woman called Nan, remained—but

  everything else seemed unchanged. The slender, dark-haired folk of the

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  marshes provided them with food and brought their sick for healing. As

  the Summer Country drowsed through the long days, Lhiannon found

  her heart easing. If Avalon held no answers, at least here she could some-

  times forget the questions.

  Her only anxiety was Coventa, who continued to be sick during the

  day, and troubled at night by evil dreams. A week after they had arrived

  on the isle Coventa awoke one morning weeping. With a sigh, Lhian-

  non rose and held her until the sobs began to ease.

  “Nan, will you make up the fire and fill the hanging pot with water

  so we can have some chamomile tea?”

  “Thank you,” said Coventa when the old woman brought her the

  cup. “I am sorry to be such a bother to you all.”

  “Was it another bad dream?” Lhiannon asked the girl.

  Coventa sighed. “I dreamed that I gave birth to a son, who grew up

  tall and strong with golden hair. But when he was grown he turned into

  a raven and fl ew away.”

  “Is that why you were crying?”

  Coventa shook her head. “He was a beautiful boy. It made me

  happy to see him. I wept because when he is grown he will become a

  warrior.”

  “In your dream,” said Lhiannon, frowning.

  “In this world.” Coventa looked up at her with an odd smile. “I

  never expected to have to know such things, but living among women

  one cannot help learning something. My breasts are tender and I have

  missed my courses and I am sick in the mornings. I think I am with

  child.”

  “By the Romans . . .” breathed Lhiannon.

  “By one of them,” Coventa corrected, “even among the Romans I

  believe there is only one father for each child.”

  “I know of herbs you can take to cast the abomination from you,”

  said Lhiannon. “I will ask the marsh folk to show me where they grow.”

  “No. What I carry is not yet a child, but I cannot deny him life. I

  believe that in the future he will have some part to play.”

  Lhiannon stared at her, uncomprehending. I would tear out my womb

  rather than bear a Roman’s child! Coventa will not be the only one burdened this

  way, she thought then. Perhaps the other women will be more sensible, and if

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  they cannot kill the babes before they are born, they will destroy them after. But

  she did not say so aloud.

  Coventa looked better than she had for many days, and Lhiannon

  was unwilling to jeopardize any belief that led to happiness.

  Clearly our next objective should be Verlamion,” said Vordilic. “Or

  rather, Verulam ium, ” he said, adding the Latin ending with a vicious

  snarl. Grizzled as a badger, he was a man of the Catuvellauni, some kind

  of relation to Caratac. “The royal enclosure on the banks of the Ver was

  the sacred center for my tribe. The town that squats there now is a Ro-

  man blasphemy.”

  From the circle of chieftains and kings who had gathered around

  Boudica’s fire came a mutter of agreement. The stretched cloths that

  kept off the evening dew were costly fabrics that had once curtained

  Roman doorways. The discussion had been lubricated by an amphora of

  Roman wine.

  “But they are Britons,” someone objected.

  “They are traitors,” Vordilic spat. “They were once Catuvellauni,

  but they have abandoned their name and race to wear the toga and boast

  of being Roman citizens.”

  “That makes them worse than honest enemies,” another man re-

  plied. “They show us what will become of us if we do not win. We

  must make them an example for all Britannia.”

  “That great road the Romans carved across our holy earth at least

  makes it easy to travel. If we set off tomorrow, we could be in Verlamion

  in two days!” Vordilic had joined them when they reached Londinium.

  His skin hung loose on his bones and the good cloth of his tunic was

  worn threadbare. Everything about him spoke of a vanished prosperity.

  Boudica drew back. Vordilic’s tattered clothing was only a visible

  representation of the hatred that was eating away at his soul. Being near

  him was like standing by some noxious bog. The problem with calling

  on all the tribes was that the people most motivated to fi ght the Romans

  were the most damaged, in body or in mind, and the least willing to

  conduct an intelligent campaign.

  “We could be,” she said mildly, “but should we take the time to

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  attack? Unlike an army, a town cannot run away. The legions are on the

  move, and we should be getting ready to meet them.”

  “We obliterated the Ninth with half the men we have now,” boasted

  Drostac. “Why should the men of the Twentieth and the Fourth give us

  more trouble?”

  “The Second Legion will not reinforce them,” said someone else to

  general laughter. “The word we hear from the Durotriges is that their

  camp prefect thinks the situation ‘too uncertain for secure operations.’

  They’re staying in Isca.”

  “Whereas we gain more warriors every day!” said King Corio. “We

  don’t need a fancy strategy—we can crush them by sheer numbers!”

  Numbers they certainly had. Campfires dotted the rolling country

  north of what had been Londinium like poppies in a wheatfi eld. They

  had captured enough wine and meat for everyone to make merry. The

  night wind was musical with laughter and song.

  Boudica traded glances with Tingetorix. He was the best com-

  man
der they had, and he had done his best to make her understand how

  men made war.

  “Numbers are not enough. We defeated the foot soldiers of the

  Ninth Legion because we made the land fight for us,” the old warrior

  said reprovingly. “If we can catch Governor Paulinus on the march, we

  have a good chance of whittling away his strength. But we dare not let

  him force us into a pitched battle.”

  “And that means we must march northward, and quickly,” said

  Boudica, “even if some of the wagons, especially the ones with the women

  and children, are left behind.” Perhaps she could persuade her daugh-

  ters, as representatives of the royal house, to stay with them.

  “We’ll move out in the morning,” she continued. “Tingetorix, I

  want you to take your best horsemen and scout ahead. Morigenos, will

  you work with the men who have just joined us? Show them where they

  should march, make sure they have weapons. Drostac, you are in charge

  of the supply wagons. We must take some care with the food—we do

  not know how long it will have to last.”

  Cities had ware houses. Gathering supplies for the horde had been

  another reason to attack Londinium.

  “There is food in Verlamion,” muttered Vordilic.

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  “And it will still be there when we have the time to deal with the

  town as it deserves.” Boudica frowned, and the Catuvellaunian looked

  away.

  In the golden days of the heroes it had all been much simpler, she

  reflected as the chieftains finished their wine and made ready to go.

  When they celebrated ancient battles, did the bards simply skip over

  the challenges of strategy and supply? Her young men had grown up

  denied the experience that would have taught them the realities of war,

  and the old men seemed to have selective memories. The responsibili-

  ties she shouldered now had little to do with the glory of which the

  poets sang, but though they might be far greater in scale, they were not

  so different from the planning any woman who ran a large household

  must do every day.

  But fighting Romans was not like killing rats in a store shed. These

  were wolves. As if he had sensed her thought, Bogle lifted his great head

  with a soft growl.

  T W E N T Y- S E V E N

  The ravens were dancing, black wings scattering shadows across the