A Year of Ravens: a novel of Boudica's Rebellion

by E. Knight

  Dawn approached, dusky pink. And I had to be prepared for what was coming.

  Death, humiliation, or slavery.

  We would never make it to Venutius' lands.

  Something rustled, and I turned around to see a white hare creeping toward me with the rolling mist. The animal locked its eyes on mine—not the eyes of a wild thing. They were knowing eyes, filled with intelligence. Could it be? Was this my sign from our great goddess?

  I reached out slowly to stroke the softness of its head between its ears, and it let me, scrunching up its tiny pink nose. Peace filled me, warmth cloaking my skin and taking away the cold of the air, the chill of the wet ground upon my knees.

  “Have you come to give me a message?” I asked.

  The hare did not answer, only stared at me, and warmth washed through me.

  My heart warmed, swelled, overflowed with love. Not just the love of my goddess, but the love of others both on this earth and in it. I loved my mother. I loved my sister. I loved my people. Even in death, I loved Andecarus, my father, Duro, those we’d lost in battle.

  I had loved them all along. Love had made me fight, not vengeance. Because we are never really willing to die to satisfy our craving for blood. We are willing to die to satisfy the injustices that have been placed upon us and our loved ones.

  The Romans were coming. My mother was dying. Keena and I couldn’t both make it out of this alive. Only one of us would be able to escape.

  I had to save my sister.

  That was the ending to my story. The end of my tale that I’d begged Andraste to help me see. This was my story: My love returned to me. Sorcha, the protector of her sister.

  I had safeguarded her throughout our lives, and I would protect her one final time. My love had helped Keena remember her strength, for it had never really left her. If a Roman bastard had been growing inside my womb, I would have gone mad and stabbed myself to death, whereas Keena was patient, taking the potion she’d made herself and allowing the magic to take away the life thrust inside her.

  The Romans were drawing closer. I could almost see them now, vague movement on the dark slope far below. I had to hurry back to our cave. I couldn’t let them find me here alone or find my mother on the brink of death, with Keena at her side. I wouldn’t be able to save my sister.

  I locked eyes with the white hare and said, “Thank you, goddess of victory. You have not forsaken me.”

  The hare sniffed my palm one final time, then turned and hopped away, disappearing into the mist that now blanketed the entire ridge.

  I stood and ran, toes sinking into the earth, the mist swirling around my ankles. Down the embankment I skidded until I found the mouth of the cave. The rising sun was burning off the mist; soon it would reveal our hiding place to anyone who happened by. Even if we hid our steps with rotting leaves and the branches of shrubs, there was no hiding the scent of the campfire we’d lit to stay warm during the frigid night.

  Our cart would be found not far away, and our pony and Andecarus’ mare.

  “Sorcha,” Keena said, waking up from what I hoped was a good sleep, for she would need it.

  My gaze slid to Mother, who breathed shallowly, her pale face turned golden by a shaft of rising sun piercing the cave opening. Keena pushed back the furs and stood. Her eyes widened as a sound drifted up: the distant blare of a Roman bugle.

  “They come,” she said.

  I nodded. They would find us very soon.

  And I knew they’d not let us go.

  “Daughters,” Mother said, her voice weak but her resolve strong.

  She knew the end was near. She slid up the side of the cave wall, wobbling on her feet. Face pale. With one hand braced on the wall, she drew her sword. Blood dripped in a steady stream from the bindings at her ribs, over her hip and down her legs. Even had the Romans not been coming, her wound would kill her. Our frantic flight had never given her the chance to mend.

  “Every warrior’s dream is to die honorably.” Mother’s voice was hitched with emotion, and she pressed her lips together for a moment before she spoke again. “And you must both do so, with me. I cannot let them violate you again.”

  I studied Mother, her face so pale against the vibrant red of her hair. The woman who must have been born with one fist in the air and another grappling for a sword. The woman who nearly brought Rome to its knees. The woman who rode into cities occupied by the enemy and burned them to the ground. My mother. The greatest warrior queen our land had ever seen. And she’d almost won this great war. I revered her all the more for it.

  I glanced at Keena, who had seemed to grow taller in the last week since we’d been running. She’d barely eaten. Barely slept. And though she trembled, looking at the mouth of the cave for what was to come, she was braver now. Stronger, too.

  I sucked in a breath and straightened my shoulders, recalling the hare—Andraste—who’d come to see me on the ridge. She had spoken to me—perhaps not in the physical sense, but I’d known all the same what I needed to do.

  “Die with me, Daughters,” my mother was saying. “We will join your father with Andraste. From the next world, we will see the Romans buried.”

  No. Keena had to live. At least one of us had to survive this.

  And if that meant I had to go against Mother’s wishes, then so be it. Because my duty was to make sure my sister survived. She needed to carry on. Mother wouldn’t understand. Her desperation was in seeing that no more worldly harm came to her daughters. And I understood that, too. But the gods had spoken.

  This would be my final gift to Keena. The gift of life.

  I owed her that much as her protector, as her blood. I would bear the pain of death—or worse—if only she could survive this.

  To Keena, I said, “Remember the days of old, where our world was filled with magic and innocence. Recall a time where no pain touched you. Remember our people who perished. Remember the injustices done to us by the Romans. Remember why we fought and what we believe in.”

  My sister cocked her head to stare at me as though I spoke another language entirely. “I remember,” she finally whispered.

  I opened my mouth to speak, my chin wobbling. I tightened my entire body, willing emotions to take a step back from what I needed to do. “Never forget.”

  She bit her lip, and I knew she must be thinking that she was about to die, and there would be no time for remembering at all.

  Nearly a year had passed since the first stripe was laid on mother’s back. Now the only thing left for us, for me, was to ensure that Keena lived, that we were remembered to our gods. And I couldn’t do that if the Romans killed us both. There was a path down the rise where Keena could sneak away. Small in size, dark of hair, dressed in rags, she looked nothing like Mother. No one would know who she was. They’d not guess her to be Boudica’s daughter.

  “They will want to take us as prisoners,” Mother was saying. One hand still holding on to her sword, anchored into the cave floor for support, she pulled a needle-thin dagger from within the depths of her long, thick, gathered hair. “But we will not let them.” Mother’s eyes closed for a brief moment, tears slipping from her eyes. I’d not seen her cry much in my life, and it left me shaken.

  I wrapped my arms around her, hugging her tight. I knew what was to happen. How this was going to end, but knowing didn’t make it any easier. Only harder.

  Mother pressed her sword against the wall, letting it go, then cupped my face with her free hand and stared into my eyes. “We will never be prisoners.”

  I nodded, swallowing around the lump that had formed in my throat. The great queen would try to take matters into her own hands. I could not accept that. She thought there was no way out of this, that not even one of us could survive.

  “Andraste awaits us.” Mother grasped her dagger with both hands and pushed it toward Keena, then seemed to change her mind. Tears brimmed in her wide blue eyes, and she looked on my sister with a mixture of regr
et and hope. When she spoke, it was softly. “I will show you how it is done bravely and so that it is not so painful. No more pain for any of us.” She implored us with her eyes, and we both nodded, though I would not see that silent promise through. “Keena, you will do this after me. Sorcha, you will do it last.”

  “Sorcha . . .” Keena drew out my name like a question.

  I glanced at her, trying to impart comfort but seeing the fear slicing her features. Would her courage slip? Would the strength returned to her over the last week be stripped away once more? Would she cower, beg Mother to make the dagger thrust for her?

  No. Keena grasped my hand tightly, her chest puffing, and the fear marring her features was replaced with that strength I knew she’d possessed all along.

  “All will be well, Sister. Stand tall. You have my vow,” I said.

  “And you have mine,” Keena whispered, then pressed closer to mother, kissing her softly on her cheek.

  “A warrior is never full of fear when their great reward is at hand.” Mother's voice was scratchy, her eyes full of love. “Soon we will lead an even greater life in the next world. Together.”

  The Romans were coming closer, their dogs howling, and the sound of it chilled my blood.

  “Sorcha, give me the water skin,” my mother said.

  I pulled the skin from our pile of belongings.

  “We’ll drink together,” she said, taking it from me, then lifting her face toward our unseen gods. “As a priestess of Andraste, I offer this last libation. And ourselves, our bodies, will be our final sacrifice to you in hopes you will guide us into the afterlife.”

  I sipped the mead and then passed it to Keena, whose fingers remained steady as she drank. Mother whispered incantations that would open the gates into the life beyond.

  “We must make haste to Andraste’s arms.” Mother bent closer. I embraced her as she reached out to us, suddenly afraid that she would stab us both, thinking it a final kindness. But instead, she kissed us on our foreheads. To me, she said, “You have always been my little warrior, fighting passionately with every breath. From the first raise of your tiny fist, willing the gods to bless you on that cold mound. I have always seen so much of myself in you. Little Boudica.” To Keena, she said, “And you have always been my little healer, filled with quiet, strong resolve. You give me peace and calming comfort. I have seen much of myself in you—another priestess. The best parts of me reborn. I love you both. I am proud to be your mother. I will see you soon.”

  Then she raised the dagger and brought it up beneath her ribs. A guttural cry rushed from her throat, though she quickly cut it off with a press of her lips as the blade pierced her body and entered her heart. At the sight of our mother’s mortal agony, Keena wavered on her feet. An otherworldly whimper issued from my sister’s throat, eyes drawn to the blood seeping from Mother’s wound.

  I leapt, catching my mother’s body as she fell forward. I laid her onto the bed of fur pelts. I knelt, her head in my lap. She looked up at me, eyes wide, lips moving. “Do it,” she said. “Do it now.”

  I nodded, yanking the dagger from her chest and watching her take her last breath. All the life of a great warrior woman evaporated within the span of two heartbeats. I choked on a sob, recalling every touch of my mother’s hand upon my cheek, every word she spoke, every brave deed of her glorious life. Mother reached up to touch my cheek, her fingers faltering, sliding down to drop beside her. She issued a great, shuddering sigh, her spirit melding momentarily with mine. I closed my eyes, unable to breathe. Unable to move. But only for a moment. There was no time to mourn. She was . . . gone.

  And the enemy still lurked outside.

  I turned my attention to Keena, frantic now. “I will sacrifice myself. Just as mother did. For you. You must run now. Run and do not look back. Live, Keena. Live and remember. Have courage. Have faith that Andraste will guide you.” I swallowed, feeling my throat tighten around the words. “Go.”

  Standing frozen, Keena looked from me to my mother and back again. Panic filled her face. Mouth agape, eyes brimming with terror. “I cannot let you do that for me. It is not courageous for me to run away while you sacrifice yourself!”

  “I said go. The courage is in going north on your own. For remembering us to our gods. There is no other way. Slip farther down the embankment, away from the ridge and Romans. Run. Run until you cannot breathe, and then run some more. Go now, before it’s too late!”

  Keena trembled violently, reaching for me. “But—”

  I waved away her outstretched hands, perhaps the hardest thing I’d ever done, for I wanted to embrace her, hold her tight to me and never let go. My sister. My beloved sister. Keena, who finally had lived up to the meaning of her name—brave at last. “We all have a destiny. I have mine, and this is yours.” I tugged mother’s torc from around her still warm neck and gave it to Keena. “Take this. And remember.”

  Keena thrust the torc around her small neck with trembling fingers and teary eyes. “I love you, Sorcha. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I whispered, wishing that I’d been able to tell her sooner. She tried to say more, but I waved her away. “Say no more. Take mother’s sword. Go now, or suffer death.”

  Keena slipped from the cave, her shoulders squared, Mother’s sword held tight in her fist. She would find her way north. She would continue on the journey we’d started, all by herself. Remembering our people. Remembering us. I pulled a fur over my mother's body and closed her lids. I kissed her brow.

  And I prepared to die.

  “In here, you limp-cocked milksops,” I shouted.

  It felt exceedingly good to shout such vulgarities at the bastards. The sound of their marching boots crunching on the leaves and branches echoed in the trees and met my ears inside the small cave. I wanted to distract them from the dogs that might be howling after Keena.

  I stood in the center, my face painted in my mother’s blood, my sword and her shield in my hands.

  But I nearly cowered when the first man’s voice I heard was that of Helva. It must be Andraste's doing, to send him on my trail of all Rome's centurions. She did indeed want to test me, but she also wanted me to have what I had vainly sought all year, across three sacked cities—his blood.

  He stepped into the dim light of the cave, eyes widening slightly at the sight of me. He made a tsking sound with his tongue, that slow, leering grin creasing his face. Dressed in gleaming armor, his hair cropped short, his weapons glistening, the man was just as repulsive as I remembered. Three legionaries followed, filling the entrance of the cave and blocking my way out—a small scouting party, probably one of many combing these lands to find my mother. As they advanced inside, Helva made a swift cutting move of his hand. With the cave so narrow, none of them would be able to move around him. I’d have to fight one at a time, which is just what I wanted.

  Both of us knew I wasn’t getting out of this alive.

  But neither was he.

  Helva glanced toward the ground where Mother lay. “I see we came too late,” he drawled out.

  I laughed bitterly. “You’re right on time.”

  He laughed, too. It was that same sharp, gravelly sound I’d heard the entire time his men thrust inside me. A sound that made my blood run hot and cold at the same time. A sound that fueled my fury.

  “Where is your little sister?”

  “Dead,” I lied.

  He laughed again. “Shame, I rather liked—”

  “Shall we play a game?” I cut him off and tightened my grasp on my sword.

  “The only game we’ll play is call me master.” He drew his own sword. “On your knees, bitch.”

  I smirked. What did I have to lose but my pride? At least I would go out of this life with a smile. “You do not seem to understand the rules.”

  He bared his teeth to me, obviously irritated that I showed no fear. The man had learned nothing in the year since we last met.

  “Barb
arians do not make the rules,” he ground out.

  “So you say, but have you not been trying to beat us the last two decades? Did we not rise up against you every time?”

  He dragged his feet back and forth on the ground as though he drew the lines of a makeshift arena. “You lost.”

  “Not every time. And not yet.” My words were clipped, an intentional call to his anger.

  “You will lose today.” His face had turned red, and he spoke with bluster.

  “I doubt it.” I rather enjoyed mocking him. Why not go out of this life having a bit of fun with this cur?

  My confidence rattled him. It rattled me. War had hardened my soul. I’d fought for my life and those of my people for the past year. Killed my share of Romans and maimed plenty more. I was wholly prepared for what was to come, and still, the sight of my enemy’s shield swinging toward me, his sword poised to stab me in the gut, sent a shiver racing up my spine.

  This was real. This was happening. And we advanced toward each other.

  I breathed slow and deep, growling when I attacked and hissing when I blocked. The clang of metal against metal echoed in the small cave. Sparks ignited with each clash of the swords. Block. Attack. Block again. Each move was precise. Each move was calculated. Andecarus had taught me the way the Romans fought, and I could anticipate their moves.

  Helva was no different.

  But he did have one advantage on me. Helva was bigger. He weighed more. He was stronger. He’d not starved and been deprived of sleep. He’d not been chased and hunted like an animal. He’d not just witnessed his mother’s suicide or worried over the well-being of a sister dear to him.

  Block. Attack. Block again. “I’m going to gut you,” Helva said. “Then I’ll bathe in your blood while I bury my cock between your thighs as you die.”

  I laughed and lunged left, arching right. “A task you’ll be hard-pressed to complete without a sword or your cock.”