Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

route Caesar’s legions had found. Mounted offi

  cers moved among them

  and cavalry trotted to either side.

  Now the other Druids were on their feet, peering through the

  leaves. She looked up as a shadow flickered between her and the sun. A

  raven’s wing flared white as it caught the light, then black again as it

  circled and then settled onto a branch. It called, and others answered.

  You can afford to be patient, Lhiannon thought bitterly. Whoever wins

  this battle, you will have your reward. For the first time she wondered whether

  the Lady of Ravens herself cared which side won.

  Ardanos nodded to Bendeigid, who lifted the horn he carried and

  blew one long call. A ripple of motion passed through the Britons gath-

  ered below as their boar-headed trumpets blatted defiance and the

  Roman trumpets responded with a brazen blare.

  “Wait for them,” muttered Ardanos. “Caratac, you have the advan-

  tage of the ground—let them come to you!”

  Onward came the legions, inexorable as the tide, hobnailed sandals

  crushing the young grain. The dun had been emptied, but the enemy

  passed as if a barbarian capital were no temptation. Nor was the river, at

  this point both broad and shallow, any barrier. But now the precise for-

  mation was breaking up at last—no, it was shifting, in a movement as

  disciplined as a dance, one legion moving forward as the others spread

  out to support it, a spearhead aimed at the multicolored array of Celts on

  the hill.

  From the Celtic line first one naked warrior, then another, would

  dash forward, shouting insults at the foe, but Caratac still had his men in

  hand. Behind the champions waited the chariots, and behind them the

  mass of shouting warriors. The air boomed hollowly as long swords

  clashed against their shields.

  Lhiannon trembled at the sight of that deadly beauty, but the time

  for contemplation was past. The others were joining hands, setting feet

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  firmly in the loamy soil and drawing breath for their own part in this

  fray.

  “Oh mighty dead, I summon you!” Ardanos cried. “Ye who fought

  the fathers of this foe, hear us now. Arise to aid us, ye whose lifeblood

  fed these fields when Caesar led the legions here, for the old enemy as-

  sails us once more. Rise up in wrath, rise up in fury, rise up and send the

  Roman horde screaming back across the sea!”

  From below came an answering clamor as the Celtic warriors, re-

  leased at last, swirled forward in a shrieking mob. “Boud! Boud! ” they

  shouted. “Victory!”

  The chariots sped toward the foe, seated drivers reining the nimble-

  footed ponies around obstacles, the warriors who stood behind them

  by some miracle maintaining their balance as they hefted their javelins.

  Closer they sped; they turned, Romans fell as javelins arced through

  the air.

  But the heavy Roman pilum, though it had a shorter range, was just

  as deadly. As one chariot came too close Lhiannon saw a missile embed

  itself in the body of the cart. The weight of the shaft bent the long neck

  of the spear until it tangled in the wheels and in another moment the

  light frame was smashed. Spearman and driver leaped free as the ponies

  galloped wildly away, spreading panic among friend and foe.

  On the hill a shiver that did not come from the wind stirred the

  leaves. The prickle that pebbled Lhiannon’s skin was not caused by cold.

  She did not know whether it was Ardanos’s invocation or the Celtic war

  cries that had awakened them, but the spirits were here.

  With doubled vision she saw the struggling masses of the living on

  the field below and their ghostly counterparts above, locked in mortal

  combat as they had been almost a century before. Beyond them, she

  glimpsed other figures, so huge that she could only catch glimpses of a

  plumed helm or a spear that struck like lightning, a cloak of raven wings

  whose wearer fought someone with the head of an eagle that tore with

  wicked beak at his foe.

  She felt her throat open in a cry, doubled, quadrupled as the others

  joined her in a screech of fury that resounded through both worlds. It

  was not the scream of the Morrigan, but it was enough to make the fi rst

  rank of legionaries waver. For a moment the Druids savored triumph,

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  then the Roman trumpets blared once more, and the enemy surged for-

  ward with renewed energy.

  Lhiannon’s fists clenched with fury. If only she could be out there,

  striking the foe! From the tree above her a raven called, but what Lhian-

  non heard

  were words: “You can, you can, fly free on my wings, fly

  free . . .”

  Vision blurred; dizzied, she swayed. She heard someone swear as she

  fell, but that made no sense—she was rising, abandoning the weak fl esh

  to soar above the battlefi eld.

  In a moment she sensed another raven flying with her and in that

  part of her mind that still possessed memory recognized Belina. But her

  focus was on the men who struggled below, the flash of swords and the

  splash of blood as flesh met steel. Where she swooped low, screaming,

  men faltered and fell, but there were always more. Consciousness whirled

  away on a red tide.

  The ground was shaking, each jolt a hammer that stabbed through

  her skull. Lhiannon whimpered and felt a strong arm lifting her, water

  touched her lips and she swallowed, then swallowed again. The pain

  eased a little and she struggled to see. Now it was the trees that were

  moving. She closed her eyes once more.

  “Lhiannon—can you hear me?”

  That was Ardanos’s voice. No one was screaming. Instead she heard

  the creak of wood and the clop of hooves. Slowly it came to her that she

  was in a wagon, lurching along a rutted road somewhere that was not

  a battlefi eld.

  “Ardanos . . .” she whispered. Her reaching fingers found his hand.

  “Thank the gods!” The pain as he squeezed her fingers was a dis-

  traction from the ache in her head.

  “Roman sandals

  .

  .

  .” she said, “are marching through my

  skull . . .”

  “No surprise there,” he growled. “They’ve chased us the length of

  the Cantiaci lands.”

  “We lost.” It was not a question.

  “We’re still alive,” Ardanos answered with an attempt at cheer.

  66 D i ana L . Pax s on

  “Everything considered, I count that a victory. But we left half our

  warriors on the field. They fought bravely, but the Romans had the

  numbers . . . and the discipline,” he added bitterly. “We are in retreat.

  We would not have gotten even this far if their general Plautus had not

  stopped to loot and burn Durovernon and put up some kind of fortifi -

  cation there. Caratac lost half his army, but more have joined us since

  then. He means to make a stand beyond the Medu River. Please the

  gods, we’re almost there, and thanks be that you are awake. I wasn’t

 
looking forward to carrying you across the river slung over my shoul-

  der like a sack of meal.”

  “How long have I been unconscious?”

  “You have lain there moaning for three eternal days! Damn it,

  woman, what possessed you to fl y off like that? I was afraid . . .” Arda-

  nos swallowed, and added so softly she could hardly hear him. “I didn’t

  know if you were going to come back to me . . .”

  Lhiannon managed to get her eyes open and felt her heart lurch at

  what she saw in his. In the next moment he looked away, but she felt

  a warmth within that went far to ease her pain.

  “Possessed . . . yes. I was a raven . . . I hated them so much—it was

  the only thing I could do.”

  “Well, don’t do it again,” he growled. “I’m sure you scared the wits

  out of some of the enemy, but against such numbers?” He shook his

  head. “You can do more good in your right mind.”

  “I will try not to,” she agreed. “I don’t think I like ravens much

  anymore.”

  Ardanos sighed and cradled her more comfortably against his chest.

  “The ravens are the real victors. They don’t care on whose fl esh they

  feed.”

  Pull back! The Batavians have crossed the river—pull back!”

  Above the general clamor Lhiannon could scarcely hear the cry. She

  stared at the broad gray flow of the Tamesa, trying to see.

  “Damn them! Not again!” Cunitor swore.

  Two weeks before, the Romans’ Batavian auxiliaries—men from

  the delta of the Rhenus who were as water-wise as frogs—had forded

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  the Medu, taking Caratac by surprise. They could only hope that the

  Durotriges and Belgae under Tancoric and Maglorios had fared better

  against the force the Romans had landed in Veric’s lands.

  But the Medu had been a small river. The Tamesa was as wide as

  a pastureland, a slowly winding pewter ribbon beneath a sky of gray. No

  one had thought the Batavians could swim so far. It was like one of

  those nightmares that repeat without end.

  “Get the supplies back into the wagon!” snapped Ardanos. “They

  will be bringing the wounded to the rear, wherever that may be!”

  The strategy that had failed Caratac on the Medu ought to have

  worked for him and Togodumnos at the Tamesa. To cross the river the

  Romans must use great slow rafts and barges, easy to attack as they wal-

  lowed toward the shore. As Lhiannon grabbed the piles of ban dages they

  had laid ready she could see the barges beginning to put out now, shrunk

  by distance to the size of trenchers, glittering with armed men.

  But the combined force of Trinovantes and Catuvellauni and the

  surviving Cantiaci could not attack them if their flank had already been

  turned by the Germans, fi erce fighters whose tribes were close cousins to

  the Belgae. Though that should have been no surprise—these days native

  Italians were a minority in the Roman army. Most of the men on those

  boats were the children of conquered peoples. If the Britons were de-

  feated, one day their own children might wear that hated uniform.

  Lhiannon threw the sack of bandages into the wagon and scooped the

  pots of salves into another, glad that they had at least persuaded Bendeigid

  to stay back with the supplies. Around her the tribes and clans were be-

  coming a great confused mass as they tried to regroup to face the foe. The

  first of the Roman barges was coming into range. Arrows thrummed

  overhead, shot by the archers Togodumnos had placed where the ground

  began to rise. A legionary toppled over the side of one of the barges and

  was pulled under by the weight of his armor. His red shield, painted in

  gold with paired wings to either side of the boss and wavy arrows extend-

  ing up and down, bobbed downstream.

  The pony’s ears fl icked nervously as the tumult grew louder. Belina

  grabbed the halter and got the animal moving, murmuring in some

  language horses knew. Grabbing the last bag, Lhiannon hurried after.

  The clamor swelled to a roar as the Batavians plowed into their

  68 D i ana L . Pax s on

  flank. The slingers had time for one volley, the fi re- hardened clay pel-

  lets snicking past like maddened bees, before friend and foe melded into

  a confused mass. To watch a battle from above had been a horror; to be

  in the midst of it was a terror that only a lifetime of mental discipline

  enabled her to endure.

  The faces of the men who ran past her were set in a rictus of rage.

  Lhiannon could feel the Lady of Ravens taking shape above the battle-

  field, summoned by the fury that beat like black wings in her own soul.

  But her promise to Ardanos kept it at bay. Armoring her spirit, she

  grabbed for the side of the wagon and clung as it lumbered up the hill.

  To the west, the southern Dobunni were locked in the struggle with

  the Batavians. Their northern clans should have been fi ghting beside

  them, but King Bodovoc had turned traitor, allying himself to the Ro-

  mans before the battle at the Medu. Now the first barges were sliding up

  the slick mud at the river’s edge. A volley of pilums pierced Celtic fl esh

  and stuck in shields, buying space for the first rank of Romans to leap to

  the shore, where they locked their own shields to form a line behind

  which their fellows could disembark.

  More boats drew in behind them, disgorging ever more legionaries

  to strengthen that line of steel. Moment by moment it extended and

  thickened, pushing forward like a moving rampart against which the

  long spears and slashing blades of the tribesmen beat in vain. But a more

  orderly movement was emerging on the hill as the distinctive growling

  blare of the king’s trumpeters rallied his houseguard.

  Men began to draw aside as the swirl of movement resolved into

  rank upon rank of warriors. Above, the clouds were parting as if to fl ee

  from the clamor below. Sunlight blazed suddenly on golden torques and

  bracelets, on manes of stiffened hair bleached brighter than its normal

  red or gold, on the milky skin of sleekly muscled bodies that were bared

  only to make love or war.

  Heedless of the turmoil around her, Lhiannon stared. Surely this

  was how the war band of the gods must have looked when they marched

  out with Lugos of the shining spear to confront the armies of darkness.

  Above their heads she could see the king himself, balancing easily on

  the tenuous wicker platform of his war chariot with his driver squatting

  at his feet, heels braced against the curving sides.

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  As the champions spread out to either side Togodumnos came fully

  into view. The cloak that flowed from his shoulders was woven in the

  Catuvellauni’s favorite blues and greens. Golden plates glittered from

  his belt and the leather corselet that covered his broad torso, his neck

  was circled by a torque of twisted gold cords as thick as a spear shaft, and

  his thinning hair covered by a helm of gilded and enameled bronze sur-

  mounted by the image of a
bird with hinged wings.

  Caratac came close behind him, his battered gear an ominous con-

  trast to his brother’s majesty. But any deficiencies in his outfi t were

  more than compensated by the fury that shimmered around him. Other

  chariots followed, and if none bore so much splendor, still the eye was

  dazzled by cloaks striped and checkered in red and purple and green

  and gold.

  More warriors thronged to either side, stripped down for ease in

  movement to their trews or no clothing at all, woad-painted sigils spi-

  raling across the fair skin of torso and back. By tribe and clan the war-

  riors of the Trinovantes and the Catuvellauni, with the surviving Cantiaci

  scattered among them, hurried past on their way to death or glory. The

  Iceni contingent trotted by with Prasutagos’s older brother Cunomaglos

  in the lead. Like a spear to the heart came the certainty that win or lose,

  the world Lhiannon had known was changing. They would never see

  such a riding again.

  Like a herd of wild ponies stampeding toward the water the war-

  riors swept past; she heard the roar as they met the Roman line. Now

  all she could see was a confusion of tossing spears. Presently the chari-

  ots forced their way back to the rear. It would be foot fighting now in

  the mud and the blood by the waterside. Sound beat against her hear-

  ing as the emotions of the fi ghters buffeted her spirit; the clangor of

  blade on blade beat out a rhythm for the dreadful music of battle cries

  and screams.

  Now the wounded began to come to them, carried by their com-

  rades or leaning on broken spears. The Druids were kept busy sewing

  and binding wounds. Some stayed only long enough to drink a little

  water, and then limped back into the fray. Some they laid in the wagon

  or sent off the field. For others, the most they could do was to numb the

  pain as lifeblood soaked the soil.

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  Lhiannon had promised to keep her spirit tethered, but nothing

  could prevent her from drawing power from the earth and projecting it

  outward to support the fighting men. Presently she realized that the

  shape of the battle was changing, the eye of the sword-storm moving

  gradually up the hill. Stamping feet churned the drier ground to billow-

  ing clouds of dust through which flocks of screaming ravens fl ew. She

  wondered if Togodumnos had been wrong to catch the Romans be-