Ravens of Avalon (57 page)

“Lady,” shouted Bituitos, “they’ll catch us between them. We must get back.”

She looked at him without understanding. The Romans were in front of her. With an exchange of glances, the two big men moved closer, easing her back down the hill.

Corio and his Dobunni were attacking the auxiliaries furiously, but presently he, too, fell. Then Boudica was caught once more in the surge of warriors throwing themselves against the Roman line.

It went on like that, in an endless struggle that moved as slowly as the sun crossed the sky. Boudica saw the ex-slave Tabanus go down, and Carvilios, and others she knew, but there was no time for mourning. Her focus had narrowed to the line of swords that were chewing their way through her men as the battle flowed down the slope and onto the plain.

The fight slowed when they reached the stream. As the field broadened, new trumpet calls formed the three wedges with which the Romans had started into a dozen, widening the battle line, savaging the Celtic horde. Soon bodies choked the channel, and the Romans began to advance once more.

The enemy still maintained his formations, but the smaller wedges could sometimes be broken. With Eoc and Bituitos behind her, Boudica had the weight to drive forward, and her thirsty blade drank deep as she traded blows. She had received several slashes, but no serious wound. She moved now in a state beyond exhaustion, in which all she knew was the need to kill.

ife ebbed from the wounded man’s face as his blood welled though the bandages with which Lhiannon had tried to stanch the wound in his side. She touched his neck, felt the pulse flutter and fade, and sat back with a sigh. At her nod, Caw carried the body to lie with the others they had not been able to save.

The only good thing about caring for the wounded was that it kept her too busy to worry about what was happening on the battlefield. Lhi-annon allowed herself to look up, and realized with a little shock that the fighting was now mostly on this side of the stream. Bodies lay heaped upon the slope beyond it like grain when the reapers have passed. Already the ravens were gleaning among them. It was a mighty harvest of heroes, mostly Britons, though here and there Roman armor gleamed. How many of those bodies still had life in them? Until the battle was over, they could not search and see.

On the other side of the wagons those few who might recover lay in the shade of the trees. Argantilla and some of the other young women moved among them, offering water or a little of the precious syrup of poppy to those in the greatest pain. For some, the sight of a girl’s sweet face was sufficient medicine. For so many, there was nothing to be done— and the men they had tended were only the ones who had managed to crawl to the edge of the battlefield, where Brangenos and Rianor and some of the stronger women could reach them.

“The fighting is getting closer,” said Caw. His tunic was smeared with other men’s blood. He was, at most, sixteen, but just now a much older soul looked out of his dark eyes.

“Yes,” replied Lhiannon. The battle had already covered more ground than she had expected, and had lasted longer. The fighting was almost close enough to make out individuals. She scanned the struggling mass, but could not find Boudica’s raven-winged helmet or bright hair.

“We’re still retreating.”

“They’ve been pushing us back all day,” she answered tartly. “But our men are still resisting.” Yet of the mass of men who had surged up that hill scarcely half remained.

“The queen said that if it looked like we were losing we should get Argantilla away …”

While the Britons who still faced the enemy refused to admit that they were beaten, it was hard to abandon them, though the Goddess knew she had seen enough lost battles to be able to recognize the signs by now. Lhiannon had told herself that if the fighting crossed the water she would start getting ready, or when it passed the end of the semicircle of wagons. It was clear to her now that if the fight reached the wagons at the end of the field anyone who remained on his feet would be trapped. It would be a slaughter.

It was a slaughter now.

“Get your things together,” she said through stiff lips. Boudica had insisted that they all make up packs with journey supplies. “Take Ar-gantilla up into the undergrowth beyond the trees, and take the dog.”

“But that’s the direction of the fort,” he said.

Lhiannon nodded. “If there’s pursuit, they won’t expect anyone to run that way.”

“And what about you?”

She looked back at the battlefield. “I must wait a little longer. Until the Druids come back—”
Until I know what has happened to Boudica …

oudica staggered as a legionary’s gladius struck her shield and stuck fast. For a moment the man stared, eyes widening as he realized who she must be. He was still holding on as she swung, her sword blurring into the gap between helmet and the shoulder plate of his lorica. The shock as it sliced muscle and shattered bone vibrated up her arm. Blood sprayed as she wrenched the sword free.

As the slain man fell his weight dragged the split shield from her arm. Eoc Mor stepped forward to cover her with his own. She heard a grunt, turned, and saw him folding as another legionary jerked back his blade. Her instinctive response took off the man’s hand.

“Pick up his shield!” came Bituitos’s voice at her ear. She looked down and saw Eoc curled in agony as blood poured from a great wound in his armpit. But he was still holding up the shield. As she took it, his fingers released the grip and he fell back with a fierce smile.

Boudica drew a shuddering breath, aware for the first time that she was growing tired. The Roman line rippled as men at the front stepped back to let others, less wearied, take their places there.

Across the nearest warriors she glimpsed Rigana at the end of the wedge, near the angle where the next began. Helm and shield were both gone, though Calgac was still by her side. But even as she recognized them, she saw the tall warrior begin to fall. She started toward her daughter, stumbled on a body, lurched over it, and trod on another.

Had Rigana even noticed that her protector was gone? Screeching, she gripped her sword two-handed and brought it around in a whirling stroke that took a legionary down. Boudica was an arm’s-length away when a Roman from the edge of the next wedge thrust past the edge of the girl’s mail from behind. Rigana continued to turn, her bloody sword flying from nerveless fingers in a glittering arc into the mass of enemies beyond.

“You cannot help her!” cried Bituitos as Rigana crumpled. “We’ll be surrounded! Come away!”

But he stayed with her as Boudica shoved past another Briton and over a body to straddle the convulsing form of her child. Romans drew in to either side of them as the two wedges ground forward. Black wings thundered in Boudica’s ears, but her vision was all red, red as her daughter’s blood soaking into the ground.

Her lips curled back and the Morrigan screamed.

he scream held all the world’s anguish, and fury, and loss. Men on both sides dropped their weapons, hearing that cry. Lhiannon felt her heart stop. For the space of a long breath nothing moved on the battlefield.

Then, slowly, the Roman wedges began to push forward once more. Only at one point was there a knot of resistance, where the flanks of two wedges joined. The massed men swayed and swirled; even from here she could hear their cries, but presently the struggle eased and she knew that whatever valiant warriors were fighting there had been overcome.

And with that, the Celtic resistance began to unravel like a knot of yarn when one pulls the central strand. As the Roman advance resumed, the remaining Britons scattered, throwing down their shields. And now at last the Romans broke ranks to pursue.

“It’s over—” Brangenos took her arm. “We must go.”

“But the wounded,” she said distractedly. “We cannot leave—”

“They are safe,” his harsh response silenced her. “The Romans will not touch them now.”

And looking beyond him she saw the blood where each man had received the mercy stroke. She felt as if he had struck her to the heart as well.

“May the Goddess in Her mercy receive them,” she murmured. “If She has any mercy … If She cares …”

As Brangenos dragged her up the slope Lhiannon heard screaming. Those Britons who had managed to get beyond the line of wagons were streaming across the fields, pursued by Roman cavalry. But the great mass of men were trapped, trampled by their fellows or falling to Roman swords. And not content with killing warriors, the legionaries were pulling women and children from the wagons and slaughtering them as well.

Lhiannon was glad of Brangenos’s firm grasp, for by the time they reached the trees she was weeping too fiercely to see anything at all. As she sank down Argantilla came to her, and though Lhiannon knew that she ought to find some words of comfort, it was the girl who cradled the priestess in her arms. She could hear the Druids chanting as they wove a spell of concealment. Was that why the wood was growing so dark around them, or had the death of their hopes taken all light from the world?

T
H
IRTY

he ravens had departed at sunset. As night fell over Manduesse-dum it was the turn of the wolves. The four-legged kind skulked down from the forest as a waning moon rose above the plain. The Roman wolves prowled the battlefield with torches, dispatching any Britons who still lived and stripping the bodies of gear and gold.

No one had yet searched the woods above the battlefield, but if the fugitives were to reach safety by morning they must leave soon.

“Not until I know what happened to my mother and my sister!” said Argantilla stubbornly.

“They are dead, Tilla.” Caw’s voice cracked with pain. “You can see what it’s like down there!”

“Not all of them, or who are the Romans killing now? But even if you are right, do you want those monsters to defile their bodies? If no one else will search, I will.”

At that, Lhiannon roused from her despair. “I promised the queen that I would see you safe, and with Brangenos and Caw you will be. Rianor and I will go—we have been trained to pass unseen.”

“Take the dog,” said Argantilla. “Bogle would track his mistress to the gates of An-Dubnion.”

“He may have to,” muttered Rianor, but he took the rope from her hand.

“Where’er I bide, my shape I hide.”
The Druid began to murmur the spell. Lhiannon’s blue gown faded into the shadows, and Rianor had covered his white robe with a cloak of checkered browns and greens that blended with the terrain. As they whispered Lhiannon could feel herself becoming one with the night, until there were only two shadows following the pale shape of the great dog.

“No need to fear … no one is here …”

Only the dead, thought Lhiannon. Of those, there was an abundance, lying with staring eyes and tangled limbs to either side of the line along which the Romans had advanced. The chariot in which Boudica had ridden so triumphantly still stood at the edge of the field, though the ponies were long gone.

She knelt beside the dog. “Find Boudica, Bogle—find her. Find Boudica now—”

The dog gave an anxious whimper, looking around him as if he expected the queen to appear, then began to sniff along the ground. For the first time, Lhiannon felt a flicker of hope.

With the dog for a guide, they did not have to identify each body, though they could not help finding some they knew—Mandos, still holding his beloved sword, and Tingetorix, crushed beneath his horse; Brocagnos and Drostac, neighbors in death as they had been in life. Astonishingly, some still lived. Kitto, the farmer’s son, had been felled by a blow to the head and was just regaining consciousness when they found him. Lhiannon kept him with her as they went on.

She found it hard to believe that Bogle could make out any scent above the pervasive reek of blood, but the dog continued to move among the bodies, and when Lhiannon recognized Eoc she knew that Bogle was leading them well.

“The gods reward you—I know you defended her,” murmured the priestess, bending to close the staring eyes. Holding Bogle’s leash in one hand and Kitto’s arm with the other, she went on.

“Here,” she said softly as the dog paused, whining. Before them the dead were piled high, Romans mixed with Britons. She tied the dog to a dead man’s leg and she and Kitto began to drag the cold bodies to either side.

They found Bituitos first, his mail hacked and a great wound in his chest, and just beyond him, Boudica, crumpled over the body of her daughter in the center of a ring of slain. Rigana was quite dead, but as Lhiannon gently took Boudica in her arms, Bogle surged forward with a muffled bark and began to lick the blood from her face.

“Hush, Bogle, get back, get down!” Lhiannon whispered with a frantic glance toward the Roman torches. The dog crouched, tail wagging. For a moment Lhiannon stared, then pressed her finger to the pulse point in the queen’s neck. She could not tell if what she felt was a heartbeat or her own trembling. But she had touched enough dead flesh tonight to realize that Boudica was not quite cold.

“Blessed Goddess, she’s alive! Quickly, Rianor, help me lift her.”

Kitto took up Rigana’s body, and moving with infinite care they started toward the hill. Twice they had to drop flat when Roman searchers came too near, but the very magnitude of the disaster was in their favor. Even the greediest legionary needed time to search all the slain.