Dreaming the Hound by Manda Scott Page B

forgotten, if she had ever known it, what it was to be lost in the love of a child. She rode each step forward with equal weights of hope and terror balancing the two sides of her heart.
    In deference to Roman laws forbidding warriors to carry any weapon longer than a skinning knife, Breaca and her party rode unarmed into the occupied territories. Their blades, and all that marked them as warriors, were left in a grave mound of the ancestors to which Airmid had led them on the evening after Ardacos and Cygfa had rejoined the group. The mound lay low, hidden by scrub and thin plates of river mist. As they approached from the west, at dusk, the rising moon cast shadows along its length, making it larger and less welcoming than it might have been.
    There was no sense of safety here. Riding close brought the hairs upright on Breaca’s arms and made her mare snore steam into the frostbitten air. Stone walked stiff-legged at one side and Ardacos, cursing under his breath, held his horse tight at the other. Before them was only moonlight and shadow and a huddle of rocks and turf built around the bones of the dead; they were used to these things and should not have felt so keenly the dread of ancient wrath.
    Airmid alone seemed untouched. She rode close to the mound’s entrance and slid to the ground. The moon cast her in silhouette, part of the rocks and the turf. She knelt a while at the guardian stones, tracing hidden lines on their surfaces. From where she waited, Breaca could hear the cadence of a murmured half
    dialogue such as she might have had with the ancestor in the cave.
    ‘This is the place.’ Airmid backed away from the mound. The pressure of the stones had softened her features, blurring them as if newly wakened from sleep. She said, ‘Efnis has been here, and one other of the tribes, but not in the past three years, and no-one of Rome. The ghosts of the ancients have guarded this place against all but the strongest dreamers. If there is anywhere better to keep your blades safe from Rome, I don’t know of it.’
    She spoke to a gathering of silent warriors, and one child. Ardacos coughed and pushed his horse forward. It was leery of the silvered light and crabbed sideways, unwilling to face the dark.
    Ardacos was not a weak man. Over twenty years, he had killed more Romans singlehanded in service to the she-bear than any other living warrior. Breaca trusted him in battle as she trusted few others. It was not cowardice, then, that moved him when he said, ‘This place is Nemain’s as much as it is the old ones’. The god is not of the same stamp as the she-bear and I would not willingly offend either. If it would be best for my blade to be buried in some place away from here, I will do it.’
    Airmid smiled. Her skin was bone white in the moonlight and quite beautiful. Her voice came from other worlds. ‘The bear is as welcome here as any other, or as unwelcome. It is the danger of this place that will protect what you would leave.’
    Cygfa, too, was not afraid of death. She said, ‘I would not anger the ghosts of our past, any more than would Ardacos. If they resent our presence, we could give you the blades, and you could hide them.’
    Airmid shook her head. ‘No. If I die, then they would be lost for ever. You must each come and place your weapons where they can best lie. Then if need be, any one of us can retrieve them when the war begins.’
    When the war begins … That much of the ancestor’s visions seemed certain. Sitting on horseback in the cold night, Breaca watched the many-led Eceni flood forward to crush the legions of Rome. A legionary eagle was ground into gore and the serpent spear hung over—
    ‘Breaca?’ Airmid had a hand on her arm and Graine had turned sideways on the mare’s withers and was peering up into her face. ‘Can you get down? We need your blade and your father’s. They must go in first. Cunomar can go in with you, to see where they are placed. It may be he will be