Ravens of Avalon by Diana L. Paxson, Marion Zimmer Bradley

now, undecided whether to welcome or to resent the reinforcements who had come from the Druids’ Isle. With the enemy approaching, he seemed relieved to have their company.
    Lhiannon got to her feet and lifted a branch to see. The slope fell away in a tangle of wood and meadow until it reached the river’s meandering blue gleam. Upriver at the ford, the thatched roofs of the dun shone in the sun. Below, Caratac’s forces were a patchwork of plaid, highlighted by a gleam of iron and bronze and gold. But to the east a dust cloud was rising, broken by the vicious sparkle of steel. She felt a warmth that was as much of the spirit as the flesh as Ardanos rose to stand beside her.
    “They are coming …” she whispered. Instinctively she reached out and he took her hand.
    As they watched, the dust began to resolve into four divisions of marching men divided into dozens of smaller squares, following the same route Caesar’s legions had found. Mounted officers 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 gathered 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 advantage 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 formation 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 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 assails 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, released 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.