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

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 first rank of legionaries waver. For a moment the Druids savored triumph, then the Roman trumpets blared once more, and the enemy surged forward 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 flesh to soar above the battlefield.
    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.
    he 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 battlefield.
    “Ardanos …” she whispered. Her reaching fingers found his hand.
    “Thank the gods!” The pain as he squeezed her fingers was a distraction 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.
    “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 fortification 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 shoulder 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 fly off like that? I was afraid …” Ardanos 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