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

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 flesh they feed.”
    ull 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 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 wallowed toward the shore. As Lhiannon grabbed the piles of bandages 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, fierce 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 defeated, 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 becoming 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 extending up and down, bobbed downstream.
    The pony’s ears flicked 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 flank. The slingers had time for one volley, the fire-hardened clay pellets 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 battlefield, summoned by the fury that beat like black wings in her own soul.