“Tell us, Lady -” Cynric croaked as if he found it hard to get the words out. “Tell us what we should do . . .”
The Lady sat back, and this time her laugh was low and amused.
“Flee,” She said softly. “Flee now, for your enemies are upon you.” She lifted her head and looked around the circle. “All of you, go swiftly and quietly, and you will live . . .for a while.”
Some of the people began to shift away from the fires, but the remainder stayed staring as if enchanted.
“Go!” She flung up her hand, and a wing of darkness swept the circle. Startled into movement, people began to push against their neighbors like the first rolling pebbles in an avalanche of stones. “Cynric son of Junius, run,” she screamed suddenly. “Run, for the Eagles come!”
And as the people fled the distant drumming became a present thunder and the Roman cavalry charged.
Gaius let the impetus of the charge sweep him forward, willing his awareness to confine itself to the movement of the horse beneath him, and the riders to either side, the rising ground, the running shapes of men and women and the glow of the flames. He tried to banish the memories which colored his perceptions, but he kept seeing a full moon and dancers, Cynric walking hand in hand with Dieda, and Eilan’s rosy face lit by the Beltane fires.
The anterior horns of the saddle jabbed his buttocks as the slope steepened; he gripped with his knees and settled lance and shield, scanning the fleeing figures for armed men. Their orders had been dear enough – to avoid slaughtering a peaceful population, but to keep the fugitive rebels among them from getting away. The Legate had not explained how, in the confusion and darkness, that was to be done.
Still cursing the fate that had sent him after Cynric and the Ravens at this of all places, Gaius saw a glint of metal, a white face contorting in fear or fury. Responses trained into him by ten years as a soldier moved his arm without the need for decision. He felt the jerk and tug as the lance pierced flesh and pulled free again, and the face disappeared.
The charge was slowing; they reached the flattened hilltop and saw it almost deserted, though people were streaming away on every side. A terse order to his optio sent riders swinging outward in pursuit. His mount half-reared as a white figure waved its arms wildly, mouthing something about sacred ground. Gaius kneed the animal in a rocking canter around the perimeter, looking for Cynric, heard the clash of metal on the other side of the mound in the center, and headed toward it.
And suddenly his mount was plunging, whinnying in terror as a wing of shadow swirled around it and someone screamed. It was not fear he heard but anger, anguish; a cry that contained all the horror and fear and fury of all the battlefields in the world; a shriek that turned the bowels to water and shivered the bones. Every animal that heard it for a moment was maddened, and every human felt the spirit within him gibber with fear. Gaius lost his reins and his lance and clung to his pony’s mane as the world whirled around him. The face of a Fury hung before him, haloed by seething tendrils of shining hair.
His mount plunged onward and he came into the leaping firelight; all around him men stood frozen as if by some spell. Then his horse came to a shivering halt and people began to move again, but he could still see the terror in their eyes. He took a deep breath, realizing that surprise was lost, and looked around.
Some of the Druids were supporting a man in white whom he realized in shock must be Ardanos; he looked very old now. The blue-robed priestesses were easing what looked like a bundle of cloth out of the chair on the top of the mound. As his battle fury drained away, Gaius felt suddenly very tired.
Another rider, his optio, appeared at his side. “They’ve scattered, sir.”