Dreaming the Bull Read Free Page B

aid of those who hunt men by night. There is a task for which no others are suited. There is danger beyond that which any others can face. There is need of one who can track and one who can hunt and one who can kill and leave not a single one of the enemy alive. Can you do this? Will you do it?”
    The dance throbbed. The drums tugged at her soul. Waves of passion, of regret, of love and loss and pity scored her heart. Fighting for outward calm, she said again, “Warriors of the she-bear. Can you do this? Will you do it?”
    A single bear-robed figure shuffled forward. It could have been man or woman, both or neither. In a voice Breaca had never known, it said, “We can. We will. We do.”
    “Thank you. May Nemain light your way, may Briga aid your fighting and the bear guard the honour of your dying. I am grateful—truly.”
    The last sentence was hers alone, not given by the generations before. Breaca stepped sideways, leaving open the place before the fire.
    On a soft, husking cough, the skull-drumming stopped.The circle opened and disgorged into its centre a decurion of the Roman cavalry and two of his auxiliaries. As if under Roman orders, the three marched to stand before the fire.
    The officer stood a little ahead of his men and was more richly dressed. His cloak was a deep liver red, striped at the hem in white, and his chain-mail shirt caught the moonlight and made of it stars. His helmet gave him a little extra height, but did not bring him close to the stature of the two warrior-auxiliaries who flanked him, each a hand’s length taller. Beneath their helmets, the face of each was painted in white lime; circles around the eyes and knife-straight lines beneath each cheek made them other than human. All three smelled, overpoweringly, of bear grease, stoat’s urine and woad.
    They made a line before the fire. Each bowed a little and gave something himself, or herself—at least one of the disguised warriors was a woman—to the flames. The offerings flashed as they burned, giving off the greens and blues of powdered copper and the whiff of scorched hair. When the fire was quiet, all three turned and lifted their cavalry cloaks so it might be seen by their peers that, beneath the chain mail of their disguise, they were naked and that the grey woad that was their protection under the gods coated all of their skin. A small incision on the left forearm of each bled a little into the night, black against the silvering grey. The skull-drums chattered a final time in recognition, approval and support. When they stopped, a measure of magic departed the night.
    It was hard to move, as if the earth had become less solid a while and, returning, the pressure of it bruised the soles of the feet. Breaca moved further away, giving room before the fire to the drummers and dancers; they hadfurther to return and would feel the strangeness more strongly. The enemy decurion followed her.
    “Am I Roman?”
    The man tipped his head slightly, and by that, by his voice and by his lack of height, Breaca knew him. She smiled. “Ardacos, no, no-one could imagine you Roman. But by the time the enemy are close enough to realize it, they will be dead.”
    She laid her palm on the hilt of his sword, the only part of him another could touch without desecration until he had killed his foes or died in the attempt. “You know that if it were possible, I would go in your stead.”
    “And you know that there are some places where the Boudica excels and others where the she-bear is all that will suffice.”
    Behind the skull paint, Ardacos’ eyes were bright as the stoat’s that was his dream. He had been her lover for a while between Airmid and Caradoc; he knew her as well as any man, knew the weaknesses, real and imagined, that she took pains to hide from the greater mass of warriors.
    He said, “I couldn’t lead the warriors down the hill tomorrow if their lives and mine depended on it. I couldn’t stand with my back to the sunrise and