Dreaming the Bull Read Online Free PDF Page A

sheath, the blade lay naked across Ardacos’ palms, a thing of silver smeared stickily black. Cunomar felt his mother’s hands on his waist and then he was swung down to the ground and she was standing behind him, one hand on his shoulder.
    Before she could prompt him, the child drew himself up and, following the conventions he had heard in the summer councils, said, “Cunomar, son of the Boudica and of Caradoc, warrior of three tribes, thanks Ardacos of the Caledones, warrior of the she-bear and of the honour guard of Mona, for his great gift and pledges…”
    He ran out of words. He had no idea what he pledged; the weapon held all his attention. It was smaller than his mother’s war sword and he was sure he could lift it. With both hands, he grasped the hilt and pulled. The blade slid off Ardacos’ open palms and fell, point down, to pierce the turf between the warrior’s feet. Cunomar’s pride fell with it, turning to shame and fear of failure and the ill omen of awarrior-to-be who could not raise his own sword. Tears welled in him and spilled over and he took a breath to howl his disappointment.
    “No. Look. There is no harm done. See, we can lift it together.” His mother’s arms encircled him, stemming the grief. “It’s an enemy sword and Mab’s blood is still on it. We must clean it and dedicate it to the gods and then we’ll put it away and keep it safe until you’re a warrior and can wield it in battle.”
    That was not what he wanted. Cygfa had her knife and could wear it openly; he wanted the same, or better. He felt his lower lip quiver and the tears massed again on his lids. His mother ruffled her fingers through his hair and went on as if she had never meant to stop. “But before that, you can try one swing, to get the feel of it. See—I’ll hold it, you can make the stroke.”
    With one hand she lifted the blade, making it light as straw, and with the other she pressed his own small fist in before hers and he found that he could make the back-handed killing stroke in the way he had seen Cygfa do when their father first began to teach her, and then, because it was a Roman blade, he followed it with a lunge forward as the enemy were said to do, killing empty air that had every Roman in the world at the end of it.
    His mother laughed, breathlessly. “That’s good. See? The blade knows its rightful owner and—” She stopped, and this time he did not have to look up to see why because he had seen the thing before her and it was his own small gasp that had made her look with him to the horizon where a beacon fire blossomed like a second sun. Cunomar knew in the depths of his soul that it signalled the beginning ofthe war to end all wars and that he would not be old enough to wield his new blade before the fighting ended.
    The world changed, dizzyingly fast. Breaca stood, suddenly, taking the Roman blade out of reach and her son did not protest. He heard her call out a name and a cry rose up around him, the keening of the grey falcon that was the sign of the Silures in whose land they lived and fought, and of Gwyddhien who led the right wing of the honour guard. The sound multiplied as her warriors joined it and the mountain rang as with a multitude of hunting birds. The child’s world darkened as men and women in uncountable numbers mounted their horses and raised their shields, blocking out the sun.
    Cunomar turned, seeking his mother, and found she was crouching beside him again, snapping her fingers and whistling into the long shadows beneath the hawthorn trees where the war hounds lay awaiting battle.
    Three hounds emerged. The grey-white bitch was first, who had been called Cygfa until Cunomar’s half-sister was born when the hound’s name had been changed to Swan’s Neck and then to just Neck. She was foremost among his mother’s brood bitches and had given birth to Stone, the tall young hound who came out next and who would run beside the grey battle mare and help the warriors to