Warriors of Camlann by N. M. Browne Page A

dizzying realignment.
    â€˜Taliesin? But what—?’
    â€˜Later, Daniel,’ Taliesin whispered under his breath. ‘There is too much to say. But where is Ursula?’
    â€˜I don’t know. We were together, and then there was an attack and there was no time. My God, Ursula!’ Dan paled. How could he have forgotten Ursula even with concussion? He felt flooded with appalling guilt. ‘I banged my head, and forgot who I was.’
    â€˜And who is this boy, Druid, that you have brought to this citadel?’ It was Medraut, unmoved by the reunion.
    â€˜Why, Medraut, I thought that a fighter such as yourself would recognise another in the same heroic mould. This is the Bear Sark of legend, come as I have ever promised to help us in our hour of darkest need.’ Taliesin paused for dramatic effect. ‘I have told you before of the prophecy given to me in the sacred grove by the wisest of sages. “As the bear on the high hillside protects the cubs, so
The Bear
of Ynys Prydein, the Island of the Mighty, protects its own. Remember
The Bear
and cherish it, for when
The Bear
is gone the hillside falls.” This man may yet fulfil the prophecy.’ Taliesin beamed triumphantly and Dan had the uncomfortable sensation that he had walked in on someone else’s dream. The world darkened and he felt athundering in his ears like the sound of a thousand horsemen at full gallop. For the first time in his life he passed out.
    Dan woke to find himself in a chamber of some magnificence. He was lying on a sheepskin stretcher in a warm room. He heard voices arguing. He shut his eyes again the better to listen.
    â€˜Look, whatever Taliesin has said to us in the past – he’s exaggerated. This
Dan
is a youth – no more. I don’t doubt that he knows how to fight in a skirmish but he’s no heroic fighter. He’s no older than Bedewyr.’
    Dan recognised the first voice as belonging to Medraut, the second was new to him.
    â€˜And Bedewyr claims that this youth killed five Aenglisc single-handed – well, with the help of that dog of his.’
    Dan opened his eyes to see ‘that dog of his’, Braveheart, his faithful hound, mounting guard over his stretcher. Dan lay still, trying to orient himself. He was in a room of apparently Raven design and luxury. The complex mosaic of the floor was warm to the touch and the air was scented and clean. He was in Camulodunum, which even in Macsen’s day had been a major city – though admittedly less major, once Boudicca had burned it to the ground. Taliesin was there, surrounded by Ravens. What could be going on? He had leftTaliesin with Macsen and the other Combrogi when he and Ursula, having defeated the Ravens, had entered the Veil. How could Taliesin be here, now, ahead of them, aged, and working with the Ravens? It made no sense. Did it matter? Whatever was going on, his first duty was to get out of the city, find Ursula and try to get them home. His thoughts were interrupted by the warm wetness of Braveheart’s tongue greeting his renewed consciousness with noisy enthusiasm.
    â€˜I see you have awoken.’ It was a man’s voice, the same voice that had been speaking to Medraut.
    Dan struggled gracelessly to his feet with a little assistance from Braveheart.
    â€˜Sir,’ he began, in Latin. ‘I apologise for the display of weakness – I sustained a head wound earlier, I—’
    â€˜Please, no apology, come and make yourself comfortable. You would have wine? We still have wine to offer honoured guests.’
    The speaker was a slim young man, clean-shaven with short blond hair worn in a clipped military style. Dressed in a knee-length undyed tunic decorated with red roundels at the shoulders, he lay in Roman fashion on a shabby gilded couch. He waved Dan in the direction of a second couch, covered in a sheepskin to disguise its much-mended upholstery.
    â€˜I am Arturus Urbicus, War