by N. M. Browne
It is years since I climbed a tree – once I was betrothed it was deemed unseemly. Before that I spent half my girlhood shinning up the ancient oaks in our woodland. I hope I haven’t forgotten how.
The tree nearest the fire isn’t an oak but a fir with little in the way of lower branches. I’ve thought of that. This is a good moment to remind myself of how to throw a spear.
My first attempt is pathetic, incompetently thrown and poorly aimed. I hear the ghost of Gwyn mocking my frailty with his characteristic bitter wit. I grit my teeth and try again, this time with Morcant’s spear. The spear hits the tree trunk squarely and well. I run to check. The spear is deeply embedded in the bark to the depth of half my hand’s span. That will have to do. I daren’t risk another attempt. I hurl Lucius’ pack up into the lower branches of the tree. It’s bulky and an awkward shape. It takes me several weary throws before it catches in the branches. It doesn’t look secure, but it’s too late to do anything about that. I grab the first spear from where it fell uselessly into the snowy ground and tuck it under my arm. I tighten the cloaks around me and make sure my sword is secure. Now comes the test. I use the spear buried in the trunk to give me a leg-up. It buckles, though I’m lighter than I was. I don’t give it a chance to break but haul myself with all my strength up into the tree. I am out of practice but my body remembers what to do. At least I’ve gained in strength and reach what I’ve lost in agility. I can still do it. I make it to the safety of the largest branch with no time at all to spare. When I look down, I can see dark shapes prowling and snuffling at the tree’s roots. The wolves are here.
CHAPTER FIVE
Trista’s Story
Thank Lugh, the horned one and the mother, but natural wolves don’t climb. I’m less sure about the werewolf. I don’t breathe for a bit, then I realise that I can’t hold my breath all night. The wolves know I’m here – they just can’t get to me. It feels like a long time before they drift away one by one, drawn by the scent of easier prey, the carrion that was once Lucius. I can hear them digging at the fresh snow, uncovering what Morcant and I had so recently buried. I block my ears to the sounds that follow.
There is one gift common to both a warrior and a slave and that is the ability to grab sleep whenever and wherever you can – no matter how precarious the situation. It is a gift I’ve perfected over long years. I hang my firepot on a branch and feed it all the dry pine needles that I can. I then arrange my cloaks to give me maximum protection against the cold and drift off.
It’s cramp that wakes me. I’ve no idea how long I’ve slept but I have to stretch out my leg. I’m stiff, chilled to the bone and in some pain. I try to massage out the knotty muscles with numb hands and somehow I knock over the firepot so that it falls down through the interlaced branches below me, bouncing off them noisily as it goes. It lands with a noticeable thud and an avalanche of snow. I might just as well have called out to the wolves to come and get me. Two of them are there in a heartbeat, prowling around the tree and whimpering. I had hoped they would be too well fed by now to bother me. It looks like I’ll have to try the second part of my survival plan, once I’ve rid myself of the cramp anyway. I keep a close lookout and squint to see beyond this tree to the camp. I think the other wolves may have gone. There are just these two to deal with. It is hard to tell from this distance but I think one of them might be Morcant.
I use the end of the spear to cut a strip of fabric from the bottom of Morcant’s cloak and I bind it around the long metal shaft and tip. One spear; two wolves. I’ll have to kill the one and scare away the other. I will not be able to do either job from my present position. I can’t stay here much longer in any case, unless I want to die of cold. I have to rub my hands together to warm them and then tuck them under my armpits. Neither works – they are still stiff and it hurts to move my fingers. I wait until I can see a dark shape under the tree and then throw my borrowed pack down. The wolf leaps back with a yelp as I miss its head by less than a hand span. Pity. Now for the difficult part. I begin to climb back down and when I reach the lowest branch I leave the safety of the tree’s canopy and wrap my legs around the tree trunk and try to hold myself steady. These months of slavery have weakened me. It is very uncomfortable but I need to be below the pine-covered branches in order to have the space to attack. I will have to be quick. I try to find the fire inside me, the spark of flame that I can sometimes will into being. It is hard to concentrate when I am so worried that I’m going to fall straight down into the waiting jaws of the wolves a spear’s length below me. I can see them both now. I should have a clear shot. I almost lose my balance getting the spear into position and then I breathe in slowly and breathe out flame. Only nothing happens. Oh, may the gods of my tribe not desert me now! I shut my eyes and steady myself as if for battle. There. I breathe in and out and this time flame blooms along the fabric wound round the spear shaft. I take aim.
One of the wolves reacts immediately to the sound and scent of fire and begins to run deeper into the forest. The sky is lightening, dawn is not long away, and I can see the beast quite well. I time the throw as I’ve been trained, estimating the wolf’s speed. I count to myself. My muscles are burning with the unfamiliar strain of keeping me securely wrapped round the tree. I can’t hold much longer. I let the spear fly. It is not my best shot. It misses the neck and spine of the running wolf, only grazing its flank. The creature yelps and disappears from view. I’ve not killed it nor have I frightened the other. Gwyn would have had something to say about that.
I can’t see the second wolf, the wolf that might be Morcant. Perhaps I’ve been luckier than I deserve and I have scared him away? Either way, I am too cold to stay where I am. I let myself slide down the trunk, scraping the inside of my thighs. The second my feet hit the ground my sword is out. I pull the spear out of the trunk using all my remaining strength and try to make sense of the tracks around the tree.
I move as stealthily as my stiff joints allow until I see one set of wolf prints change into the distinctive form of a man’s bare foot. Morcant must have transformed back! I feel a surge of something – relief? Hard to know. Maybe it is hope. Maybe I will survive the night.
I am alert for any sign that the wolf pack might lurk here still but I think they’ve gone. It is getting lighter all the time. The sun is not yet fully up and everything is bleached grey, grainy and unreal. The prone, naked figure of Morcant the man looks waxy. Is he alive? His skin is tinged with blue, but his chest rises and falls quite regularly. He does not stir as I cover him with his own cloak and turn my attention to restarting the fire. I keep my spear within reach in case he wakes and attacks but I’m not expecting that. The shadow of the wolf still surrounds him but the wolf sleeps as heavily as the man.
It takes a while for me to warm up and all the time I watch the sleeping man. Who knows what this transformation will have done to him? I notice the very moment when his eyelids flicker and his eyes open. His eyes in daylight are a greenish grey with flecks of a wolfish yellow. Their owner looks confused. He tries to speak but nothing comes out of his mouth and I see the panic in his face. He coughs and puts one grimy hand to his head to push away his thick, dark hair.
‘What happened?’ His voice is hoarse as if he had been shouting all night. His nails are black half-moons of muck and his hands are streaked with blood. ‘I had a strange dream . . .’
I wait.
‘Do you know . . . I mean . . . how?’ He indicates his nakedness. I don’t reply.
He doesn’t appear hostile. He has a lost look in his eyes and I struggle to see him as a potential enemy. He shivers and I dig in his bag for his remaining clothes. ‘You need to dress,’ I say and he twists away from me modestly. I’m used to the company of men and don’t need such consideration. His body is smeared with dirt and dried blood and raked with claw marks. It doesn’t look like he had an easy night.
I help him with his boots and with the fastenings of his belt: I am not half-witted enough to strap on his sword. His ha
nds and fingers are clumsy, as if he has forgotten how to use them. His skin is cold as stone. I tend him as I tended the sick back at home, as I tended Cerys. He lets me help him with such childlike trust that I wonder if his mind has been damaged by his transformation.
I boil snow over the now blazing fire and make a meal from the last of Morcant’s food supplies – barley, beans and cheese. After my time at the Chief’s fort it is a feast. Morcant eats ravenously. Whatever else happened, I don’t think he feasted with the wolves last night and I’m relieved that he didn’t eat Lucius’ corpse. The blood on his hands is probably his own.
‘You need to remember what happened.’ I try to speak gently.
‘I’ve not been drinking?’
‘Only water from your canteen.’
I leave him to his disjointed thoughts. His confusion is no concern of mine.
Now that the sun is up, I know I should get moving but it is so good to rest in front of this fire. I let my mind drift, planning where to go next, how to find food. The only sound is the crackling of the fire, the spitting of the damp wood. At last he speaks.
‘I remember running and some kind of fight.’
‘You were a wolf, Morcant,’ I say. ‘A wild beast.’
He shakes his head. Even now he doesn’t believe it. There is a rustle in the bushes and I have my sword out and I’m on my feet. Morcant is slower to react. That decides it. Tempting though it would be to travel with a companion, Morcant is too much of a risk – either wild predator or helpless fool. I check the undergrowth but see nothing untoward. It is time to go.
I pack up Lucius’ gear, his cook pot, shield and spear. I leave his spade, axe and various other items for which I have no use or which weigh too much. I bow towards the hearth to thank the goddess and towards the tree that sheltered me through the long night. ‘I thank you for the blessing of your fire and the shared food,’ I say.
He’s watching me with wide eyes. I can’t see him living long like this but he’s not my responsibility. I am free.
‘Thanks for the food. May the gods look favourably on your journey,’ I say. In the cool morning light I can see the wolf stirring. I turn my back on both of them and start walking. The spear is useful as a walking stick over the treacherous, uneven ground and, while the shield and armour are cumbersome, I leave Morcant’s company better equipped than I arrived.
I don’t know where Morcant’s Legio IX might be camped, but they cannot be far away and I am afraid I’ve stayed here too long. I head north because I know the Brigante lands lie to the North of the Parisi. But that is all I know.
I haven’t gone more than ten paces when it happens again – the dizziness and weakness. I hope Morcant doesn’t see me sit down abruptly so that I don’t fall. When the vision comes, it is sharp as a stab wound in my mind – I am in the Chief’s hall as the legion comes. Elen and the rest of them are screaming. Swords slash through flesh and bone and the ground is slick with the blood of the slaughter. I choke and cough as the thick black smoke of the hall’s fire catches in my throat, my eyes stream, nausea grips me.
My vision clears and I’m back in the snow-covered grove. I wipe snow across my face to revive me. I don’t know if this massacre has happened or is yet to come but I’ve got to get further away. The hall and all this horror are still too near.
‘Hey! Hold on! Are you all right?’ Morcant’s voice is different, strong, ‘You can’t travel alone!’
Of course I can travel alone. I turn back to answer him and see that the wolf wraith is fully awake now and restless. The wolf returns my look and does not look away, but sniffs the air, ready to move on. The man is already putting out the fire and gathering up his kit. ‘Are you hurt?’
His movements are swift, neat, and in moments he is with me and helping me to my feet. His arm is strong; he almost lifts me from the ground.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, irritated. ‘We’d both be better off travelling alone.’ I know my voice trembles with weakness because it always does after a vision, but that doesn’t mean I’m weak. I’ll be stronger in a moment.
‘No. It’s much safer if we travel together – we can sleep in turns.’ I don’t argue. I haven’t yet got the strength. Besides, it is the wolf I hear in Morcant’s voice – assured, with the promise of violence. Short of putting a spear through Morcant’s guts, I don’t think there’s much I can do. Could I have chosen a worse travelling companion? It is hard to imagine one.
I must still be befuddled by my vision, because when I allow him to help me it is with a lighter heart than I’ve had in a long time.
CHAPTER SIX
Morcant’s Story
The female is sick, she smells wrong. Perhaps I am sick too and that’s why I can’t remember last night. There are shadows: smells, sounds that I can almost recall – fever dreams, nothing more. I’ll be fine if I keep moving away from this forest, away from this country. The woman recovers quickly and strides ahead. I focus on following her long, straight back. I could almost imagine she were Lucius leading the way if she were not so tall. I know everything is not as it was yesterday; my churning guts and the chill in the marrow of my bones tell me that everything is different.
When the sun is high, we stop for a drink of water. It’s still cold but the sun is bright and the snow is beginning to thaw. At least our trail of footprints in the snow will melt.
‘We need to find something to eat.’ She doesn’t answer.
‘Do you remember what happened yet?’ I shake my head. She gives me a look that is close to contempt.
‘You need to try harder,’ she says and her eyes are very cold.
We walk and then walk some more. Even the army is not so hard a taskmaster as this woman. We leave the forest behind and come to an area of tilled ground. The woman stops, then ‘By Lugh, no,’ she whispers and what little I can see of her flesh is corpse white.
‘What is it?’
‘These are the Chief’s fields. I’ve brought us back full circle. This is the place I ran from.’
The stench of fire is in the air: ash, charcoal, burned flesh.
‘Shall we turn round?’
‘No. The gods have brought me here for a reason, I must see what they want me to see.’ Her voice is flat and lifeless. She already knows what she will see and so do I. We walk on.
It’s not long before we see the ruins of a hill fort rising before us, the ramparts blackened and broken like old men’s teeth. A pall of smoke still hangs overhead like a funeral cloak, like vulture’s wings. I don’t want to go any closer.
She hesitates and I can smell her fear. The smoke tells its own tale. I move to stand beside her.
‘No one could survive this,’ she says bleakly, but I know she is wrong. I can smell fresh blood – someone is still breathing, still bleeding. I don’t argue with her. I stride ahead, following the scent trail. She doesn’t question me and I hear her behind me. I admire her courage.
I climb the steep slope of the hill. The stench of death is stronger here, mixed with the smoke that catches in my throat, in my eyes, my nose. It is on my tongue so that it is all I can taste. The white snow is black with ash. The wooden palisade still smoulders, burned to charcoal – it crumbles under my hands. This place is eerily silent. All the birds have flown away and no dogs bark a warning at our presence. They died here too. I can smell them.
I can see the ruin of the hall. They burn well, these roundhouses; thatch catches so easily. There isn’t much left within the smouldering remains. I guess that those unfortunate enough to be trapped inside huddled together for protection and were slaughtered where they stood. The corpses are all heaped to one side of the building. The ground is littered with shards of pottery and blackened iron. Anything of value has been stripped from the dead and taken. Still the scent of life draws me. I step over blackened timber. My hobnail boots crunch on ash and cinders. The dead are not long cold but already the decay has begun.
I find her at last, crouched in the shelter of the partially col
lapsed wall, all but hidden by the carrion. She is so stained with grime and soot that if I’d been depending on my eyes I would have missed her. She looks like a pile of rags. She opens her eyes at my approach and I see the fear in them.
‘I’ve not come to harm you,’ I say quickly in my mother’s tongue. I offer her my canteen. I can see burns on her hands and death in her eyes so I hold it to her lips and tilt it gently so that she can drink.
My female companion is beside me. I glance up. She has removed both her helmet and her shawl to expose her face. Her eyes are moist but whether from the smoke or from grief I can’t say.
‘Elen?’
‘Come to see your handiwork, bitch?’ The burned woman’s voice is dry and raw, the sound a parched rock might make if it could speak. She tries to spit in our direction but her mouth is too try and her lips scorched.
‘This is not of my doing.’ I hear anguish in my companion’s voice
‘Tell that to the Chief – he found your witchcraft just before your men came and did this.’ She coughs – a ghastly, racking sound.
‘The Chief survived?’ The seeress sounds incredulous. I can’t blame her. My army are good at bringing death and we rarely leave witnesses. ‘He cursed you, Trista, and he’ll get you!’
Elen tries to point a fire-ravaged, blistered finger at us, but the effort is too much. She grimaces with pain.