Wolf Blood

by N. M. Browne

  I can smell deer nearby and I know that the thought of fresh venison will distract these men as nothing else could. Unfortunately it distracts me too. I picture myself biting into the succulent flesh of a doe and I find myself salivating. I have to think of something else, of my need to redirect these men so that Trista might get away. I haven’t much time. The men are shouting to each other, frightening away all the wild animals and the other, dark things of the forest that I try not to see. The Romans know exactly what they are doing. One of the men is walking in Trista’s direction. His eyes are fixed on the ground, his sword is out. I break cover and run.

  Someone cries out, but my ears are back and I’m running so fast I know they won’t catch me.

  All the men’s shouting has woken my mate. Her musk calls to me and I let her know that I’m here and needing her. She is still angry with me – I can see it in her stance – but she does what I ask and we two herd the deer back towards the Romans. The deer are skittish and reluctant to head where we want them to go, but they fear us more than they fear the men. One of them is lame and we might be able to take it down. I know the she-wolf is thinking the same thing. I have to concentrate on Trista, her special scent, her fighting spirit, her need for me, so that the painful emptiness in my belly does not distract me.

  The she-wolf is fleet-footed. I have to work hard to match her. She has already isolated the weak doe, but the deer is too big for her to take down on her own. She needs me too and even the prospect of meat will not tempt her to go within sight and spear range of the men: she was hit once by a glancing spear-blow and will not risk it again.

  I hesitate. I think we could take the doe, but these beasts can run and the chase might take us miles from this place. I have to go back to the place I left the female, I mean Trista, to be sure she is safe. I make a sound that is between a howl and a bark to tell the she-wolf that I’ll be back. I run beside the herd, still driving them with my powerful scent, but keeping my distance so that the Romans will see them before they spot me. I find what shadows I can and stay in them, trusting to the subtle shadings of my own pelt to keep me hidden in this place of winter greys and browns.

  The herd is not large, but their hoofs are loud in the forest and I know that there is not a man in the army who doesn’t love a haunch of venison.

  I see Trista at once, still cowering in the undergrowth. The shawl that should cover her head has fallen down so that her bright hair shines like a fiery beacon if you know where to look. One of the soldiers is so close that I think he must have spotted her. I drop to the ground watching. If he gets within a spear’s length, I will pounce.

  The deer are confused with a wolf behind them, a wolf alongside them and men in front of them, and they run the only way they can. The Decanus yells and all the men focus on trying to spear a dear. They stand little chance but that does not stop them. The young male nearest to Trista sheathes his sword and runs for the herd, putting down his shield and picking up his spear as he goes. I hope Trista has the wit to stay still. The men are still alert and she, unlike the running deer, is easy to spear. She hazards a small movement – lifting her head just high enough to see what is happening – and then drops back down.

  The Decanus has the mule and the group move on. I wait until I judge they can no longer hear us and then double back to see how the she-wolf fares with the injured doe. Trista can take care of herself.

  We run, the she-wolf and I, we exhaust the deer and then together we bring her down, sharing the kill. She gives me the choicest parts of the innards, the soft and juiciest morsels and then we eat all that we can until we can barely move. When we are both satiated, I take a large hunk of meat to carry in my mouth to give to Trista. The she-wolf slips away, her fury evident in every line of her body.

  She seems small when I finally catch up with her. If I were to stand on my hind legs, I would tower over her, which is strange because when I am a man we are the same size.

  She approaches cautiously. She looks exhausted, out of breath, but otherwise unharmed. She bends over to catch her breath, resting her hands on her knees and I realise she has been running at full pelt. Four legs are faster than two, they can outrun a deer and tear out its heart.

  I place the raw meat at her feet and then hurry back to my mate.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Trista’s Story

  The wolf is huge, bigger than ever, a great grey and tawny beast, his muzzle stained with blood, his breath stinking of offal. At the same time, I want to run from him in terror and throw my arms round his neck in gratitude. He saved me. I would have died in the woods if he had not turned wolf and created a diversion. It was a man’s plan to make such good use of the wolf’s body. Morcant the man, the pale shadow of the vital flesh-and-blood wolf, is awake and partly in control. It is hard to see him in the afternoon light, but his smile warms me. I’m sure that he didn’t know he could transform in the daytime and neither did I. In all the stories I can remember of a druid shapeshifting, none took place in the sunlight.

  I watch the wolf lope away into the distance until I am alone. This sudden daytime metamorphosis is yet another important thing I haven’t foreseen. I have the most useless of gifts.

  I take the bloody meat and wrap it in Morcant’s tunic. I’m not yet so hungry that I can eat raw meat and I dare not build a fire here where the Romans could return. I am hungry, of course I am, but more than anything I’m glad to be alive. Birds sing and shafts of bright sunlight pierce through the treetops dappling the ground with alternating light and shadow. The air is sweet with the scent of rotting leaves and the damp loamy smell of the earth. The gods of the forest are gracious and I whisper my thanks.

  By dusk I’m less grateful. My feet are blistered and I’m hungry enough to slice strips of raw venison with my sword to chew as I walk. I’m grateful for a strong set of teeth. I take stock. I have very little idea of where I am. I cannot walk to the River Sabrina, or at least not easily. We might be in Brigante lands by now, but I cannot be sure. Our lands are extensive and change hands with regularity. It doesn’t matter. The time has come to beg, buy or bully my way into getting help. There is a limit to how much I can achieve alone and I’ve reached it. I need a guide or at least some advice and directions on the best way of finding Caratacus. I need a horse, some warm and suitable clothes to wear and most of all I need to rest. I am hanging on to the here and now by the thinnest skein of the finest yarn ever spun. I dare not stop battling for a moment or the visions will overwhelm me. Morcant, I need you. I want to call out to him, but I know that would be stupid.

  The forest becomes another world after dark, a place of hidden things, of mysteries and dense textured shadows. I keep seeing things out of the corner of my eye, monsters and ghouls from the druids’ fireside tales. Perhaps I am overwrought with the effort of not having visions, but now that I’ve known companionship I don’t want to spend a night here alone. I hear a sound, a movement behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck lift and I draw my sword. I strain my eyes in the growing gloom. It occurs to me that in carrying a lump of raw meat around I’m tempting every carnivore in the area. ‘Who’s there?’ My voice shakes and it is probably stupid to make a noise, but I am not thinking rationally.

  ‘Trista!’

  It is Morcant returned to himself again and hiding behind a tree. I feel a surge of joy and relief. I sheathe my sword and walk towards him holding out my cloak. Our fingers touch briefly as he takes it from me, but there is no terrible vision, just the steady warmth of his hand. I am loath to take mine away.

  He wraps himself in the cloak and emerges from his hiding place. He should look ridiculous: the cloak reaches only to his knees and reveals too much muscular, hairy leg. There is mud in his hair and a long scratch down his face. He doesn’t look ridiculous; he looks magnificent and he is smiling. There are lots of things I want to say but all I manage is: ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘Another wolf.’

  I don’t have to ask more. I s
ee that he won that fight; it is in the set of his shoulders, in the shadow wolf’s high tail. He exudes a new confidence, even happiness. For some reason I’m irritated by that. I’m hungry and tired and far from happy. Only I’m smiling too. He speaks and even his human voice now has the deep growling resonance of the wolf.

  ‘I’ve had a look around. That Roman troop has moved on and is heading away from us. I think we’re safe for the moment.’

  ‘Good. That’s good.’

  ‘There is a village a way over there.’ He points north. That’s useful information too. There are benefits to travelling with a wolf. There are more benefits to travelling with Morcant.

  ‘Thanks for . . . you know, distracting them.’

  He shrugs as if it were nothing. ‘Did you know you were turning?’

  He shakes his head. He still holds his hand as if it were a paw. This Morcant does not waste words.

  ‘I needed to run and I run better as a wolf.’ All trace of his guilt and distress has disappeared. This Morcant seems proud of the wolf. Perhaps he only hates being the beast when the wolf is asleep?

  ‘We have to go into the village. I need better clothes, supplies.’

  ‘I can hunt. We should stay away from people, they only bring trouble. The village could be Parisi. What if they are allies of the Chief? What if they’re allies of Rome?’

  ‘It’s risky, but I don’t know where we are and I need help to get where I need to go.’ He doesn’t ask me where that is. I’ve yet to tell him how my plans have changed.

  ‘I don’t know how or when I’m going to turn, Trista,’ he says. ‘This time it happened because I needed it to. Other times . . .’ He shrugs, making even that gesture look wolfish. ‘I can’t promise that I won’t turn wolf in the village. When the wolf is with me, we are one – as a beast or as a man – it feels the same.’ He looks at me with wolf’s eyes. Slowly and deliberately, he takes my hand.

  ‘You are one,’ I say and cover his grubby, awkward human hand with mine. I press down on his long fingers so that they curl over my own, as a man’s hand can and a wolf’s paw can’t. ‘Without the wolf you are not fully yourself. He is part of you. You are one soul, two natures.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘It’s what I learned from the druid.’

  ‘Pity you learned nothing more useful.’ He squeezes my hand very gently to take the sting from his words. I am very aware of his human body so close to me, and of his animal body somewhere nearby. He came back for me. Twice. Nothing else matters.

  It is too far to travel to the village so we make camp. I build a fire and cook the venison. I’ve never tasted anything more delicious. It’s so long since I’ve eaten meat – there was none in the Chief’s hall. I’d almost forgotten how good it tastes. With every mouthful I feel myself growing stronger. Morcant eats nothing. The wolf has had his fill.

  The wolf falls asleep first. I gather he had good hunting. I can see his silvery outline in the firelight lying prone and breathing deeply.

  Morcant’s face softens as the wolf sleeps. The change is subtle but I’m beginning to know him now and I notice at once. His voice is lighter without the base notes of the beast. He sounds younger and speaks more tentatively.

  ‘Did you mean what you said? Am I really only a half man without the wolf?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I think you did.’ He sounds hurt.

  I put more wood on the fire. We are sitting close together for warmth and share the one cloak we have between us. He has grown silent, brooding. I’m too tired to speculate on the nature of a werewolf. I’m so tired I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. ‘Morcant, how many werewolves do you think I know?’I sound impatient. I don’t mean to.

  ‘One?’

  ‘Exactly. I know you. I watch you and draw my own conclusions. I may be wrong.’

  ‘You said it’s what the druid said.’

  ‘Our druid was old and spoke as much nonsense as sense. I can’t talk about this now. Who will take first watch?’

  He volunteers and gives me the cloak, insisting he will be warm enough by the fire. I curl up next to him as close to the blaze as I dare and let myself fall into a deep pit of sleep.

  He lets me sleep for most of the night. I wake just before dawn, stiff and cold, like some garment left out to dry on a frosty day. I’m surprised my limbs don’t crack as I move. His face is grey with fatigue.

  ‘You should have woken me.’

  ‘You were exhausted, and I wanted to think.’

  I’m not sure I want to know what he thought about. I’m not going to Mona whatever he says. I insist he naps for a time and for all his protestations he falls instantly asleep. His face in repose is beautiful. It starts me thinking about Gwyn and then I have a vision of the unknown man again, but it doesn’t last long and is not violent: the man is flogged but doesn’t die. I come back to the present moment suddenly in a muck sweat and have to leave the fireside to be sick in the bushes. I am not reliable on watch duty, whatever I pretend. Luckily we are not attacked and I know I won’t tell Morcant of my failure, but the wolf is awake and watching me. He knows.

  The sun is already high before we set off and, with the wolf’s return, Morcant’s dark mood lifts. He doesn’t make a fuss about guiding me towards the village, in spite of his reservations. In fact he is eager to be off and doesn’t so much walk as bound across the rough terrain. I get the sense that he wants to run and is held back by my stiff-legged plodding.

  We haven’t been walking long when we come across a stream where I can fill my canteen and wash. I tidy my hair with my hands and remove my mail. Underneath that metal shirt my flimsy, yellow-coloured Roman stola is black with oil. However I arrange it, the fabric is filthy and I know I look neither respectable nor Keltic. My hair is shorter than a tribesman’s. I cover it with the grubby red-trimmed veil, now slightly damp and creased. I do not remove my sword and sword belt.

  ‘How do I look?’ I’m not fishing for a compliment. I just want to know if I look too strange in my odd Roman gear to be acceptable to my own kind.

  ‘Like a goddess,’ Morcant says earnestly and I almost believe him. I can feel myself flushing, then he adds, ‘But the stola is a bit dirty and looks very strange with the sword.’

  ‘You’re not having it,’ I say. Of course. He wants to carry the sword.

  ‘It would make for a better disguise. Roman women do not wear swords.’

  ‘I’m not trying to be a Roman woman but a tribeswoman and we do wear swords. I know you need a sword, but you’re not having mine.’ I know I sound crosser than I intend but I am annoyed with myself. Warriors do not blush.

  He wants to argue, I can tell. I bundle my mail shirt and helmet together, cram them into my pack and make him carry it.

  ‘Look, you’re the one who lost his sword, not me. I am the tribal warrior, not you. I’m keeping my sword.’

  I can see that he accepts that argument but he doesn’t give up easily.

  ‘It will look strange – a woman with a sword, a man without.’

  ‘People will assume you are my slave. It will be safer that way.’ I rearrange my hair under the shawl to give a womanly impression. I’m not sure I succeed.

  The village is further than he thought – two legs are slower than four as he reluctantly admits when we still haven’t reached the village by midday. The rain which began to fall soon after dawn has turned us both into silent, miserable creatures.

  He smells the village some time before we arrive. He pulls a face.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘People living close together reek, you know.’

  ‘What – and wolves don’t?’

  He shrugs. I nag. ‘Don’t sniff or anything when we get there and don’t march like a soldier – try and look a bit beaten. We want their help.’

  He looks far from beaten, in spite of the wildness of his hair, the dark smudge of his growing beard. His eyes are bright with the animal light of the wolf and the
intelligence of the man. He walks with the kind of graceful swagger I haven’t seen in him before. He doesn’t seem like a slave. I want to suggest that he sends the wolf away, but I can’t. This is the man I would want at my side should there be trouble. This is the man I want at my side even if there is no trouble.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Trista’s Story

  The village – no more than five large roundhouses – is protected by a palisade and two young boys act as sentries. I can’t tell whether they are Brigante or Parisi. When they see us coming, they raise the alarm and by the time we reach the gate there is a small reception party of young men with spears, led by a huge tattooed warrior with a long, greying moustache. It takes an effort to keep my hand from my sword hilt. I can’t fight all of them. We are coming to trade, not to fight. I take a closer look at the big man. He is muddy from labouring at some task in the rain, but the torques that he wears around his neck and on his arms are gold and of fine workmanship: he is no farmer. Thank Lugh, and the mother! His tattoos mark him as Brigante.

  Morcant looks like a wild man in a bloodstained tunic. The wolf, if anyone can see him, is at high alert watching the big warrior. I don’t want to think about my own appearance: I can’t imagine that I make a good impression.

  I greet the leader in the formal language of the tribes. His eyes widen.

  ‘Where have you come from? Isn’t that Roman dress?’ He surveys my garish, stained and immodest robe with some confusion. ‘We don’t want any business with collaborators. We’re not all in Roman pockets.’ His eyes linger on my sword and on Morcant. Morcant may be bedraggled and shoeless, but he’s still tall, broad and, with the wolf awake, a fighter. I notice that Morcant has covered his Roman tattoo with mud. I speak before the warrior can say more.