by N. M. Browne
I take my place beside the beast. I abandon all thoughts of fighting hand-to-hand and set fire to everything that I can. No one dares approach us. The men are too busy stamping to put out the fire that consumes their cloaks, that catches their hair, that makes the clearing suddenly blaze with light and flames. The grey creatures, almost indistinguishable now from the dark smoke that billows on the wind, rush to fan the flames. Was it their power or my own that made that deadly flame?
The Romans are admirable in their way – so well-drilled they help each other and the tactic does not buy us as much time as I’d hoped. My lips are blistered. My face feels raw and scorched. The pain in my throat is hard to bear: I don’t think I can try this again.
Morcant is panting. His solid muscular flanks pulse with his breath. His open mouth frightens me; his teeth are so large and sharp. Neither the man nor the wolf seem likely to submit this time. I feel a sudden wave of regret, sharp and sweet at once. I wish that I had time to know him better. I wish that I could have paid my debt to Cassie; a seeress should keep her word.
As I had expected some of the men have run behind us to encircle us – an obvious tactic when they are so many and we are so few. Morcant presses his flank against my leg as close to me as he can get. He turns his huge head to look at me, and I find myself smiling. The man and the beast are one to me now: my friend.
Morcant snarls again and swipes the air with his tail. He leaves my side and paces out a tight circle, facing each of our enemies in turn, giving them the chance to see the size of his teeth, his claws, the strength contained in the taut muscles rippling under that thick covering of fur. All of them, to a man, take a step backwards. Those that had spears appear to have thrown them. I think we can thank the spoiling tactics of the grey folk for the Romans’ unusually poor aim. Without their shields the legionaries will have to move in close for the kill, close enough to feel the sharpness of Morcant’s teeth, to feel the thrust of my stolen sword tear through unprotected flesh, spilling the softer parts within. Some of them will die. This impasse lasts for no more than five rapid heartbeats, but it is all the time I need to say my goodbyes and pray to the gods that I might die a good death and find a good rebirth when my time with the shades of the dead is over.
I try to scream out my war cry from my parched throat. Nothing much happens and it feels like my throat is tearing. The northman finally finds his voice, gives an order and they step forward all together, one pace only. The human net around us is tightening. Morcant is ready to pounce and I am poised to pierce the lad closest to me. He is nearly my age and I can almost taste his fear. Something is wrong though – there is a disturbance and men are suddenly shouting. I do not take my eyes off the man I have chosen as my victim. I move forward thrusting and stabbing with my borrowed sword, putting all my weight and power into it. I should be assailed by weapons as my blade finds yielding flesh, but my victim’s comrades have turned away; the circle that surrounds us falls apart. My man falls. I hear a wild ululating tribesman’s cry. Could it be that we have reinforcements? Morcant is fighting two men, a blur of grey fur. Around him men scatter and behind them I see them: Ger and the men from the village.
The legionaries do what they can to fall back to the campfire to regroup. The first casualty is my betrayer, the man from Ger’s own village, who falls to the ground, a tribal spear through his chest.
Ger is impressive with his hair limed so that it stands up, giving him an extra span of height. The gold torque around his thick neck is polished and glinting in the torchlight. He runs to my side. I want to smile but my burned lips hurt too much.
‘Are you all right? I feared we’d be too late.’
I nod. I’m not all right but I am alive. Once more, just as I am ready to die, I am given another chance. I fight the urge to embrace Ger. I am so overwhelmed. He has saved me. My raw throat seizes up and I struggle to get any words out at all. I want to tell him not to attack the wolf. I look around for Morcant but he has gone. Ger shouts his orders and a young boy helps me towards the back of the horde while Ger engages my enemies. The boy gives me water from his canteen.
‘The Lord Druid said we had to move quickly to save you. You are the hope of the tribes!’ I don’t know what he is talking about. ‘Once we worked out that Madoc had gone we mustered at once and Ma and the women have abandoned the village because of your warning.’ As he talks his eyes dart from one man to the next, watching, straining to join in. I put my hand on his arm to stop him running into the thick of the fighting. I want to cover his ears so that he doesn’t have to hear the cries, the butcher sounds of metal hacking bone, but he is of age or Ger would not have brought him. I am glad to rest away from the fighting. I’ve done enough killing. Ger has brought more than twenty men and the Romans are down to five, two of whom are quite badly burned. There is only one way this will go.
The Romans did not have time enough to get themselves into good battle order. They fight bravely and well but they are no match for the joyous madness of Ger and his men. The boy almost wriggles away.
‘This is not your time,’ I say, as if I’ve seen his future. I am glad to say I have not, but he’s in such awe of me he leaves the killing to his elders.
My throat is agonisingly raw. I want to follow Morcant except that I know that he’s gone where I cannot follow. My eyes burn and I do not realise for quite some time that they are blurred less from the smoke than from my tears. I am alive and abandoned by the only companion I want; Morcant has gone back to his she-wolf.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Trista’s Story
I am exhausted and I give myself up to the visions. There is little to choose between the scene before me and the pictures I see with my mind’s eye: people are dying in both.
I’m brought back to myself by the homely scent of ale and the savoury smell of bread.
‘Trista?’ Ger shakes me gently. When I open my eyes, it is his gap-toothed smile I see.
‘We won, my girl. You did well to fight them off for so long. You’re safe now.’
Can I ever be safe? The sun is high in a pale blue sky. I am lying under a thick plaid blanket and there are no trees to be seen. There are no bodies either. I sit up and accept the beaker of ale and hunk of bread from Ger’s hand.
‘Whaa?’ I begin. It is a sound not a word and it hurts to make even such a sound. I go to wipe my mouth and find it smeared with sticky ointments. Every part of me aches and I am stiff from the beating at the legionaries’ hands. I don’t think I’ve been cut, but it is hard to tell.
‘You were out of it, girl, so after we’d done what was needed we put you on your horse and brought you here.’ Now I can see it is a tribal encampment with people and livestock all corralled together in a temporary stockade. A huge central hearth has been built and the women are roasting what looks like venison on a spit. The smell of burning meat is too close to the stench of burning flesh. It makes my stomach heave.
‘Our Lord Druid took your words to heart and has taken himself off to find Caratacus. It was decided that we shall all follow his lead and offer ourselves to his service. Those that want to throw their lot in with Rome can follow Madoc’s path and risk his fate. Whatever our Queen has to say about it, I’ll not give my crops to Roman masters.’ He looks angry but then he looks at me and his brow clears. ‘There is no need for you to risk the road alone. I think we were wrong to send you on your way with no one but a slave. We are all in this together now. It will take us a while as we have brought all we can carry with us.’ He waves his hand to encompass the village of crude shelters.
I feel responsible. Was it my vision that did this? I think he must see that thought flit across my face. ‘The wind has been blowing this way for a while, girl. I’ve had a few visits from the armed men of the legion and I don’t like the way they eyed my land. I can’t hold what is mine against the legions. I might be old but I’m not stupid.’
I nod. I try to speak but nothing but a croak comes out of my dry throat so I dr
ink the spiced ale instead and remember the night of my escape from the hall when I would have given almost anything to taste its flavour again: it was worth the wait.
‘We found your gear: the mare, your sword and mine, oh, and this.’ He hands me the pouch with the message for Caratacus still intact inside it. ‘Not much of a one for keeping hold of things, are you?’
I’m about to try to explain but he puts his hand over mine. ‘I’m joking with you. You did well to survive. You’re truly worthy of this blade.’ He presses my longsword into my hand. As my fingers curl around it I can’t help but smile. The tiny movement hurts as if the skin around my mouth has shrunk. I still can’t speak so I pat his hand in thanks, but my eyes are already beginning to close. Too late I detect the bitterness of a sleeping draught in the aftertaste of the ale.
The next nights pass in a haze. I have visions. I eat. I sleep. I have to trust Ger and I do. His wife, Bethan, spoons warm milk sweetened with honey into my mouth. I know she has laced it with a potion to make me sleep but I don’t make a fuss. I’m not allowed to be awake for long. I know they believe that sleep is good for me and so it would be unkind to tell them about the endless horror of my prophetic visions. They are good people and are trying to spare me agony. We travel all day and sometimes for half the night and I am never left untended for very long.
The moon is a waning crescent. I calculate that I have been allowed to rest for almost fifteen nights. Tonight Bethan gives me unadulterated ale, instead of honeyed milk. I’m very weak, but I can swallow without pain.
‘So,’ Ger begins, ‘you are well again.’ I nod and cough. I have to force my voice to work after so long a rest.
‘I must thank you and your wife for caring for me.’
He grins and opens his arms to include all his gathered clan. ‘We have all cared for you as if you are our only child. You have not been the quietest of patients.’ There is a low wave of laughter swiftly suppressed. The people at the fire all look at me with such affection I wonder for a moment if I have turned into someone else.
His wife shushes him gently. Perhaps I made more noise than I remember. ‘What we all want to know,’ she says with a wicked little smile of her own, ‘is who is Morcant?’
At his name my body tenses. How can I have forgotten him? Where is he? I think my expression must have changed because she looks penitent at once. ‘Oh Trista, I’m sorry. Have I upset you?’
‘No, no, it’s fine. He is a friend, but we have parted company.’ My voice is still husky from lack of use. I try to smile. Has Morcant abandoned me or have I abandoned him?
It is a long time since I’ve been part of a clan such as this. I don’t belong here among this kindly throng of warriors and their wives. I am a warrior, a seeress and now a messenger with a blood debt to repay. I belong with other outcasts. I belong with Morcant.
I watch the leaping flames of the hearth fire for a long time, ignoring the cavorting of the Wild Weird and listening to the sounds of the sleeping tribe. I cannot stay. I wait for the first hint of dawn and then I get ready. I take only what is mine: mail, helmet, sword belt, sword and cloak. I am quiet as I can be, though my legs shake a little from lack of use.
‘Wait! You’ll need food for your journey,’ Bethan whispers to me across the sleeping form of her husband. She gets to her feet.
‘I’ll see you past the watch.’
She doesn’t ask me anything. She is swiftly on her feet gathering up a few small loaves of flatbread into a bag along with some dried venison. She hands me a spear too – one of ours – decorated with interwoven charms, curses and blessings.
‘Don’t think me ungrateful . . .’ I still find it difficult to speak.
She touches my cheek gently; her hands are rough as a slave’s. ‘You are not like us. We all know of the horrors that haunt your dreams.’ I see her snaggle-toothed smile in the firelight. I was obviously not as close-mouthed as I might have hoped in all my endless dreaming. ‘Our Lord Druid told us to take care of you and we have. Please take care of yourself.’
I hug her as warmly as if she were Cerys. ‘May the gods bless you,’ I say. ‘Say goodbye to Ger. I’ve left his sword.’
‘I hope you find him, your Morcant, and I hope he knows what a prize he has in you.’
She kisses me lightly on the cheek and returns to the fire. Two of the Wild Weird follow her, the rest come with me. I am still puzzling over her words when day breaks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Trista’s Story
I feel as if my legs belong to a newly born lamb. I have to lean hard on my spear and wonder if that is why thoughtful Bethan gave it to me. Somehow I breathe better away from all those tribespeople. I am better off alone. That is not true: I am better off with Morcant. I could have stayed with Ger and still fulfilled my debt to Cassie. Bethan understood me well. My leaving Ger’s clan is less about Caratacus than about Morcant.
I won’t find Morcant on Ger’s chosen roads – on the old market tracks. If I want to find the wolf, I’ll have to travel through the wilderness, through the forests and the scrublands on the route west. If Morcant is still heading towards Mona, then that will be his path too. The Sabrina and the Sacred Isle are both west of here.
I should have borrowed a horse. I haven’t been walking long when I realise that my decision to walk alone through rough terrain without companionship is more insane than merely foolish. I am weary before the sun has moved in the sky. The Wild Weird are so numerous here I can barely see the ground. Most of them are so terrifying in appearance that I have to avert my eyes. I sing to distract myself, like a mad woman. My voice sounds rusty as an abandoned sword, ugly as a cry of pain.
I keep the sun at my back and pick my way through the dense forest. Sometimes it feels as if the Wild Weird are guiding me, herding me even. That is the trouble with being alone – fancies can become convictions all too easily.
I have to stop to rest, sooner than I’d like. I settle down to eat something and rest against the trunk of an oak tree. It is only then that I see it: a clear pathway lit by a wan, unearthly light that has nothing to do with the weak sun. It is so obvious it could be painted on the ground. The grass is faintly silvered as if rimed with frost and the mud glows with a soft inner fire. I shiver. I know what this is and it is something I never thought to see – the druids’ walk, the sacred path, the highway of the dead.
I’m sure now that the Wild Weird have been pushing me in this direction. What would happen if I were to walk that path? I know nothing of the mysteries, the ancient wisdom that might guide me. I’ve learned enough lore to recognise that the Wild Weird are unreliable allies and they could be urging me to my death. As I wrap my cloak more tightly around my shoulders, my fingers brush against the metal of Ger’s arm ring. I’d forgotten all about it. I work it down my arm to take a better look at it in daylight. Now I can see that it is far from being the plain gold band I thought at first. It is very finely wrought, of the most precious rose-hued gold, chased into intricate interlocking patterns; indeed, it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Didn’t Ger say it would grant me clear sight? I need that now more than ever before.
I struggle to my feet, using the tree trunk for support. My legs still tremble after any kind of muscular effort. I stumble, right myself, but the precious arm ring rolls from my grasp. It hasn’t rolled far. It lies in that section of the ground that was illumined by eldritch light, but now there is no light, no path and no grey folk cavorting at my feet: there is nothing but the dark wood and an eerie silence broken only by my loudly beating heart. I don’t know how I failed to grasp the obvious truth. It was not madness or my prophetic power that let me see the grey folk and the druids’ walk: it was Ger’s gift, that is the clear sight that Ger’s druid granted me.
I pick the arm ring up with more care and reverence than I bestowed on it before. As soon as I touch it the path beneath my feet flares into brightness like a pale flame and a swarm of grey folk are gathered round my feet. I push
Ger’s arm ring higher up my arm and tighten it so that it will not work its way loose. It was a great and terrifying gift that he gave me. Did the druid intend me to walk the druids’ walk?
I can’t help but rest my hand on my sword as I start my journey again. As soon as I place one foot on the path, the world beyond it dissolves into a blur of greens and greys. I pray that this is the right decision and take a step.
I am somewhere else. Here I am in the summer country. It is warm and the light is golden so that the grass and trees along the way glow like gems: the green of emeralds, the brown of amber, while the path itself has a dazzling diamond glitter. I have seen this place in visions. I want to run from its strangeness and at the same time I never want to leave.
The sound of running water draws me. It is a kind of music in all the quietness. I’m thirsty but I don’t drink. I have shown myself to be witless all too often recently but I’m not that much of a fool.
All the trees here are oaks and when I look around me I find that my escort of grey creatures has disappeared. I see the reason at once. Among the trees are seven carved statues, faceless and eyeless – the guardians of this place. At the feet of the nearest carved god I can see the yellowing bone of a human skull stripped bare of flesh, nestling there along with a crown of mistletoe. This is a sacred grove used by the druids. I feel the hairs on my arm stand on end as if I am watched. The statues do not move, but I can feel the life in them. It is a silent pulse, a motionless breath, a vibration in the air: an immanence. It is hard to say what is that intangible difference between the faces of the living and the dead, but everyone knows it when they see it. I see it now. These statues live and the beings within them are ancient and demanding. I am in the presence of a great and terrible power. The statues want something from me and I don’t know what. Their nature demands sacrifice – why else would they be present at this place of sacrifice? They wait. The air is heavy with an awful expectation. It is hard even to breathe here. It is as if a physical weight presses against my chest, suffocating me. I can’t speak. I’m no druid; I know no charms to beguile these waiting ones, no clever words or incantations. I have few choices. It is the decision of a moment. I draw my sword and kneel at the foot of the largest statue. The green moss that grows there is soft under my knees, like a cushion made to bear the precious flesh of offerings. I don’t hesitate. To hesitate would be to falter and to falter would be to fail. I raise my sword and slice across my palm with its razor edge. It is a clean cut, a thin skein of scarlet yarn, a minute crack in the fabric of myself. The pain is sharp. The blood wells dark against my white hand. I lie down at the foot of the tree so that the blood drips into the greedy ground and wait.