Wolf Blood

by N. M. Browne

  The other wolves dropped a half-eaten carcass of a hare in an effort to escape Morcant. I do what I can with my bare hands to scrape out the innards and skewer the meat with a sharp stick to cook it over the flames.

  When I have eaten my fill of meat that is either burned or raw, I follow the sound of running water. The sun has finally returned some muted colour to the grey world, though the rain has not ceased. The source of the sound is not far away – a small waterfall and a fast-flowing river of clear water. I give thanks to the goddess. All water for me is precious now for it may be some tributary of the sacred water that restored me. I wash the grease from my hands and drink deeply. My eye is caught by the flash of something bright in among the dark rocks that constrict the river’s flow and make it gush downwards in a great torrent. It is not the best time to be curious. I can’t allow myself to forget how close I am to a vast army of enemies, but I am waiting for Morcant and anything that distracts me from the possibility that he may not return is a blessing.

  I am so wet already, I think nothing of wading into the freezing water, trusting to the goddess’s good grace. If she wished to drown me, she would not have saved me. The cold water makes me gasp and washes away my camouflage. I am wide awake and shivering convulsively.

  Something is definitely wedged in the sharp rocks, something that catches the pale sunlight and flashes silver. I am glad of my newly restored strength because the only way to reach the elusive object is to climb up the rocks and stretch my arm to its fullest extent. I am quickly drenched by water so cold it takes my breath away, but my blue hands touch smooth steel. I gasp as the water flows all round and over me then stretch still more. My fingers close on something and I pull. It resists and I pull harder and finally I have it in my hand. It has lost all its gems and the carved hilt is much the worse for wear but its perfect weight and glorious balance mark it as my stolen sword returned to me! I offered it to the goddess and she refused the gift, taking only that which marked it as precious to those who are not warriors. Its true beauty lies in its flexibility, its razor edge and the perfection of its length and weight and movement. The goddess has granted me a great boon. I don’t have to think for long. I twist the wolf’s head ring from my finger. It was mine before I gave it to Gwyn, lost then restored to me. It is mine to give. I have no need of a wolf charm when I have a wolf beside me. Gwyn is dead. I have in my own way grieved for him. He would have traded that ring for a sword any day so I am without guilt; he would have traded me for a sword if it came to that. Goodbye, Gwyn. May you be granted a happy rest or a grand rebirth. As I watch the ring sink below the spindrift of the white water I feel free of his shade at last.

  I light a fire and strip off because even I am not stupid enough to risk an ague. I use my belt as a strop to hone the edge of my restored blade, while my clothes dry and I warm myself in the heat of my fire. I don’t know why the gods have chosen to bless me but I’m grateful. My only worry is that they may want a greater sacrifice from me at the end.

  I dress again as if for battle. My hair isn’t yet long enough to plait and I have nothing with which to tie it back. It hangs around my face getting in my way. I may have to hack it short again. I check my precious possessions. Against all odds, I still have the scratched bark message and Ger’s arm ring. I also have the wolf. When I turn from the fire, he is standing there watching me. I didn’t even hear him return.

  I put out my fire. I took a great risk in lighting it. The wolf nuzzles my hip where I’ve hung the sword from my pouch. Morcant the silver ghost raises his eyebrow in question. ‘It was a gift of the goddess,’ I say. May the remainder of our journey be as blessed. I put my hand on the thick ruff of fur around the wolf’s great neck. His head is level with the crook of my elbow and we walk easily together. The man touches my arm and it is like walking with the Wild Weird. Thus entwined I let the beast lead me round the Roman encampment.

  We have to travel some distance cross-country, looping around the camp. I depend on the wolf’s superior senses when he bolts for cover and do my best to follow him. He is so quick. I have a couple of grazes from where I flung myself into a ditch. At least this landscape provides plenty of cover.

  Some time before noon we hide for what seems like a whole watch when we come across a Roman chief and his retinue. They are so noisy we were in no danger of being surprised by them, but for some reason Morcant chooses to stay close to them and wait for them to pass. The men are all on horseback and are extravagantly decked out in polished armour. I worry that the horses’ terrified response to Morcant’s scent might cause the men to dismount and investigate, but while the horses buck, their riders battle for control and, regaining it, urge them on. Trained by my father to trust my mount, I find this surprising. A couple of the less important men carry standards and a golden eagle. Perhaps this is another of their gods and they are too confident in its protection to worry about roadside ambushes or prowling beasts.

  Most of the men ride without speaking but the one I assume is a chief shouts to another over the sounds of their progress: jangling harnesses, clanking armour and pounding hoofbeats. The wolf cocks his head as if listening hard. Morcant can understand their jabbering – if only he could translate if for me. We don’t move until even the wolf can no longer hear their clamour. The wolf looks pleased with himself and I gather that the men said something useful. He sniffs the air and leads me on, loping ahead with even greater speed and confidence so that I have to run to keep up. Only when I’m breathless and clutching my side does he take pity on me and slow his pace. I’ve no wind even to complain.

  By late afternoon we come to a broad river. I didn’t know that a wolf could look smug, but he does and I guess from this unexpected expression that this is the River Sabrina, which marks the boundary with the western tribes, the Silures. I know few people who have travelled so far. As far as I know, my own tribe has no quarrel with them, but our trade and exchange with such a far-flung group has been limited. I am nervous. The wolf and I must be a strange sight, walking together. I know that we are watched. The hills ahead are full of eyes and the land to our backs is not without observers. The back of my neck prickles. I get a flash of prophecy – the river is clogged with bodies, the muddy waters streaked with red. I tighten my grip on the wolf’s ruff of coarse hair. Morcant the ghost gives me a wan smile. This river is a serious obstacle to the invaders and crossing it will be no easy thing. I think of the vast army of legionaries we’ve left behind. How will so many men cross this? Caratacus has chosen his base well. It is not just an obstacle to our enemies, it is an obstacle for me. With the goddess’s blessing I might try to swim it, but I don’t know how the wolf would feel about that. In any case I have no proper scabbard for my sword and I will not lose it again.

  The land here is flat and waterlogged, becoming marsh of the kind to drown the unwary and those unfamiliar with the territory. I hesitate. Why has the wolf chosen this crossing place? It seems to me to be a death trap. Once we leave the firm ground we could be stuck up to our middles in mud, picked off like sitting ducks by spears from either side.

  I still rest my hand on his thick fur. It is a comfort to be close to him and it is with an effort of will that I let him go so that he can take the lead. He lifts his head and sniffs the air and as I turn back I see them: the mounted men I thought we’d lost, riding across the plain towards us. They ride on sandy ground, mirrored by standing water. Each stride sends an arc of bright spray flying into the air. It seems we have no choice now. I have no desire to fight mounted men. I pick up my tunic, hitch it over my belt and start to wade. There is no time to be over-cautious. I have to trust to the Lady of Sabrina, the goddess of this water, to see us over to the other side. I dare not look back, but now I can hear the rumble of hoofs on the soft ground, the jangle of metal and the heavy breathing of the horses. They may find this terrain even more difficult than I do as the weight of man and horse will sink them deep into the mire. Not that the bog will necessarily be a problem for them. T
hey don’t have to follow me; all they have to do is stop me and a spear flung from the horse’s back will do that very well.

  The wolf is some distance ahead of me, finding firm ground with an unerring instinct. I wonder how he does it until I see the shadow of Morcant gesturing to me desperately. The sunlight makes it harder to see his silvery spectre. He is miming something. The ring? The ring! I struggle a little with my belt pouch and my sword. I am terrified of dropping either of these most precious objects into the mud. I fumble clumsily, almost dropping it. My muscles tremble with the after-effects of my flight and with fear too, but it’s all right. I slip Ger’s arm ring up over my wrist and push it as far up my arm as I can. Suddenly I see what Morcant wishes me to: the grey folk guiding our steps, leading the way. I try to run, though my tunic is a hindrance, and once more four legs prove themselves more stable than two. There are two grey creatures in front of me – a fox-headed homunculus and something else that defies description – they are pointing awkwardly with deformed limbs towards firmer ground. That is all very well, but I am caught and the horsemen are coming nearer. I duck down, trying to hide under the reeds and scrubby vegetation, but there is nothing else to see on this flat flood plain but me, the wolf and a few seabirds. The wolf is surprisingly difficult to spot, blending into the sandy mud so that his darker markings look like clumped reeds or shadow. I know that my hair in sunshine is bright enough to be a spearman’s target in this place of muted greys and sandy browns. I try to hide it with my shawl.

  I have my sword raised and ready. That is all that I can do. The pounding hoofs are nearer and the men shout to one another. I squat down in the mud so that it reaches up to my shoulders. I keep the sword up and out of the mud so that it looks for all the world like a needle emerging from sackcloth. I stay very still and try to ignore the efforts of the Wild Weird, who are intent on showing me the firm pathway to Morcant, never mind that it is no use to me at this moment, when all that matters is that the horsemen cannot see me well enough to splice me with their spears. They are very near now. A bird hurls itself into the sky so close to me that I’m startled. It is desperately trying to take off in advance of the charging men. I duck, and in the motion my shawl slips from my hair and I know I am seen. A spear flies – a good shot; it lands barely a hand’s breadth away. I am about to get to my feet. I may get a chance at one of them at least, but then I hear the growl of the wolf and the startled shouts of the mounted men. The wolf has abandoned all attempts at camouflage and is running straight for them. He is sure-footed and fast. The horses rear. One man falls and is hauled upright by his desperate comrades who seem to have forgotten their spears and their swords in favour of flight.

  I don’t waste the distraction; I know he risked himself for me. I pull the spear from the bog with no little difficulty and then use it as a staff to help me stay on my feet as I wade as quickly as I can towards the firmer ground. I move with such haste that I don’t test the depth of the mud with the spear’s end but simply follow the urging of the grey folk. They are dancing around with great agitation and I take that as a sign that I should hurry.

  There is a pathway of sorts, reinforced by stones but so well hidden that anyone unaware of its whereabouts could spend days looking for it. I glance over my shoulder. The wolf has done his job. I am sure the mounted men were unnerved by the sight of a monstrous beast appearing from nowhere in the middle of the day and were startled into flight. I am certain they will regroup and return. We don’t have much time to make our escape. I begin to run or rather squelch along this stone road before the cavalry regroup and return. Morcant is back beside me in twenty long paces and in his mouth he carries a cavalry shield. He drops it at my feet like a hunting dog presenting his kill.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, because without him I would have stood little chance. The shield is a cause for gratitude too. It is a little damp and chewed at its leather edges now, but a good thing to have. I sling it over my back by its long, leather strap and keep moving along the narrow causeway. Much to my surprise the causeway continues over the broad river itself. I don’t know what I would do without the grey folk leading me and the wolf following behind so that I can’t turn back. The stones must be pillars sunk into the river’s bed, invisible to the eye, lying just below the surface of the water. Each step is a leap of faith, for it looks as if I will plunge into the depths of this great river. Each time my feet find the safety of a flat rock, I sing my tuneless little song of thanks to the goddess, though I don’t think the wolf is impressed by my musicality. I don’t know what the grey folk think, if indeed they think anything at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Trista’s Story

  We are met at the other side by a deputation of two men, heavily armed, and an escort of some twenty spear-wielding warriors. I think the latter are for the wolf’s benefit because I’m sure one muddy girl would not justify such a show of force. I quietly remove the arm ring and slip it back into its pouch. I can’t afford to be distracted here.

  There is nothing I can do to look less disreputable. I resist the urge to smooth my hair. I don’t know if Morcant senses my discomfort but the wolf stands very close beside me and seems happy for me to rest my hand once more on his back. I have tied the sword to my belt and wrapped it in my cloak so that it does not cut me. I carry the spear in my right hand, the shield over my shoulder. Whatever I look like I have no doubt that it is not a warrior.

  There is a distinct air of unease as I approach the waiting men. They glitter with gold; their thick torques glint in the steely light. Precious stones stud their belts, their fingers, their scabbards, and blue tribal tattoos wind, like ivy, up their arms. Their trews and cloaks are of fine wool, woven into complex patterns and bright as if newly dyed.

  ‘Who showed you our route across the river?’ It is the taller of the two men who speaks. His accent is unfamiliar, difficult to understand. There are no preliminaries, no introductions, but at least his sword remains sheathed. These people don’t know if we are friends or enemies. When I remember the vast encampment full of our steel-armoured invaders, I sympathise. However, it does not do to be too meek and humble with men such as these – that at least I know.

  ‘I am Trista, a warrior of the Brigante and a seeress; this is Morcant, a shapeshifter. We were guided across the water by the Wild Weird. We have travelled here because we have a message for Caratacus.’ I speak slowly and clearly, reasoning that the problem of understanding might run in both directions, but I make sure that I show the bravado fitting for a bloodied warrior of a bloody tribe.

  There is no response for a moment. I wait. Surely these people are not just another variety of foe? Is it possible that I’ve made a mistake in coming here?

  The wind buffets the cloaks of the assembled warriors as if they are sails. It ruffles Morcant’s thick coat. It catches my hair and whips it into my mouth, bringing with it the taste of salt and the scent of fish. Above, seagulls circle, cawing noisily. Here on the river bank no one moves a muscle. No one makes a sound. The silence stretches and I wonder if there was some password I was supposed to know, something else I should have said to have them know me as an ally. I am about to break with all usual etiquette and speak again, but finally the man replies.

  ‘I saw your little game of cat and mouse with the cavalry over there – was that staged for our benefit?’ His tone is much clearer than his heavily accented words. He is still hostile.

  I am gripping my spear so tightly that my knuckles are white. The wolf is as restless as I am and I suspect that he too is deciding who to attack if things do not go as we expect. The wind tries to steal the words away before I’ve even got them out. I have to shout to be heard. I bellow like I’m calling children in from the fields. It isn’t very dignified. ‘No, of course not! I am a tribeswoman and my companion a shapeshifter and both of us have come to lay our talents at the service of a leader worthy of the loyalty of the tribes.’

  The second man nods. I can’t hear what he says beca
use he puts his mouth hard against his companion’s ear, but the next moment he gives a hand signal and the spearman surge forward to surround us. The wolf growls.

  ‘Our men will escort you to Caratacus,’ the tall man says in response. I notice that his hand hovers nervously near his sword and that he does not take his eyes off Morcant.

  ‘I trust that you will give us a safe passage,’ I say as coolly as my dry mouth allows. ‘The wolf is quick to anger and I’m not slow.’

  The spearmen surround us all right, but are careful to keep a healthy distance between the wolf and their own vulnerable hides.

  We are marched away from the broad river and along a narrow gully towards the hills beyond. At every stage we are challenged by tribesmen who stare at me and at Morcant as if we are creatures from the other world, which might just about be fair in Morcant’s case but is hardly so in mine. I am beginning to get irritated by their endless scrutiny and it is only the spectral hand of Morcant the man on my flesh and blood arm that keeps me calm.

  By the time we reach the peak of the nearest hill the sun has come out and the grey world has turned blue. I have to squint to see the several large timber buildings that have been constructed in something approaching the Roman style. There is also an open-sided building much like the stalls at the vicus outside Morcant’s fort. It is furnished with all the opulence of a King’s hall and is occupied by several people in the rich clothes of the tribal nobility. I am dazzled by the display of wealth. The tall warrior who escorted me here addresses one of them with a bow.

  ‘Lord, we have brought them,’ he says. I think I see someone who looks a bit like Ger seated by the campfire, but it can’t be him. I left him far away just a day ago. I squint against the now bright sun to get a better look, but then a man stands up, separates himself from the bright melee and walks towards me. All other thoughts fly from my head. He is not naked and in chains, as I have so often seen him in my dreams, he is flamboyantly dressed in tribesman fashion, but it is still unmistakably him. His handsome face is smiling. I’ve never seen him smile. I am afraid that I might collapse with shock. My life has finally caught up with my visions. The man who has haunted them since I was a child stands before me. Does that mean my life is about to end?