Wolf Blood (18 page)

The rain brings out the stench of the not long buried dead and the bitter tang of war is on my tongue. I don’t need her gift of prophecy to know what is to come.

The armies are amassing. The men of steel will fight the men of bone and all of the shadow world holds its breath, waiting to know the outcome. I’ll gladly fight with the bone men, the tribespeople, with Trista, but I doubt they’ll let me close enough to fight.

My poor she-wolf is weary and fearful. I’ve dragged her where she doesn’t belong to follow Trista whom she doesn’t trust. I must find her a place to rest now that dawn is nearly here. She is worthy of something better than a half-wolf, but the only wolf she wants is me.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Trista’s Story

I try to remember where I was standing when the ring was lost and then I drop to my knees on the sodden ground and struggle to discover it by touch alone. Perhaps the Wild Weird kept it for themselves. I’ve almost given up all hope of finding it when my fingers close over something hard buried in the mud and stinking muck. As soon as I touch it, the grey folk appear all around me and the druids’ walk glows like a beacon in the darkness, barely a pace away. I dry the ring on my cloak. It gleams as if lit by the warm sun of the summer country. I could use it to light my way through the night. I replace it reverently on my arm and get ready to step back on to the safety of the druids’ road. Something makes me hesitate and it is not that I mistrust easy ways. What if the Wild Weird who guided me on to it had a reason for forcing me to leave it? Nobody knows how the Wild Weird think, least of all me. The druid of my childhood home did not prepare me for such experiences so I can only follow my instincts and they are screaming that this is not the way for me.

The path still tempts me but I turn my back on it and resign myself to the cold, wet, night of my homeland. There is some kind of settlement nearby.

I am thoroughly drenched. Rain trickles down the back of my neck. It would be good to discover that the savoury smell of woodsmoke and cooking belong to my own people, but I have too many enemies now to be anything other than extremely cautious. The source of the smoke lies beyond a steep ridge, hidden from view.

I need to become invisible, like the wolf, to investigate further. My arms are already caked in mud, so I plaster my face with it and hide my hair under my shawl. It has grown noticeably so that it touches my shoulders. Does that mean I’ve been away from this world for months? I drop into a kind of crouching run, hiding behind trees when I can, trying to get closer to the ridge without being seen. The presence of the grey folk is distracting – their movements constantly catch my eye. I need to be alert for real dangers. Regretfully I remove Ger’s armband and put it into my belt pouch. The landscape is barren without the Weird. I’ve grown accustomed to their ghostly companionship. I miss my sword more, however. Whoever is camped here will have set a watch and sent scouts and I don’t even have a belt knife to protect me.

Someone is following me, I’m sure. I sense rather than hear the sound. I turn and come face to face with the wolf.

He has become better at being the wolf since we last met. He makes no sound at all. I on the other hand have to suppress a scream of shock. ‘Morcant!’ I want to shout out my delight but suppress that too so that all that escapes my lips is a half-swallowed whisper. I bury my muddy face in the soft fur of his back.

He allows me to embrace him for a time. But I haven’t entirely lost my wits and I pull myself together quickly.

I look into the eyes of the wolf. ‘Morcant, do you know who is camped over there? Are they Kelts or Romans?’

The wolf makes a sound at the back of his throat, a soft sound between a growl and a whine, modulated like speech. It is as if the beast is trying to speak and his effort brings tears to my eyes. I can’t understand him however I strain, and the wolf drops his tail and ears with disappointment. I stroke his head.

‘Never mind. It was worth a try.’ It is only then that I notice Morcant the shadow man’s frantic efforts to attract my eye. He is miming a salute. We have no such greeting and his meaning is clear. ‘They are Roman?’

The wolf does not nod, but somehow he gives his assent. My heart sinks. I thought things were going too well. Somehow I’ve run into the legions again. Does that mean I am still far from Caratacus or that I am close and a battle is imminent? I wriggle forward, up to the top of the ridge. The mud is icy and slippery, squelching under my knees and making it difficult to gain any purchase on the bank. I have to grab on to Morcant’s fur a couple of times to prevent myself falling back down the way I’ve come. When I get to the top, I flatten myself against the ground and peer at the biggest gathering of people I have ever seen.

The encampment stretches as far as I can see. Tents arranged in rows, so many straight lines, following the pattern of the fortress of the Ninth. Cook fires are brilliant splashes of orange in the grey dawn and wind-blown rain, which throws a billowing cloak of silver-grey across the scene. There is a great deal of mud and most of that is grey too, as if some enchantment has leached the world of colour.

I am not very good at reckoning but I count the rows and the number of tents per row. Someone with greater gifts than I might be able to calculate the force that musters here. For now it is time to withdraw and find the army I wish to join.

I explain what I need to do to the wolf. I know that Morcant understands for the silver shadow, rendered grey as the rest of the world by the ceaseless rain, scowls. When I look back, he has gone.

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. They 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.