Wolf Blood (21 page)

They have no women warriors in their small group and the untrained women will fight only as a last resort. Ger has begged Caratacus to let us fight in the vanguard, for the honour of our tribe, otherwise absent. It is important to all of us that our fellow tribesmen remember that our reputation for toughness, courage and ferocity is not forgotten just because our Queen has absented us from this fight. I know Ger is ashamed of Cartimandua’s alliance with Rome and his main worry is not death but dishonour. The word is coming in from all the lookouts that the Romans have finally forded the river. They will be with us within the next watch.

‘I have to go and find the wolf.’

‘He’s gone, Trista. He did not stay long. Are you sure he is truly a shapeshifter? There’s been howling these last nights. You must have heard it?’

I shake my head. I’ve been lost in my visions and fear their return at any moment. I’ve heard nothing but the screams of the dying for nights on end.

‘He
is
a shapeshifter. You met his human self – you remember? He was my slave when I came to trade for your sword?’

Ger, it seems, is one of the many people who do not notice slaves.

I don’t believe Morcant would leave me to fight this battle alone. We are fast running out of time. The battle horn has been sounded. The Romans are upon us and we must hear Caratacus’ battle plan.

Chapter Thirty-one

Trista’s Story

My heart starts to pound. The last time I fought a battle rather than a skirmish I lost everything and everyone. I may not be as old as Ger, but we have this in common: we have no illusions about what is to come. I see it all in the look he gives me: fear, anxiety, pride, battle lust. The same feelings surge through me in much the same order. All my life I’ve been trained to fight. Since I was a child I’ve drilled and practised to this one end and I can’t let my comrades down. I must show courage, skill and the will to survive, but I must be ready to die. This time I know what I’m getting myself into. If anything, it makes it harder.

Ger pats me on the shoulder. We understand each other. I check everything – sword, scabbard, shield, spear. I will fight as I always have without armour, though I’ll be the first to admit that Roman mail is a thing of beauty and considerable usefulness.

The non-combatants, including Bethan, run for the shelter of the newly reinforced fort. She kisses Ger and hugs me. I can barely stand to look her in the eye. I know she wants to ask me what is to come and I cannot tell her. I don’t know – not for sure. I am careful to avoid touching her flesh to flesh because I don’t want to know. The battle is now and I have to focus on living entirely in this moment, if I am not to die. I pray to the goddess, to Taranis and Lugh, to every being who might influence our fate, that they might give us victory or welcome us if it is our time to die.

Caratacus and his deputies, tribal leaders all, stand on the high stone outer parapet of the hilltop stronghold. The rest of us throng around him. Out of habit I scan the crowd for faces I recognise as if I’ve forgotten that all my clan and kin are dead. For one brief moment I think I see the Parisi pedlar but it must have been some other redhead.

We begin by chatting and boasting to our fellows; little by little we lapse into silence, just as a creeping twilight becomes a total all-encompassing darkness. It is suddenly so quiet we can hear birdsong.

Caratacus, has of course, been druid trained in the arts of poetry and rhetoric. We are expecting a great feat of oratory. His powerful voice carries easily even in the open air. We demand no less.

‘This not the time for grand speeches. We all know what we are fighting for: our liberty from foreign invasion, our freedom to rule our own lands as we have always done in our own way. No warriors are braver, no fighters more courageous, no company more valorous than you, my comrades in arms, and it is an honour to fight with you this day.

‘We will hold them off at the steepest point, the place we call “the wall”, and there we will defeat them. They are numerous and well trained, well protected and well equipped but they have not your hearts, your passion, your might. But do not forget: this is not our final stand. When we have killed and slaughtered and destroyed and there is nothing more we can do, remember: we must withdraw, melt back into this our land, return to our own places so that we live to fight again, so we can crush and destroy our enemies, utterly.’ He pauses; we expect him to go on.

‘I trust in our gods, in you and in your strong arms and fearless hearts. To war!’

It must be the shortest battle speech we have ever heard, but we need little encouragement. He is right: we already know why we are here, putting aside our clannish enmities to make this stand against the men of steel. We scream our war cries back at him, building ourselves into the warrior frenzy that we will need if we are to do this. It is no easy thing to fight a man and try to kill him. It is impossible when the blood is cold and only a little less impossible when the blood burns with the fire of fury, the fervour of killing.

We run down the steep slope of the hillside in our thousands. I am part of a pack of my own, savage and uncontrolled but with a single purpose. We are like a herd of stampeding cattle: we could not stop if we wanted to. I strain to see if among this horde of screaming, maddened warriors, a lone wolf makes his own wild way to join us. There is no sign of him. I remove Ger’s arm ring so that I can better see what lies in the real realm of scything swords and sharpened spears. The grey folk cannot help me here. I am no longer entirely Trista. I have become part of this barbarous battle horde and I am glad to be here. My blood boils and my heart beats to the rhythm of violence, the dark tattoo of destruction. I have gone beyond fear. If I am to die, so be it. Everyone dies sometime.

From our higher vantage point we have a clear view of the sea of silver that marches towards us, as if the River Sabrina has altered its course and grown spikes. It is hard not to feel a twisting in the guts and so we shout the more, taunting, boasting, cursing. For all that they are clad in silver, it is they that have to march uphill to us, for we have the higher ground.

I find myself a space to work. It would be foolishness to get tied up in the crush of men forging forward to be in the frontline, not because I am afraid but because they have left themselves too little room to move. Ger screams an order at his own men to stand back and I am relieved that we are of one mind in this too.

I shout to Ger that I am taking the higher ground and shake my spear. I can’t see far enough to hit an enemy target in the throng down below. He nods and we work our way up, past our brothers in arms. I lack the wolf’s senses but even I am almost overpowered by the sour sweat of my comrades, the pungent odour of this wild army.

The ground is a little wet still and I find a good position on a rock. I don’t want to slip. Ger has done the same.

‘Can we not call some of them back? They’re too close together.’ I am so worked up it is hard to talk. My blood is singing with the music of battle madness. A bit of me wants to join the closely packed crowd of men, though my head tells me again it is a fool’s tactic.

He bellows, ‘Pull back! Give your swords room to swing!’ A few of the older, wiser heads pass the message on and many of the men take a step back. I note that the other female warriors are like me, finding firm ground from which to launch an attack. I nod at one dark-haired Silurian with a sharp little face and all the ferocity of a mad dog. She bares her teeth back at me and I’m reminded of the wolf. Morcant, where are you?

The war horns sound and the screaming rises to an even higher pitch. The Romans have war horns of their own and they too are blasting out over the yells of men. The vanguard of the Roman army has arrived. A drum rolls like thunder and a volley of stones lands among the advancing troops. I can’t see that it will do much damage. At a blast of rapid notes from their horns, the Romans raise their shields over their heads to protect them from further assault. Our men set up a rhythmic chant, banging on their shields and chanting, drunk on war. High above us on the hill’s top a druid, painted with symbols and sacred images and decked out in ritual robes, starts to intone the song of sacrifice. It is an uncanny noise, neither prayer nor chant but something in between. Her voice soars above all the other sounds of war and resonates within our very bones. It resounds around the hillside like thunder and everyone is silenced by it. There is power in it, that’s for sure. Only when the last note dies down do we start our own war cries and taunts again.

The Romans struggle to gain any purchase on the slippery lower slopes of our natural citadel, but that doesn’t help us much as our missiles bounce off their roof of shields. It is then that the druid chants again and new missiles are launched. It looks like we are hurling stones of fine wool, but then I see how on impact they become undone and hundreds of small snakes are released and wriggle through the gaps in the shields so that in no time at all the shield roof is abandoned and the soldiers are fighting to remove the snakes from their helmets, their hair, their clothes. For a moment there is chaos and our spears and shot turn the air black. Once they are no longer in formation, they make better progress up the slope that is treacherous as ice. Nonetheless I am impressed. The roof of shields is a clever trick that we could learn from. Further volleys of slingshot follow and men go down. There is now less than an arm span between the front ranks of the enemy and our own warriors. When they make contact, the clash of weapons makes the hillside tremble.

‘Ready, girl?’ I nod and Ger and I let fly our spears. My eye follows the powerful arc of mine and I am gratified that it hits home. I am a warrior still.

Somehow we have caused a breach in the Roman wall of shields and now the battle truly begins. Men still sound their battle cries but I can also hear the grunts of effort, the thwack of sword against wood and the other sounds that haunt my dreams – the anguished cries of the dying. I do not listen to them. Instead, I think of what I must do when the enemy breaks through. It does not take long. As I feared, too many of our men are packed together too closely and make easy targets for the disciplined advance of soldiers used to working as a unit. It is as well that Caratacus chose the ground so carefully for with the hill fighting on our side we are not slaughtered in our droves. Even so too many of our men are falling and the silver tide, acting against nature, flows uphill.

I am ready. Those in front of me are not doing well and the wall of enemy shields is building again as I watch. That is a mistake. We have to disrupt them, isolate them. Man for man we are a match for them. When we give them the chance to unite, each man is more than a man and we cannot win. I risk everything by abandoning my secure battle station and launch myself into the madness. They must not prevail.

The ground is treacherous, slick with mud and blood and other things I prefer not to consider. I almost slip and am steadied by a comrade. There is no time to thank him in words, instead I skewer a foe before his gladius sheathes itself in my comrade’s guts. We’ll call that quits. I hack blindly at whatever comes towards me, kick at shields, and scream till I have no voice left. It is hard labour. I could not have coped if the goddess had not gifted me with my old strength. In spite of it, my arm is tiring quickly. Suddenly I hear a howling of wolves. Hope flares only to die again. I can’t see Morcant. I don’t have time to look for him either. I scrabble out of the reach of a spear, slide a little and find myself under a Roman shield. I stab my way out, hamstringing an enemy, then crawl away before his comrades can reach me. The man beside me cheers, until a blade slices through his throat.

There is no end in sight. The silver river flows on and I dare not look up to see how Ger fares, for any loss in concentration will see me dead. Another hail of stones gives me a moment’s respite as the Romans lift their shields and my blade finds the small weaknesses in their armour at thigh and armpit, at throat and at knee. I thank the gods that I am quick and light enough to leap backwards out of the way of reprisals. I cannot go on much longer; my luck is stretched thin and will surely snap like an over-used belt strap. I am dripping with sweat and breathing hard; my right arm is made of lead. If I am hit, I’ve not yet felt it. Sometimes warriors die of a wound they have not noticed in the thick of battle. I thrust and hack again, find soft flesh with my blade, stop my ears to the screams of agony, withdraw my sword only to swing and slash with it anew. I don’t look at the men I fight. I don’t think. I keep breathing, keep looking for an opportunity. I don’t worry too much about my defence. I cannot survive this, but the more I kill, the fewer there are left to kill my comrades. The Gwyn of memory no longer chides me but encourages me on. It is tempting to breathe out my fire, but too many of my own side would burn. Fire does not discriminate between friend and foe. I fight on the only way I can: the hard way with sword and shield and willpower. I won’t give up. The men struggling to engage me are stumbling over the bodies of their fellows. I won’t give ground. I’ll stand firm until the horns sound to withdraw. The horns do not sound.

Suddenly I am aware of a new presence, a new force beside me. I look up as best I can while ducking a spear and thrusting with my shield arm to deflect a sword blow. The men before me take a step backwards. I press the advantage. I have no strength left for my war cry and this fight goes on to the rhythm of blows and small, breathless gasps of effort, the music of death. The snarl from my companion sounds loud in this near silence. A man screams and I am splattered by blood. I wipe it from my eyes with the back of my hand. Morcant has arrived.