Wolf Blood (23 page)
Authors: N. M. Browne
I see anger in his eyes and note that his hand strays to his sword. The Wild Weird are suddenly still and watching.
‘You cannot know this for sure? Without Cartimandua’s forces we cannot win. If the soldiers of Rome are allowed to advance further west to take Mona, the Sacred Isle, then we’ll be broken.’ He sounds furious, desperate. ‘We have to trap them here while they are still among the Ordovices. The freedom of our people depends on it!’ His hand stays on his sword, but he does not draw it and I do not reach for mine; he is a King after all. ‘You are telling me I must fail. You are not a druid – why should I trust your words?’
I am a little angry myself. I do not endure what I endure to be called a fraud or a liar. ‘My father was chosen for a druid’s path and rejected it. He would not have me follow a way he rejected. But trained or not, I am a seeress. I’ve often wished that I’m not!’
He runs his hands through his hair and rubs his face as if he were a weary, frustrated farmer facing a field of spoiled crops. ‘Trista, it’s not that I don’t believe you are speaking the truth as you’ve seen it, but I have to go to the Queen. She is our only chance of success. I have to hope that you are a worse seeress than you are a warrior.’ My eyes stray towards Bethan and his child. I foresaw that. Caratacus follows my gaze and sighs. ‘If you are right, I have not much time. Listen and remember what I tell you so that you can tell my son.’
He wraps himself in his cloak and settles down to tell me his story. He has a druid’s skill and I can see his life unfold in vivid pictures in my mind’s eye: the wealthy heir, the brilliant war leader and the inspirational fighter for freedom. It is good to have other images in my mind besides the one that has haunted me all my life: Caratacus the prisoner. Why have I been so haunted by his image? Was there something else I was supposed to do to save him?
Chapter Thirty-four
We talk until dawn and then I persuade him to let me ride as escort with him for a time. Caratacus has more to tell me I think, and is easily persuaded that his child is safe with Bethan, Ger and the slave who saved him in the first place. We ride a little ahead of his other men. We ride cross-country, through rough land, over bare hillsides by ancient forest. The place is thick with the Wild Weird and with the old gods too. Have they retreated here as we have done?
‘Don’t ask me to settle with Ger’s men,’ I beg him, for our relationship has changed in our long night of talking. ‘I will visit your son and make sure he’s safe but I don’t think I can live that clan life again. I would be more use fighting with the Ordovices.’
‘I charge you with his care. Fulfil that charge as you see fit. I trust to your honour, Trista. Whatever happens, do not let the tribes forget that we fought the invaders, that we have it in us to be free.’
At noon we find a place to camp. We share a meal and then he gets to his feet and embraces me as a father might a daughter. He hands me his seal ring – a ruby, large as a quail’s egg. ‘Keep this for my son. May the gods bless you, Trista, and remember me.’
My eyes fill with tears at his farewell and to my surprise the Wild Weird who have followed us as if by accident turn as one and bow to him. I know he is riding into my nightmares, into betrayal and humiliation, but I have done all I can to warn him. I cannot do more.
I ride back towards Ger and Bethan and my new responsibility with a heavy heart. I’d hoped to be free.
I don’t have Morcant’s extraordinary senses, but I have good instincts and I have not been riding for long when I grow certain that I am being followed. I rearrange my cloak so that I can reach my sword more easily. There is nothing more that I can do to protect myself against attack, but slip my armband off my arm and offer my earnest prayers to the gods. I am suddenly on battle alert, riding more cautiously, getting ready to defend myself. The Romans will be looking for survivors of the battle.
It grows darker. Clouds the colour of sable cover the sun and the chill seeps through my thick cloak and into my bones. There is no doubt now that in the silence that precedes the storm I can hear the thundering of other hoofs. This borrowed mare is a fine, hardy little beast but not built for speed; if I am chased I am likely to be caught. My best hope seems to lie within the looming forest. I slip from my mount, soothing her with soft words, and lead her into the trees.
It is so eerily still that I am afraid. The darkness threatens to swallow us up, but my mare is placid as well as hardy and keeps moving where I would hesitate. We are entering another realm; my skin prickles and I shiver. I rest my hand on the pommel of my sword for my defence. There is no wind and even the birds are silent. I bring the mare to a halt and she bends her neck to crop the sparse grass. She seems unworried by the odd atmosphere, but I cannot bring myself to step further into the hidden depths of this forest. I am not yet brave enough to see what lies there so I keep the arm ring in my belt pouch. I want the birds to sing. It is as if everything, even the gods themselves, are waiting.
I listen, straining. Sounds carries well in this uncanny, grey world. Even my feeble senses can detect the thunder of several ponies, ridden hard; the sound of their hoofs is crisp and sharp as a drumbeat. I take out my sword. It feels leaden in my hand. Distantly I hear the first rumbling of real thunder, like the deep throaty growling of a wolf. I am cold but my palms are sweaty and I have to wipe them on my cloak. I can hear voices now, speaking my own language, urgent and ill-tempered.
‘Are you sure it is her? I am not riding all this way on a whim.’
‘Lord. Hers is a face I will never forget and both my eyes are sharp.’
The chill in my bones threatens to freeze my blood. I know who pursues me: the pedlar I tried to kill and the Chief I partially blinded. So I
did
see the pedlar in the throng before the battle. I ought to have guessed that neither of them would let me go. We are bound together. My heart starts to pound faster than the horses’ hoofs, losing all rhythm as if it is about to fail.
I fear that the Chief has brought an entourage, his surviving war band, as well as the pedlar. None of them has any motive for killing me swiftly or cleanly. I did not make things easy for them when last we met. I know the Chief’s nature and he will enjoy making me suffer. Should I run or should I stand? That old, familiar quandary. The decision is taken from me when Lugh himself decides. The thunder booms like the god’s own voice and a moment later forked lightning cracks open a fissure in the cloud. Such a quantity of rain falls from its broken body that I could believe the grey cloud a dam for some heavenly lake. Heavy raindrops patter then pelt the ground. My pursuers bring their mounts to a halt. It is hard to see an arm’s length in front of me in the downpour. I hear them follow me into the wood for shelter.
Icy rain soaks my shawl and so I remove it. It will get in my way and it restricts my vision. I take off my cloak too – it is better for riding than for fighting and I need my hands to be free. My hair is plastered to my head and when I shake it out of my eyes raindrops fly in all directions. I would not be any wetter if I had swum my way to this forest.
The earth of the forest floor is softening to mud and, in hollows, puddles form. This is not good for me. I rely on nimbleness and speed in battle. The clay mud weights my feet as if the earth wants me buried here, and when I finally manage to move the ground is as slippery and unreliable as ice. Perhaps it is the will of the gods that I should die here at the hands of my old enemy? That Caratacus’ tale shall never be told and his son live his life without the protection of my sword.
A wild wind whips up from nowhere, bending the trees like bows and setting their branches thrashing. The whole forest is alive with movement and for a moment I fear that the spirits of the wood will turn on me for trespassing on their holy ground. I feel that I am not alone and when I turn to see what horror I must face, I see the bright yellow eyes of the wolf watching me steadily through the driving rain and storm-grey gloom. It is Morcant. Behind him, cowering a little from the driving rain, is the she-wolf.
Some strange blockage forms in my throat that feels like it might become the beginnings of a sob, but I don’t let it go. We look at each other without words for a long moment. His yellow eyes are hard to read and then he comes to stand beside me, just as my enemies crash through the wood on a tide of bad-tempered oaths. It takes them a moment to see me lurking in the shadows, shrouded by the sheets of rain. Then Morcant growls and my enemies’ eyes are on us. I hesitate. How should I engage them? There are only four warriors plus the pedlar – it had sounded like more. The Chief, his missing eye covered by a leather patch, roars and slides from his mount. He has the weight of numbers on his side and doesn’t need to waste time thinking of a strategy. He runs towards us, pulling out his sword, but the ground is treacherous and he falls. I hesitate but Morcant does not. He is there in two sure-footed, four-legged paces and I know that the Chief is finally doomed. His sword has fallen from his hand and lies out of reach, half buried in the soft grey mud. As Morcant’s teeth find his flesh, the Chief screams a cry, equal parts anguish and rage, then Morcant has torn out his throat before he has a chance to raise his sword. The Chief’s men are seconds behind, but they pause at the sight of the massive wolf feasting on their leader. Morcant’s muzzle and fur is bloodstained and when he bares his teeth they too are red. Careful to avoid the Chief’s fate, I don’t run but stride cautiously to Morcant’s side.
‘This is not your fight,’ I shout against the roar of the rain and the grumble of thunder. ‘Can you not see that our gods are against this? What greater sign do you need?’ I think that the Chief’s two men would withdraw. I recognise them. These are the men that we have fought before. They have not forgotten that exchange. They believe that if they try to fight me they will die: I see it in their eyes. I can see them weighing up this chance to leave with their honour still intact. Their hands hover over their sword belts. They do not relish this fight. This is a place for the gods, not for men, and all sensible tribesmen know it.
I had all but forgotten about the pedlar. He hates me: I see that at once. I injured his pride and that is not something a tribesman ever forgets. He emerges from behind the horses, brandishing his sword; a finely made blade. He too has to yell against the noise. His fair skin looks almost luminous in this eerie light and his clothes cling damply to his lean and wiry form. It is as if he is a spirit of the forest, a lithe wild-man. I have seen him like this before – in my visions. I have seen him just like this, like an avenging demon, his red hair dark with rain streaming on to his shoulders, his furious face. My guts twist. I know what is coming.
‘I will not be bested by a girl!’ His cry is more of a savage scream. The sky grows darker. I think it is his intention to face me in single combat. I suppose he hopes that the other men will take care of the wolf, though I would not be confident of that were I standing in his shoes. The pedlar takes a bold step forward into the open space between the trees, no more than a couple of paces from the fallen Chief and the bloody wolf. I don’t move. I am like a creature made of stone, held captive by a sense of dread. My sword arm is by my side, my hand is nowhere near my sword’s hilt. I know that the men are watching me in surprise, expecting me to respond to the pedlar’s challenge. I can only stand and watch him.
And then it happens – as I have seen it in my dreams. He raises his sword above his head and through the slate-black sky, Lugh’s lightning finger strikes him down. He does not even scream but falls to the ground, his body blackened and smoking, his face frozen by death into an expression of shock. The Chief’s guard do not hesitate but scrabble for their mounts and flee. My gift, it seems, has not left me. The pedlar is dead.
Chapter Thirty-five
My pack is complete again. I have found the female who smells strangely of man scents. When she sees me, she bares her teeth in the face, not as a threat but as a sign that she is glad that I am here. My mate does not like it. She hangs back and when it comes to the fight, she waits in the shadows. I know she will come to add her sharp teeth to the fray if I have need of her, but she has little love for men and the long, sharpened tooth they carry that slices our flesh. My she-wolf has little love for the female.
The big man with only one eye is clumsy. I have smelled his stink before and when he falls I know that I can finish him without risk. I don’t know what happens after. I don’t know why the air smells of burning flesh even when there is no fire, but I know the scent of fear when I smell it and the rain itself is flavoured with it when the men take their horses and run.
We leave too, my pack and I. My two-legged female walks in front with the horses, who might be our prey in other times. We hang back and find shelter from the rain. The two-legged one rides on ahead but her scent is so powerful we know that we can find her again whenever we have need. I do not like the stink of men, but the scent of the two-legged female is good for my nose. She smells of safety and home and these are important things. We will not leave her again.
Chapter Thirty-six
Morcant the wolf and his she-wolf keep their distance but I know that they follow me still. Morcant is still the beast and shows no sign of transforming. I cannot see the man in him, however hard I look. He has no spectral shadow and yet even as a wolf he remembers me. Even as a wolf he saved my life.