Wolf Blood (5 page)

I can see the ruin of the hall. They burn well, these roundhouses; thatch catches so easily. There isn’t much left within the smouldering remains. I guess that those unfortunate enough to be trapped inside huddled together for protection and were slaughtered where they stood. The corpses are all heaped to one side of the building. The ground is littered with shards of pottery and blackened iron. Anything of value has been stripped from the dead and taken. Still the scent of life draws me. I step over blackened timber. My hobnail boots crunch on ash and cinders. The dead are not long cold but already the decay has begun.

I find her at last, crouched in the shelter of the partially collapsed wall, all but hidden by the carrion. She is so stained with grime and soot that if I’d been depending on my eyes I would have missed her. She looks like a pile of rags. She opens her eyes at my approach and I see the fear in them.

‘I’ve not come to harm you,’ I say quickly in my mother’s tongue. I offer her my canteen. I can see burns on her hands and death in her eyes so I hold it to her lips and tilt it gently so that she can drink.

My female companion is beside me. I glance up. She has removed both her helmet and her shawl to expose her face. Her eyes are moist but whether from the smoke or from grief I can’t say.

‘Elen?’

‘Come to see your handiwork, bitch?’ The burned woman’s voice is dry and raw, the sound a parched rock might make if it could speak. She tries to spit in our direction but her mouth is too try and her lips scorched.

‘This is not of my doing.’ I hear anguish in my companion’s voice

‘Tell that to the Chief – he found your witchcraft just before your men came and did this.’ She coughs – a ghastly, racking sound.

‘The Chief survived?’ The seeress sounds incredulous. I can’t blame her. My army are good at bringing death and we rarely leave witnesses. ‘He cursed you, Trista, and he’ll get you!’

Elen tries to point a fire-ravaged, blistered finger at us, but the effort is too much. She grimaces with pain.

‘I did no witchcraft!’

Elen is finding it harder and harder to breathe, let alone speak. I offer her more water. She moves her head away.

‘Hair,’ she says. I don’t know what she means. The seeress seems to understand.

‘Cerys died – of the fever that night, before I left. That was my offering, my gift to her for the next life. I’d nothing else.’ She sounds desperate to explain; it’s pointless – the woman, Elen, has already gone.

‘She’s dead, Trista.’ At least now I know her name.

‘I know.’ She walks away from me, examining the ruin of her home.

I close the dead woman’s eyes. There is nothing else we can do for her. I give Trista a moment to recover herself.

‘What do you want to do?’ I try to speak gently. I need not have bothered, Trista’s eyes when she turns to look at me are cold, as hard as flint and quite dry.

‘I need to get away from here. The Chief is still alive and blaming me for this.’ She waves her arm to encompass the devastation. ‘If I had the power to do this, I wouldn’t have waited so long.’ I am taken aback by her bitterness until I remember her slave brand. This was not her home but her prison. I don’t suggest we stay and bury the corpses and neither does she.

She spends a few minutes digging around in the ash and returns with a small sack of grain and some turnips. ‘There was a store below the ground, but there’s not much left.’ We share what there is between us to make it easy to carry.

‘You take the lead,’ she says to my surprise, ‘I have done a poor job. I want to go north, away from here, towards Brigantia, and I want to stay clear of your Legio IX. They can’t be too far away and if this is their work they are best avoided.’

I nod. I couldn’t agree more. Legio IX, my old legion, is indeed to be avoided.

Chapter Seven

Trista’s Story

I can’t forget Elen’s face. I didn’t like her – she was sour and vindictive – but it still galls me that she blamed me for what happened. The gods are playing some bitter game of their own in letting the Chief live. He is as unforgiving a bastard as ever drew breath and a vicious, ugly fighter. He is not an enemy I would ever have chosen. He must have found Cerys’ body before the legion arrived. I couldn’t find her among the dead, though I didn’t look too hard.

The shadow wolf wrinkles his nose at the stench and Morcant is shocked to paleness but doesn’t vomit or otherwise disgrace himself. We don’t linger and to my relief Morcant doesn’t ask me any questions. I ask enough of myself. Should I have warned them? Will the Chief enact the gods’ revenge for my failure as a seeress?

We walk for a long time. Melting snow drips from every branch and the hard ground has turned to slush. My feet are sodden and the mail shirt weighs me down, but I’m not going to ask Morcant to stop. He seems as anxious as I am to put distance between us and the slaughter at the hall. Finally, he comes to a halt at a sheltered, defensible place between the wood and the river. It’s a good choice.

‘This looks a safe enough place to stop. We can refill our canteens, build a fire and dry out.’ I nod. There’s a risk that if I sit down I will never get up again.

There is very little dry wood here but we find what we can. I don’t wait for Morcant to pull out his tinderbox, but start the fire immediately in my own way. He looks startled but I’m too tired to care. A man who turns into a wolf has little cause to be surprised by my gifts. I boil up the grain on the fire while he peels and slices the turnip. He finds a small twist of salt in the bottom of his pack that helps to make the meal more palatable. Not that the taste matters. I am hungry enough to eat my own shoe leather; it’s doing my feet little good.

The sky is a pale winter blue streaked with downy cloud and the sunlight is wan but warming. My belly is full and my feet are thawing. I begin to relax until I see the wolf wraith’s alert stance. He has sensed something, I know it.

‘What’s wrong?’ Morcant asks. He is quick to put a hand to his own weapon.

‘You should know. Your wolf is awake and sensing danger.’

Morcant’s eyes narrow and he scowls. ‘Very funny. Did you hear something?’

For a moment I thought I did. The wolf cocks his head on one side. Morcant is about to speak, but I silence him. I thought I heard voices.

‘You should pay more attention to the wolf. He’s sharper than you are.’

‘Why do you keep talking about a wolf?’ He is obviously irritated. He flares his nostrils and cocks his own head to one side as if aping the wolf. ‘I think I can smell horses – a way off.’

‘And that’s because you’re a shapeshifter, Morcant, a wolfman. Last night you transformed and joined a pack of wild wolves . . . That’s what you don’t remember.’ I am whispering now, but loudly.

The wolf glowers, transparent as a raindrop in the sunlight but clear enough to me. I think he is growling and I see a flicker of the same fury in Morcant’s yellow eyes.

‘You had a strange dream – that’s all.’ He looks at me as if I am simple, a halfwit. I thought I’d mastered my temper, but I am on my feet in a moment and the razor edge of my sword is at Morcant’s throat.

‘Don’t you ever dismiss me,’ I say. Morcant doesn’t blanch and the wolf doesn’t blink. ‘I put my life at risk by sharing this fire with you. Don’t let me regret it.’

‘Put the blade down, Trista,’ Morcant says. His voice is as soft as carded wool, and I feel the sharp point of his short sword jabbing at my mail.

‘Only when you do the same.’ We stare at each other. Morcant’s eyes are the steady yellow-green of the wolf’s lit by a man’s intelligence. I find it hard to pull myself away from them. Then, almost as if we have agreed this truce beforehand, we count to three together and withdraw our weapons as one.

‘What was that about?’ He is grimmer when the wolf is fully awake.

‘I won’t be treated like a dolt. I’m telling you the truth. I’ve seen you transform with my own eyes.’

‘Like you saw Lucius’ children?’ he says and there is that hint of a sneer in his voice that boils my blood.

‘Like I saw you push Lucius into the fire and bury his body under the snow.’ He is about to argue but snaps his mouth shut. The wolf is sniffing the air and his hackles are raised.

‘Someone is coming.’

I don’t doubt him. A wolf’s senses are much superior to a man’s and even a woman’s. I kick slush over the fire to douse it and follow him into the cover of the bushes. My spear and short sword are at the ready. I thank the gods that Morcant is a tougher man with the wolf awake. I’d rather fight beside a bestial soldier than a gentle fool.

Chapter Eight

Morcant’s Story

The air reeks of bloodied men. They ride with the stench of corpses. The stink of smoke is in their hair, in their clothes, on their skin. Their horses are terrified and so is their dog, a war hound trained to yield to men. The female is beside me, readying her weapons with quick, practised movements. I watch her from the corner of my eye. She is straining to see what is ahead. I can’t see anything but I don’t need to, I can hear them. Four men – two on horseback, two on foot trailing a little way behind. I can taste them.

There’s a small chance that they will pass us by – if we keep still – but it doesn’t seem likely. The river draws them here– as it drew me; its rushing waters can be heard for miles.

Trista swallows hard when she sees them. I feel her whole body tense. She trembles and I don’t blame her. Two against two mounted men, two foot soldiers and a war dog are not good odds. Worse, the riders are both broad, grizzled men with the tough look of veterans. I’ve no doubt Trista knows what she is doing but she’s young and even with the mail shirt to lend her bulk, she seems slight for her height. Neither of the mounted men is wearing armour, though they have shields strapped across their backs. I note the glint of gemstones on the scabbard of the oldest man, the gleam of gold around his neck. My companion points to him and mouths ‘Chief’. This is her sworn enemy? I take a closer look. He may have a torque as thick as a snake around his throat but he has no helmet, no chin guard, no mail, nothing but a singed tunic and a fur-lined cloak to protect him. The silver fur is wolfskin; my stomach churns. The wolfskin jogs a memory: I’ve seen this man before. He’s the one who attacked Julius. It is thanks to him that I was left alone with Lucius. I’ve more reasons to hate him than the female knows. I glance at her. The muscles on her face bunch where she is grinding her teeth. Her sweat is soured with fear. We freeze as the war band approaches and make no sound.

It is the dog who senses us first. The female’s human stink is strong. He snarls and barks and comes within ten paces of our hiding place. I’d like to finish him straight away. I want to tear his throat out with my teeth. The woman looks at me questioningly and points to the site of our campfire. If we stay where we are, we’ll be cut down: we don’t have room to unsheathe our swords and if we were to try we’d be more threat to each other than to our enemy. She is right. We have to take a stand. We are going to have to face them in the open. The woman leans very close to me and mouths, ‘I’ll frighten the horses and take the Chief.’ She indicates the torque with her hands. ‘You take the other one.’ She mimes a stabbing action with her spear. It won’t work, of course. I watch as she leans Lucius’ shield against the bush. She looks at me and I realise that she intends to fight without it and means me to do the same. Fighting without a shield is at least a quick way to die. She hands me her spear then stoops to pick up a fallen tree branch, thick as my forearm, and a handful of stones.

The riders up their pace. The Chief is spurring his mount on, yelling to his men to find out what the ‘blasted cur’ is barking about. I don’t like this man, which is good because the fierce female is about to try to kill him. She’s looking at me. She’s telling me to be ready. I see her breathing deeply, rapidly, building herself into the warrior frenzy of a tribesman. Her scent is no longer tainted with terror.

Her timing is good – when the men are barely five paces away she hurls herself out of our hiding place, screaming a war cry. She flings a handful of stones from her left hand right into the eyes of the nearest horse and, startled, it rears up. I follow her. Now I understand. I throw her spear to her left hand. She catches it cleanly, running towards the second horse. Bright flames bloom from the branch in her right hand and the second horse rears up. These ponies are not chariot-trained for battle and the mounted men struggle to retain their seats. My target slips gracelessly to the ground. I aim my spear carefully and take him cleanly in the chest as he falls. A surprising hit – I’m not usually that good. I don’t stop to see how the woman fares – there’s no time. The other two men are running towards me, their swords drawn and their mouths open as they scream war cries of their own. Screaming is a waste of breath. Real soldiers, legionaries, favour the calm deliberation of killing to order. We don’t waste energy on frenzy. My own gladius, my short sword, is already in my hand, though I don’t remember drawing it. It’s not the best weapon for hand-to-hand combat. I feel naked without my shield, defenceless without my cohort beside me, but this is a new kind of fighting and I’m ready for it.

One of the men is shrieking at the dog to attack. I can see that the man is breathless and limping. He is already injured and hoping that the dog will do his killing for him. The dog bounds towards me, saliva dripping from his muzzle, his eyes red. I bare my teeth and growl. The sound startles me as much as it frightens the war dog. He whimpers, flattens his ears to his head, his tail between his legs, and backs away from me. That’s it, little brother! Cower before your betters and trot off! The dog’s response shocks the warrior, who checks his limping run. His comrade in arms is on me now too. I snarl a warning. They are wary. The dog still whimpers and keeps his distance, refusing their orders to attack me. They are no more than a pace away now. Someone cries out in agony and shock. I think it must be the Chief and one of my opponents turns away to sprint to his aid. The woman must be winning her battle.