by N. M. Browne
‘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 mou
ths ‘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.
The limping warrior’s sword is raised ready to strike me, but he has no real stomach for this fight – I see it in his eyes. As he steps the final pace towards me I dance out of his way so that the first hack of his butcher’s blade misses me entirely. His long shield catches me a glancing blow on the arm and that in itself is almost enough to knock me over. Now that I am closer to him I can see that his shoulder is a mess of dried blood. I can hear the agony in the timbre of his voice: the cry he gives is not of aggression but of pain. I am so close his breath is in my face. To me he already smells of defeat. I act quickly and I stab at his chest before he has time to raise his longsword a second time. I put my strength behind the thrust and time it right. He buckles. I don’t flatter myself that I could better him were he fit, but he is not fit and I finish him cleanly. A mail shirt would have saved him and I am pleased that the female wears Lucius’. It might keep her alive long enough for me to help her. I grab the sword from my enemy’s dead hand and sheathe my gladius. It’s a while since I have held a Keltic weapon, but the length and heft and weight of it seem natural to me. It’s a fine weapon with a well-honed edge and I am grateful I did not feel its deadly touch. I am alive. My blood sings with the joy of it and I run towards the woman.
She has a fighter’s focus. She grunts with the effort of fending off the powerful attack of the Chief’s man. It would have been easier with a shield to absorb the blows. She has nothing but her own sword to keep his blade from biting home. Desperately she parries each slashing sword stroke. She is using her own sword two-handed, bracing against the impact of each powerful hit. Thus far her blade has not shattered and she has not weakened, but she is yet to find an opening to counter-attack. She’s tiring. It is in the lines of her face, the grimness in her eyes.
Her opponent wears no protective armour. I come up quickly behind him and with one clean two-handed blow hamstring him. His scream sends all the birds from the treetops and he crumples to the ground. She finishes him cleanly. The ground is pink where blood is diluted by slush, red and dark where it has pooled next to the fallen Chief. There are other men nearby – I can smell them. Maybe they’re the Chief’s reinforcements.
I yell, with what breath I have left, ‘Let’s get away from here!’
She nods. Her blackened mail is stained with blood, though I don’t think it is hers. She’s panting with exertion. ‘Thanks,’ she says, letting her sword arm drop. She’s lost her helmet somehow in her struggle and her face is splattered with gore. She bends over to recover her breath, gasping. Her sword is also stained and her hands tremble with weakness. She did well to fend the warrior off and without her I would have been dead within the first minute of this fight, mown down by the mounted warriors.
The Chief is not dead. He groans, a sound of such agony that I am about to kill him as I would an animal to end his suffering, but the female shakes her head.
‘He doesn’t deserve a swift end,’ she says and I am glad that, for now at least, she’s not my enemy.
CHAPTER NINE
Trista’s Story
Morcant fights well enough when the wolf is roused. I stand to recover myself and watch him as he jogs towards the pony. He even moves differently when the wolf is awake. One of the two mounts has escaped but the remaining pony senses the wolf and bucks and rears in terror. Morcant looks puzzled. His frown deepens when Bric, the war dog, will not approach even though his master lies bleeding. It’s true: Morcant really doesn’t know what he is.
The Chief screams. I have to fight my instinct to grant him mercy. I don’t think I’m cruel, but I hope he dies in agony – for Cerys and Elen and all the other slaves he brutalised. He killed my brothers too at Ragan’s Field, even if his men wielded the final blows: Evan, Bryn and Kai the black-handed. He didn’t kill Gwyn; that honour was mine. The Chief’s cries remind me of Gwyn’s torment. I find my helmet in the dirt and pull it hard down over my ears to block them out.
In my memory Gwyn will always b
e hale and fit and mocking me. ‘Cariad, I tell you, good though you are, you’ll never match a man in the killing ground.’ How wrong he was.
There’s no shame in shedding tears for the lost but I don’t want Morcant to see me cry so I blunder after the pony, whispering the words my father used on his chariot horses. The wolf is still alert, sniffing the air and listening intently. He paws the ground impatient to be off. Morcant doesn’t have to tell me that he thinks someone else is coming.
I haven’t ridden for too long so my vault on to the beast’s back is so clumsy I almost fall off backwards. Thankfully Morcant doesn’t see this graceless manoeuvre as he is still gathering up our gear and collecting our spent spears like a good soldier. His lodged in the chest of one of our enemies, mine in the Chief’s eye. The Chief howls like a beast as the spear is withdrawn and that sets the pony off again. Unfortunately his scream will carry a long way, a beacon to any of his allies still alive.
Morcant jogs after me towards the bank of the river, swollen with meltwater and white with foam. I don’t try to speak over its roar but point across to the other bank. The pony bucks and rears. I have to keep stroking the warm flesh of its neck and whispering Da’s magic into its ears to keep it from bolting. When we plunge into the freezing water, I am blinded by a numbing spray of icy needles. It takes my breath away. I close my eyes. I yell prayers to the goddess of the water. I have to trust to her grace and the instincts of the pony to see me across. I glimpse Morcant as he wades after me, flinching as he enters the river. Such cold could kill him.
I strain to hear sounds of pursuit but I can’t hear anything but screaming above the roaring water. I think it might be in my head. Surely the Chief will be dead by now. It is my right and duty to avenge those the Chief harmed. I’ve done what had to be done. I say it over and over.
