Wolf Blood

by N. M. Browne

  I wait for some sign that this might be enough, that they don’t want all that I am. I don’t listen with my ears but with that other inner part, the part that sees visions and knows what ought to be unknowable. I strain, focused on what I cannot hear and what, even with Ger’s gift, I will never see. I wait. What more do they want of me?

  I don’t know how long I lie there, prostrate on the ground, along with the skeletal remains of other, earlier sacrifices. It happens as slowly as my blood drips, develops like a distant song that grows ever clearer and louder and more joyous. I barely noticed it building, but now it has come I am overwhelmed by an unexpected feeling of wellbeing, an inner warmth surging through me. It is enough. I have done enough. They are satisfied. I cut a strip of cloth from the bottom of my tunic, bind up my hand and heave myself back to standing. There is barely time for any feelings of relief for I am left with the most terrible thirst and an uncontrollable urge to drink from the clear water that flows through the sacred grove.

  I stagger towards the bank on legs that seem more unwilling than ever to do my bidding. I try to kneel again by the gushing, crystal water and, like an idiot, lose my footing. I grope for the bank for something to grab hold of but it is as if the river itself pulls me in and I am dragged to the deepest water, spluttering and fighting for breath. Invisible hands, strong as ten men, take me and draw me down into the dark underworld of the river. I am submerged, held fast like a fish in a net, floundering and gasping. The water is beyond cold. It fills me up. It is in my mouth, my ears, up my nose, everywhere. It numbs every part of me and I think my brain might freeze. Is this the sacrifice they want – my death by drowning? It doesn’t seem so. That same unseen hand grips and propels me upwards, forces me out into the air like a babe from its mother’s womb, and like a babe I emerge learning to breathe again, coughing and crying, reborn. The goddess of this water does not want me dead. Is it her hand which steers me on to the gentlest slopes of the bank some distance downstream? I don’t know.

  I make a graceless landing, but I manage to haul myself on to dry land without too much trouble. I am so cold my teeth chatter. I strip off my clothes including the mail shirt which should have drowned me had I not been in the river’s care. I disrobe slowly; my hands are too cold to do otherwise and it is as if I am peeling off the skin of an onion, layer by layer, until all that is left is me, Trista. My skin feels as raw as if I have been pared down right to my core. I am gasping for breath and laughing hysterically. I am no longer trembling: my limbs are lean but strong again. I hold out my arm and it is steady as stone. My bruises have disappeared, my sliced palm is healed, my slave mark is gone. I am clean and cold, whole and free.

  I can’t quite believe it. I lay my clothes on the bank to dry, wring out my hair and dance around for a while in joy and celebration and more practically to get my blood flowing so I don’t die of the cold. It is as if I have never been a slave. I am the woman I was before I was enslaved: strong and fit. When I am dry, I drop my mail shirt, Lucius’ helmet and the Chief’s sword into the fast-flowing current in gratitude. It is a suitable offering – more or less everything that I have. All I keep are those things that have been given to me. It is not seemly to give away gifts so I keep my clothes, my spear, my wolf ring, the druid’s gift and the message for Caratacus. I have been washed clean by a sacred river and all I have to give should be given. In any case those things that are tainted with blood and acquired through other people’s sacrifice properly belong to the gods; they do not belong to me. I say a brief prayer that is more or less incoherent, and watch my stolen tools of war sink into the sacred water. I am Trista, a warrior seeress, and I pay my debts.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Trista’s Story

  As soon as the clothes are dry I start walking again – this time without need of my spear.

  The druids’ walk follows the path of this most holy of rivers for a time. I have to resist the urge to run along it. No one knows what a gift fitness is until they no longer have it. The Wild Weird join me in greater numbers as I leave the sacred grove behind me.

  I feel as safe now as if I were playing in the coppiced woods of my childhood home. The gods of this place have blessed me; what do I have to fear? Even the Weird are subject to their command. The night is crisp and the sky so bright with unfamiliar stars, I wonder if I’m even in the same world I left only hours ago. I’m not hungry, though it is a long time since I ate the fireside meal with Ger and his horde. I’m not thirsty and I don’t feel tired. Indeed I follow the shining road all through the night.

  I’ve got used to the presence of the Weird, and am learning to ignore them as much as possible. They are not all small and though some resemble animals, most are like nothing I’ve ever seen before. They ignore me. Snake creatures slither over my feet, coil around my legs, flying things barely miss my head with their leathery wings, and some of the walking beings are so close I would feel their breath on my skin if they breathed. I walk for a while with two many-limbed creatures by my side. They are locked in an embrace that at times seems to include me and though I cannot feel their skin against mine, their closeness is still disturbing. I am used to living with visions of the dying. I can deal with this. I am unprepared for what happens next. One of these creatures pauses in the act of caressing its fellow to loosen, then remove my arm ring. It happens too swiftly, too unexpectedly, for me to prevent it. I don’t see what happens next because suddenly the night is dark, cloudy and wet. I am shivering. The Wild Weird are gone and my feet are ankle-deep in cold mud. Worse, not five paces away two wolves turn at the sound of my horrified gasp.

  I reach for my sword, but of course it’s not there. Rain soaks through the wool of my tunic. I have no mail either to protect my heart. The nearest wolf moves towards me. My only remaining weapon is my gift of fire. I have to try to kindle my inner flame, without myself breathing fire. I don’t want to endure the pain of that again. There are a couple of fallen branches nearby, rotten, wet and too big for me to lift. I find my inner heat and will the mound of wood into flame. The wolves are becoming bolder, moving together as if preparing to attack. The pile of wood resolutely refuses to ignite. There is movement behind me and a third wolf appears. If I can’t light the wood, I will be at the mercy of this wild pack. I am breathing in a frightened panicky way and I know I need to be calm to find the fire in me. I need to be composed to fan the ember of my will and control the power so that it doesn’t come pouring out of my mouth. My heart is hammering and all I can think about is being torn apart. They will be on me in a moment.

  Something growls. I try not to listen. I don’t want to see what is coming for me. I close my eyes and steady myself. Finally the wet wood catches and blazes, spitting and crackling as only wet wood can. I feed it my strength and it burns higher than a man, though the rain is coming down hard now and would have extinguished a lesser fire.

  The wolves are backing away. I sprint to the shelter of the billowing flames and then I see him: the huge grey wolf, Morcant.

  He snarls and his mouth is a cavern, the sound is a roar. There is no doubt that he is the strongest wolf there has ever been: the other wolves run. He is bigger even than the last time I saw him – twice the size of my potential attackers and his shadow self, my Morcant, is so clear, so real I think I might touch him. He is awake and watching me. I can’t believe he is here. Did the Wild Weird expel me from the druids’ walk on purpose?

  The shadow man opens his arms as if to embrace me. I want to run to him, to tell him about my restoration, the return of my strength, everything that has happened. I dart forward. I am almost close enough to touch him. It would be a comfort just to stroke his wolf’s pelt, to be certain that he is real and not some phantom. And then I see her, the she-wolf standing guard over her mate. She waits a pace or two behind him. She bares her teeth and a low growl, harsh and menacing, issues from her throat. I don’t need any special insight to know what that means. This is real. I hesitate mid-stride, held captive by my
uncertainty, frozen. I don’t know if Morcant the wolf will protect me. His yellow wolf’s eyes meet mine. Is there regret in them? The man raises a ghostly hand as if to touch me and then lets it fall. He bows his head as if in defeat. Why does he not become a man? Why doesn’t he come back to me? I take a step back. The man raises his head and smiles, a smile that would break any heart let alone one as brittle as mine. I think I may have lost him.

  My fire still blazes. I move to stand in the intense heat of its flames. I am certain the blaze will keep the she-wolf away. She places herself next to the wolf and nuzzles against him. Her message is clear and Morcant does nothing to discourage her. I hope that he might give me some sign that I am as welcome by his side as she is: he does not.

  Instead he stares at me steadily with unblinking yellow eyes. They do not lack intelligence, only warmth. This wolf has made his choice.

  There is nothing to say. I am not diminished. I am Trista still. I can light fires and prophesy and fight as well as any man. If I must manage without Morcant, I can and will. I find myself twisting the wolf ring. In my imagination Gwyn is laughing. He would be amused to find me bested by a she-wolf.

  The rain is soaking through my clothes and I start to shiver, the ordinary kind of shivering that afflicts everyone. My face is wet with the relentless rain and not with the tears that I will not let myself shed. What if the fireside tales are true and a week spent in the summer country could be a year or more in ours? How long has Morcant been the wolf?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Morcant’s Story

  The grey people have done their work after all. I give them thanks for they at least can hear me. She left no sound, no scent to follow, nothing. It was as if she’d been swallowed up by the earth. I’d never have found her without them.

  She is surrounded by a gathering of the strange creatures; more join her every moment. The wolf in me is disturbed, they smell so wrong: I am enchanted. I never knew such shadow things existed until I became a shadow myself.

  The perfume of the penumbral kingdom clings to Trista honey-sweet and lemon-sharp in this country without lemons. It almost masks the musk and spiciness that is her own unique scent. She looks different too, straighter and less scrawny, no longer weary but strong and lithe. Her hair is longer and curls around her face, bright as the flames she conjures, and I long for fingers to tuck it out of her way.

  I want to run to her, but I can’t. I am as bound by duty as a wolf as I was as a legionary. My she-wolf needs me and she has no one but me. She is an outcast thanks to me and likely to remain so. She bears the taint of my unnatural scent wherever she goes. She carries our pups. What kind of creature, man or beast, abandons a female in such condition? I watch Trista go, wishing I could explain. The wolf can only twitch his ears and drop his tail and that she cannot understand.

  Why doesn’t her presence make me change? Finding her again should transform me as it has before yet my paws remain inflexible, clawed, fur-covered, not hands. My mouth is still an animal’s maw, good for biting and tearing and shredding, useless for talking. Useless for kissing. Oh, Trista! I was so busy cursing my condition I forgot to be grateful for ever being a man at all. May the gods of this place forgive me if I offended them.

  I follow her, keeping a safe distance between us. The camped men have dogs and I have no desire to kill them if they are set on me. She’s lost her armour and her weapons and I don’t like to see her enter the place of many men without either. There is danger there. There is blood in the air and the promise of more.

  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 pur
chase 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.