by N. M. Browne
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
Morcant’s Story
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
Trista’s Story
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.
I’m glad that he remains a wolf only because that means it is not yet his time to die.
Our encounter with the Chief has brought me two spare mounts and I have plenty of food, enough to keep me for several days should I lose my way. I leave the gods one of the Chief’s gold torques, the pedlar’s many bangles and his sword before I emerge from the forest. Once more the gods have bought me safe passage through that dark place. I still dare not face them. I keep the arm ring in my bag. The visions have begun again. I see death and flames and Morcant the man lying in a pool of blood. I don’t need to see the Wild Weird as well.
By late afternoon it is clear that I am right to be worried. I am being pursued by a unit of Romans. I have been careless of my tracks – thinking the wild landscape protection enough: my ponies churned up the mud enough to be obvious to the least gifted of trackers. I swear volubly. Are the gods only playing with me, using me for some sport of their own? The wolves are nowhere to be seen, which is as well. I don’t want them used as target practice by some over-enthusiastic Roman spearman. I hope they will stay out of the way and raise their litter in peace once I am dead. The she-wolf is pregnant; the signs are unmistakable. My only hope is that she gives birth to true wolves. How must it be for a man to be trapped in animal form? Perhaps it is best for Morcant’s sake that the man in him is sleeping.
I make my decision: I do not want to be hunted as a wolf pack might hunt a doe. More than that I don’t want to lead them towards Ger and the child, my new charge. I will let them get close and fight when I can.
Today the sun is bright in an ice-blue sky. The day is warm and I can smell the scent of pine needles. The wind catches the red cloaks of the riders so that they blow like blood-soaked pennants in the wind, the horsehair crests on their helmets streaming behind them. The light bounces off their breastplates and mail shirts, dances on the polished bridles of their horses, the bright metal of their scabbards. They look magnificent, inhuman: demons indeed. I am not afraid. I rub Caratacus’ ring with my fingers. If I cannot tell his story, I will at least die with something of his bravery – as a tribesman should. I dismount. I feel stronger with my feet planted on the ground. I prepare myself to fight and to die. I cannot take down eight men and I don’t know if I even have the courage to try.
They have seen me now and their blonde leader vaults from his pony’s chestnut back.
I am, of course, bareheaded and the wind whips my tightly braided cords of hair into my eyes and makes them water. I pray to Taranis and to Lugh that I do not falter, that I do not faint or fail to die as bravely as I should.
The blonde officer shouts at me in that barbarous language of his. Though I have no idea what he means, I respond. ‘Stay away from me, you half-human spawn of a malformed demon.’ Someone laughs and I get the feeling that at least one of their party understands the civilised tongue of the tribes.
I’m right. One of these vile usurpers speaks my language. ‘Hey you, woman, I think you should put that sword away. We wouldn’t want you to cut yourself.’
I could wish for three more women warriors and we would show him what tribal women can do, but I am alone and I am uncertain that I can give a good account of myself. They have spears and I only have my sword.
‘Come and teach me then, you treacherous son of a dog. Let’s see if I can’t embroider with your guts and spin you a shroud with your hair.’
He translates and the soldiers snort with derision. I can feel my temper rising, but I know it will do me no good to fight angry. I have to stay calm and in control. The blonde man is almost level with me now. He has removed his helmet and is smiling at me. There is something in that smile that incites my fury and I step forward. Almost before I am aware of what I am doing, my sharp-edged blade is at his throat and I have his sword arm twisted behind his back. I move swiftly, abruptly, as I was taught and of course these Romans are too stupid to believe in women warriors, which gives me the huge advantage of surprise. He is as tall as me this man and strong, but my sword is honed to a fine edge and my hand is steady and, if he does not now know that I am a warrior, he is a fool.
‘Tell him I will kill him if any of you raise your hands against me!’ I shout at the village idiot of a translator. I don’t know what to do next. I cannot stay here all day and with no one to relieve me, eventually I will tire. This was probably not my cleverest stratagem.
I had not counted on Morcant. The grass here is long, the banks of the river covered in shale, and he is skilled at blending into the landscape. It is as if the gods have sent him for my protection, for once more he appears beside me. His snarl sets the ponies to panicking and all th
e men must dismount to steady them. This is good because they are now, like me, at ground level. They stay back, but I can see them removing their shields from the ponies, preparing to form an unbreachable wall, getting ready to advance.
‘Hey, translator!’ I call. ‘One step forward and the big man gets it!’ My sword arm is getting tired. This is not a natural position for me. They know this and are waiting for the moment when I let my sword fall. Suddenly I hear a rush of air and a meaty thwack as a tribesman’s spear catches one of the men solidly in the chest. I turn to see the source of the spear and there up on the ridge I see Ger and a war band of maybe twenty men, his own plus Ordovices and Silurians, Caratacus’ men!
In moments a full-blown battle is under way. The Romans arrange themselves in fighting formation as the tribesmen charge down the slope of the hill, joyously whooping their war cries. My heart lifts and I find my own rusty voice to yell my own battle cry. The blonde Roman winces at the sound, which is loud and unmelodious – and directly into his ear. I let my sword arm drop and I release my captive.
‘Fight like a man,’ I say and though he doesn’t understand the words I know he understands the intent because he draws his gladius and attempts to engage me. There is no real contest as my weapon gives me the greater reach and is good for slashing as well as stabbing. He hesitates briefly and lunges forward. He has no shield and his left side is exposed to my longer blade. I don’t kill him, merely disable him, slicing at the point on his thigh which is unprotected by his mail. Blood wells and he cries out, but I have only cut through muscle, not bone nor artery. I want him to learn a lesson and remember it: only a fool underestimates a woman. As the pain distracts him, I have him at my mercy. My sword is at his neck. His helmet has rolled on the ground. I have no words he can understand, but I look into his eyes as I pull my sword away, giving him back his life, then I join Ger and Caratacus’ men at a run, with Morcant the wolf loping by my side.
It is then that it all goes wrong. A Roman spearman throws his weapon with well-judged force. It arcs towards Morcant. I can see where it must land and I cry out. I am helpless to stop its falling and Morcant is oblivious to the threat. I don’t know what instinct brings the she-wolf out of her hiding place in the long grass just at this moment, but I know with the certainty of prophecy that she senses Morcant’s danger. She runs at full speed to her mate. I see her accelerate. Even her pregnant belly does not slow her powerful, ground-eating pace and the spear is still falling. It is a frozen moment. I am screaming. I am running too, but he is too far away and I am no sprinter. My cry is lost in the tumult of battle. I cannot make him change direction. And then she is there. I had not known she was so fast. Before the spear can find Morcant’s throat, the she-wolf leaps and the spear pierces her side. As she falls, Morcant howls, a sound to turn marrow to ice. I am almost there, but it takes me an age to run to them. I have to leave the fighting to others now. The she-wolf saved Morcant; I have to save her if I can.
The sounds of battle fade and all there is in the world is this wolf and Morcant’s anguish. This is not a safe place. Spears are still flying and we are still within range. The she-wolf tries to get to her feet but collapses. She is already worrying at the spear with her sharp teeth. I could wish for something of her spirit and courage but she will not be able to remove the spear without my help, of that I’m sure.
I move forward to inspect the wound and lie down flat on the ground – to make myself less of a target for the spearmen. A glance their way shows me that they are hard-pressed by the tribesmen. As I come close the she-wolf makes a sound in the back of her throat, a warning reminder that I am not her friend. Morcant growls in return. I cannot blame her for being wary of me. The last time she was hurt by a spear, the spear was thrown by my hand. I am in no doubt that she remembers that. She keeps her eyes fixed on me and I sense her suppressed aggression. I get my sword out and she bares her teeth.
‘I am going to cut away some of the spear shaft,’ I say softly, as if she can understand. She stays still while I saw at the shaft of the arrow with my sword, hacking it off a little way from the head. I may be able to pull the spear out, but the long shaft is awkward and it will be easier to deal with if it is shorter. The she-wolf keeps her eyes on Morcant throughout, as if she needs to look at him to keep from biting me. She is an unusual she-wolf, this one. I can sense how much she wants to hurt me, how hard it is for her to resist and yet she does. The head of the spear is still deeply embedded in her flesh. Carefully, I flatten the thick fur so I can see the skin around the wound. She flinches and snaps her jaws but she does not attack. I wipe away the blood with my tunic. I keep up the kind of patter my father used with the dogs, telling her all the time what I am doing, keeping my voice calm and soft. Some of the metal of the spearhead still protrudes from the wound; these Romans use spearheads longer than the span of my large right hand, but it is not a hunting arrow and I do not think it is barbed. The she-wolf looks at me again. She is no longer growling but whining. She has no need of words: I know what she wants me to do and what I must do. I remember what I learned from the healer in our hall. When I have pulled out the spearhead, I will need to clean the wound and pack it with something clean. If I am wrong and the spear is barbed, pulling it free might make things worse. My hands shake at the thought, but the she-wolf’s fierce look forces me to be strong. I have to take the risk or she will die. Morcant nudges me with his head as if to tell me to hurry. I start to pull at the steel tentatively and the wolf groans. I think this will hurt more if I do it slowly; any attempt to be gentle will only cause more pain. I grit my teeth and pull with all my strength. I feel it budge. The spearhead is not barbed and comes away cleanly. Blood spurts from the wound. It is everywhere, soaking the ground. I use my sword again to cut some fabric from my tunic to staunch the wound. Morcant licks the wound and the she-wolf’s nose. His pelt is stained with her blood. I don’t know if her unborn litter will have been harmed, if I should try to save them. I have not the skill or the experience to do anything more. I have done all I can.
I leave the two of them together as I run to join the action. I can’t help but feel a small pang of jealousy for the closeness they share and for the fact that it was the she-wolf who saved Morcant and not me. I am a seeress and a warrior and yet this female wolf makes me feel inadequate. There is no point in dwelling on such thoughts. I put my energy into my war cry instead. It is clear that for once the tribesman have the upper hand. They have already smashed through the Roman line and are fighting hand to hand. When the line is broken, the Romans are no harder to beat than ordinary men and indeed their swords, as I well know, are less useful in the kind of fighting at which the tribal warriors excel. It looks to be all but over. The blonde commander I wounded is dead and the tribesmen look as if they have little need of an extra sword. I slow to a trot. My eye is caught by a mounted, white-clad figure of a druid some distance away. Is he calling my name? I squint against the bright sun. Even at this distance I recognise him. By some extraordinary coincidence or some god-given blessing, it is the same druid whose fate I foresaw in Ger’s village.
I jog towards him.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask. Battlegrounds do not demand the same kind of etiquette as formal meals.
He laughs. ‘Would you believe that I am looking for you and your companion?’
I don’t believe that, but I don’t say so. ‘I am glad that the fires of my vision have not yet found you.’
His eyes narrow. ‘The gods will move in their own time. It is good to see you again. Our gods have blessed you with survival. Times have been hard?’
I nod. Now is not the time or place for lengthy stories.
‘Do you have any gift of healing, sir? There is someone I would have you help.’ I do not say it is a wolf because I do not want him to turn me down. I help him dismount. He is all bone and sinew, light as a child. I offer him my arm to steady him as he takes a pack from his pony’s back and I lead him to where the wolves lie together in
the grass.
I hear his sharp intake of breath and fully expect him to berate me for asking him to save a wolf. His response is not what I expect.
There is more blood than I had anticipated. It has soaked through my rough attempt at a bandage and stains Morcant’s grey pelt. Have I failed? Is the she-wolf about to bleed to death? Morcant whines, a sound of such sorrow that it tears at my heart.
‘Can you help her?’ My voice is shaky. I don’t know what would happen to Morcant if she were to die. I know that she has kept him safe, helped him to live as a wolf. What if he cannot survive without her?
‘Here, give her a few drops of this,’ the druid says. He hands me a small pottery vial. Gently, I open her mouth. She allows me to prise open her jaws and drop the liquid on to her tongue. She lets me close her mouth and hold it tight with my hand, so that she swallows the fluid. I find myself humming the tune my father used to sing when he would dose our dogs sometimes with remedies. She does not growl at me this time and her eyes look bright. I think she will be all right.
‘What about her cubs?’ The old druid touches her carefully, feeling around her abdomen with competent hands. Not only does she not growl but she licks his hand.
‘They will be fine.’
‘You have a way with animals,’ I say and he laughs so heartily I wonder if he has lost his wits.
‘Ah, Trista,’ he says, ‘you still won’t see what you don’t expect. We’ll have to cure you of that.’ I am still puzzling over this when he moves to sit beside Morcant. Morcant is watching him with an intentness I have not seen before. He does not snarl a warning, but lets the old man touch the fur on his head, lets him put his scrawny arm around Morcant’s brawny back, lets him whisper in his ear. As I watch, the wolf shudders and between one blink of my eye and the next Morcant the man lies there, his skin blue-white with cold, waxy as one dead. His eyes are closed and his body is covered in blood as I have seen him so many times in my heart-rending visions. This is it: I have come finally to that moment that I have dreaded for so long, that I would rather have died than seen. Everything is as it was in my vision: the young man’s straggly beard, his long hair spread all round him and his bluish pallor that surely cannot belong to a living man. But his eyes open. He is not dead and the blood that covers him is not his own.
