Authors: N. M. Browne
Chapter Three
Morcant freezes when the wolves howl. I don’t blame him. They seem so much closer here. Should I keep walking? I don’t want to run into wolves; I don’t know where I’m going, my legs are trembling from weakness, and it is good to have company. This man is kind. He gave me food. It is a long time since anyone has given me anything besides a beating and I know I could take him in a fight with one arm tied behind my back and both eyes closed. Strange, he is tall and well-built and ought to have what it takes to make a warrior.
Instead of moving on I find myself helping him bury the corpse of his comrade. We have to cool him down with snow before we can move him.
‘Help me take off his shirt,’ I say.
‘What?’
Even in the firelight I can see that Lucius’ mail shirt is a masterful piece of work, linked chains of metal that would protect me like a blessing from the mother. I recognise it. The enemies of my vision wore such shirts, and other shinier things. Wearing one of them would be like wearing a shield, leaving both arms free for fighting.
‘I want his shirt, and his helmet too. If I come across any more of you Romans, I want what you have.’
He helps me reluctantly. He’s very fastidious for a soldier. I doubt he’s seen action yet; I’m not sure he’d survive. It is a grisly job and even I avert my eyes from Lucius’ ruined, melted face.
The ground is like iron and so we do a poor job, merely heaping snow and stones over his body. I say prayers to Lugh and the triple-faced one and Morcant mumbles something about Mithras. I’m glad to get back to the fire. The night is full of unseen things, creatures of the forest watching us, waiting for us beyond the small circle of light we have made with our fire and unlikely companionship.
‘Here, you might as well have this – he doesn’t need it now.’
He gives me Lucius’ pack full of spare clothes, a goatskin canteen of water, and food. I don’t eat right away but drink deeply of the water then dress myself in Lucius’ tunic and Keltic trews. They are too short of course but much more use to me than my long women’s skirts. I clean off Lucius’ mail shirt too and Morcant watches me struggling into it, while he heats beans over the fire. I feel better for the extra clothes. If I meet the shining men of my vision, it will now be on more equal terms.
The food is better still. So hot it burns my mouth but I don’t care.
‘How long have you been a soldier?’ He has offered me hospitality of sorts and I am bound by old rules to make myself pleasant in the acceptance of it.
He fingers a new-looking tattoo on his hand – a wolf. I am a little startled by that. I think of the wolf as my own symbol, for my many visions of wolves.
‘I’ve been training since the summer.’
‘But you’re of the tribes?’ He has that look about him. He reminds me a little of Gwyn, though his features are finer, his eyes greyer and his expression sweeter. In fact he looks nothing like him – it is just that he is handsome. It is not a thought I should be having in the middle of this wilderness when I am on the run from his own compatriots.
‘My mother was a slave from Armorica, my father a Roman, an army veteran from Rome itself. He has no other children so he acknowledged me as his heir. I’m a citizen.’
‘Will you go back to your . . .’ I search for the right word. ‘Your fighting tribe?’
‘My legion? No. I don’t think so. They will blame me for Lucius’ death.’ He scrapes the pot of beans and gives me the last of it. I’m too hungry not to accept.
‘I don’t think the life is for me anyway – it feels all wrong.’
I don’t answer. There is something wrong about him. I don’t know what it is, but something niggles in my marrow, in my seer’s guts.
‘What about you?’ He asks the question gently. A seeress is bound to truth but I don’t think an escaped slave is bound by anything.
‘I was a warrior once, of one of the Brigante clans. I was captured in battle by the Parisi. I escaped.’
‘You said you were a seeress?’ Is he mocking me?
‘It’s a gift. I’m not initiated.’ He waits for me to go on and for some inexplicable reason I do. ‘My father was sent to Mona to study with the druids as a boy. He swore that no child of his would ever be druid trained.’ He raises his eyebrows at that, as well he might. My father gave up the honour and power of a druid for a life training horses and dogs. He counted it a good bargain too. It was fortunate for us children that he was born of warrior stock, with generous sisters, or we would have had nothing.
‘Ah well, we all live at the whim of our fathers.’ His smile takes the sting from his words but he sounds sad. No doubt he is a disappointment to his own father and I can see why. ‘Where are you headed?’
The change of subject is abrupt but welcome. I don’t want to talk about the past.
I shrug. ‘Away from your army, back to Brigante lands. I don’t know. You?’
‘Armorica. Away from the army too.’
It is on the tip of my tongue to ask him if we should travel together when another wolf’s cry echoes around us. By Lugh, they are very close now. My hand finds the hilt of my sword.
‘We should sleep in turns,’ he says quickly, ‘to watch the fire and keep the wolves at bay.’
I nod. I have always feared that my visions of wolves are a sign that they will be the harbinger of my death, but I don’t say that.
I get up to put more wood on the fire. Morcant takes it from me and then our hands touch. He pulls his hand sharply away but I cry out.
‘No!’
I am backing away from him now, grabbing Lucius’ shield and long spear as I go.
‘What is it?’ He looks around wildly as if to see what has frightened me. Surely he must know?
‘You!’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You are a shape-changer, a wolfman, a werewolf!’
My back is to the tree now. He walks towards me, laughing nervously.
‘What are you talking about? That’s just Keltic superstition. There’s no such thing.’
He seems utterly in earnest. He truly does not know what he is. His eyes flash yellow in the fire’s glow and I reach for my sword.
Chapter Four
Morcant puts his hands up as if in surrender. His hands are large and look strong.
‘You don’t need to use your sword, warrior-seeress lady. I don’t wish to insult your gifts, but you’re mistaken. Come back to the fire.’
I’m not mistaken. Now that I’ve seen his nature I cannot unsee it. If I half close my eyes, I can see the faint shadow of a sleeping wolf that surrounds him. Still, I hesitate. The safety of the fire draws me. There are eldritch things beyond it, unseen creatures of unknown intent. It is hard to believe that this ungainly man could be much of a threat to me. I am armed, after all. Morcant’s smile is wide, innocent, but his eyes glint with an animal light, cold as the Chief’s metal mirror. I stay where I am. He shrugs. His shoulders are broad, his chest deep. I must not let his gentle manner beguile me. He could be a powerful man.
‘You shouldn’t travel alone,’ he says, but his words are slurred. He stretches, yawns, then does what I least expect. He drops to all fours by the fire, like a child playing at being a hound. I tighten my grip on Lucius’ spear. What is he doing? He seems to have forgotten that he is observed. He stretches his long back, and then extends his neck as if for an executioner’s blade. His expression is curiously dreamy. He sighs gently with – what? Relief? Contentment? I have no idea. He shudders and closes his eyes. For the first time I see the shadow wolf open his. The beast’s eyes are startling, alert, hard, everything that Morcant’s aren’t. Those eyes are a shock. The shadow wolf is a living creature, real as I am.
It is hard to make sense of what happens next. The man’s outline blurs as if I am seeing it through tear-filled eyes. I want to rub my eyes but dare not let go of my weapon. Morcant’s very body fades, the shape and colour of him leaching away to become a ghostly silver. At the same instant the half-seen shadow wolf becomes clearer as if finally coming into focus. No. It is more than that. He is not just coming into focus, he is becoming flesh and blood. Hands become paws, pale human skin becomes dark, bestial fur, Morcant’s fine nose and chin coarsen and thicken to become an animal muzzle. The man has become a wolf in front of my eyes. There’s no cracking of bones nor straining of tendons, just this noiseless swapping of forms. How can this be possible? My guts twist at the strangeness of it. Should I run? I fear the wolf would outpace me for this isn’t any ordinary wolf; just as Morcant is big for a man, this creature is huge for a wolf. He is still draped in Morcant’s clothes.
He turns his attention and razor teeth to escaping from the restriction of mail shirt and sword belt. He growls his displeasure – a low, terrifying sound at the back of his throat. Now might be the time to run, but I can’t make my legs move. I’ve never seen anything like this and it fascinates me as much as it terrifies me. I can see the spectral form of Morcant the man around this wild creature: he is sleeping as peacefully as a child. I know little of shapeshifters but I am certain that the man should always be master of the beast. The druids, who practise such magics, gain the attributes of animals but lose none of their own power. Here there is no doubt as to which creature is in charge and this creature fixes me with its predator’s eyes. There is no trace of Morcant in them, no softness, no human intelligence, nothing, in fact, but hunger.
I adjust my grip on Lucius’ spear. The weight of it is different from the Keltic type. It has a long metal shaft attached to a wooden pole and lacks the charms and druid blessings which give ours a greater potency. I’ll have one chance to hit the beast if he pounces and I cannot miss. If Morcant dies along with the wolf, that is not my fault. I will not hesitate for sentiment’s sake: I will live.
The wolf’s eyes meet mine and I don’t look away. He looks at the spear and does not back down. He growls.
I can’t afford to be afraid. If I allow my hand to tremble when I throw, I will not throw true. I survived the battle of Ragan’s Field because I fought my fear. My heart beats quickly six or seven times and then I hear a wolf howl. It is close by, closer even than before. The effect on the wolf is instant: he raises his head to the bright moon and bays a response. The sound sends shivers down my spine. Somehow the wolf’s cry sounds anguished, desolate, the loneliest cry I’ve ever heard. Perhaps there is an answering yowl that I cannot hear because it seems that he has forgotten all about me and bounds off after the wolf pack. The man, Morcant, is gone with him.
I can’t move for several more heartbeats, but stand clutching my spear. My knuckles turn white with the needless pressure. I’ve lost my knack of overcoming fear.
I stagger back to the fire and sit there in shock. I thought I wouldn’t mind dying now I’ve lost so much. I was wrong.
It takes a while to get my racing thoughts in order. I keep returning to what I’ve just seen, trying to picture exactly what happened. I shake my head hard as if that will shake away the memory. I have to forget about the mystery I’ve seen enacted and find a way to survive the rest of the night. The wolf will return. It is likely he will return with other wolves. There’s little to eat even for hunters at this time of year and I am sitting not ten paces from a corpse. The stink of it, too faint yet for human noses, will draw the wolves here like men to mead.
I run through several wild ideas before settling on my plan. First I clear away some of the snow and heavy stones from Lucius’ pyre. I don’t like doing it, because I was brought up to honour the dead. I pray to the gods that Lucius’ shade might forgive me, but all things are permitted to the desperate. Then I return to the fire and, using the flat of Lucius’ short sword, extract some hot coals from the glowing heart of it and place them in Lucius’ copper, loop-handled cook pot. The heat turns the blade as black as my chain mail. I don’t intend to die of the cold so I wrap my newly made firepot in Morcant’s tunic and secure the bundle to my belt by the tunic’s arms. I enfold myself in Morcant’s cloak as well as my own, stuff all the food still remaining in Lucius’ pack, take his canteen and head for the trees. I don’t want to stray far from the camp, the extra weapons and the fire, but if I stay on the ground I’m easy meat. I can’t fight a pack of wolves on my own, not in my weakened, exhausted state. I have to sleep, rest, survive and then decide what to do next.
It is years since I climbed a tree – once I was betrothed it was deemed unseemly. Before that I spent half my girlhood shinning up the ancient oaks in our woodland. I hope I haven’t forgotten how.
The tree nearest the fire isn’t an oak but a fir with little in the way of lower branches. I’ve thought of that. This is a good moment to remind myself of how to throw a spear.
My first attempt is pathetic, incompetently thrown and poorly aimed. I hear the ghost of Gwyn mocking my frailty with his characteristic bitter wit. I grit my teeth and try again, this time with Morcant’s spear. The spear hits the tree trunk squarely and well. I run to check. The spear is deeply embedded in the bark to the depth of half my hand’s span. That will have to do. I daren’t risk another attempt. I hurl Lucius’ pack up into the lower branches of the tree. It’s bulky and an awkward shape. It takes me several weary throws before it catches in the branches. It doesn’t look secure, but it’s too late to do anything about that. I grab the first spear from where it fell uselessly into the snowy ground and tuck it under my arm. I tighten the cloaks around me and make sure my sword is secure. Now comes the test. I use the spear buried in the trunk to give me a leg-up. It buckles, though I’m lighter than I was. I don’t give it a chance to break but haul myself with all my strength up into the tree. I am out of practice but my body remembers what to do. At least I’ve gained in strength and reach what I’ve lost in agility. I can still do it. I make it to the safety of the largest branch with no time at all to spare. When I look down, I can see dark shapes prowling and snuffling at the tree’s roots. The wolves are here.