Authors: N. M. Browne
I take the arm ring from his callused hands, taking care not to touch him. I like this old warrior and I don’t want images of his death to haunt me. I slide it on to my forearm and, lacking Ger’s bulky muscle, have to push it up to my upper arm. He tightens it with the pressure of his meaty hand. If he notices my brand, he chooses to ignore it.
‘If you are seeking Caratacus, keep travelling west and be careful of who you trust. There is a lot of double-dealing going on. It is a long way and you may have need of Mari, here.’
I take the mare’s halter. I start to thank Ger but he waves my gratitude away. ‘You will pay if you fight the fight for us. May the goddess bless you and Taranis keep you.’ He clasps my arm, warrior to warrior. I can’t avoid the contact and I am grateful that I do not see his death with that touch. Instead, I see a baby in the arms of his wife, Bethan, the woman who admired my hair. I cannot help smiling at such a rare, joyous vision.
‘You might get yourself an heir, yet,’ I say, ‘and when you do, I’ll be happy to return your sword.’
He shrugs and I know he doesn’t believe me; he gave up that hope long ago.
Morcant waits for him to return indoors before emerging from the shadows. Something in his stance tells me he is not happy.
‘Are you all right?’
He nods. ‘You?’ he croaks.
‘The druid – I don’t know . . . he described you as my “most interesting companion”. Do you think he knows?’
Morcant doesn’t answer. Then I hear the she-wolf’s lonely call and I understand. He is struggling to listen to me. The wolf is howling in response.
‘Go,’ I say. He needs no further urging. ‘I’m still heading west,’ I shout after him. He doesn’t need to know that, but it helps me to say it. It makes it seem as if we have an agreement, that we have arranged to meet again. I watch as he runs ahead along the darkening cart track and then beyond towards the forest. He is the beast again, the great shadow wolf re-formed into dense flesh and solid muscle. He is hard to spot, he moves so swiftly, a blur of darkness deeper than the dusk. It is not a betrayal. I know it’s not a betrayal but I feel very alone.
I collect Morcant’s discarded clothes, fold them as if I were his mother and stow them along with the sword on Mari’s back. I mount her and kick my heels into the flanks of the placid mare and she obediently breaks into a trot. The sun dips behind the trees and I slip into the forest yet again like a swimmer breaking the surface of a fathomless pool and all around me the night shades flow.
Chapter Twenty
The she-wolf is close and howling. I can smell her and her scent alone is enough to raise the wolf in me. This time I know the transformation is coming and I run. I have to make it to the shelter of the trees, out of sight of the tribespeople and the old druid. I should stay with Trista but I can’t; the she-wolf needs me and her call is urgent and demanding and my nature responds. I can feel the pull of my other self, my other life. The darkness pulses with the heartbeats of our potential prey. I can taste the night on my tongue; too many flavours, too many scents; the richness of it all confuses me and I need the she-wolf. She shows me and leads me and teaches me the ways of our kind. I feel so much energy and power that I want to run and never stop, run away from the midden of the village and the stench of fear. She waits for me, in plain sight, in the clearing. I race towards her as a man, clumsy and awkward. She fixes me with her keen eyes and stays her ground. She is poised ready to flee, but she does not. She knows me by scent and waits for the inevitable. By the time I reach her I am a wolf and free. No more words. Just the night.
Chapter Twenty-one
I try not to be irritated by Morcant’s transformation, but I am. I hate these nights in the forest. The forest is full of shadows, flickering images glimpsed at the edge of my vision. Tonight the shadows are thickening, taking form, as clear as Morcant’s spectral wolf. Over there an old giant, gnarled as ancient wood, sits in an oak tree watching me and here, ghostly as mist, strange creatures skulk in the long grass. I pretend I’ve not seen them. It grows dark quickly. There is no cloud and the night is icily bright; the moon’s light is cold as frost.
It is possible that I am descending into madness. I feel as though a thousand eyes survey my every move. I ride with one hand resting on my sword – as if that will help.
I’m too afraid to stop. A triple-headed woman, pale as sap, sits on a tree branch and combs her hair of twigs. I mumble my prayer to her but she just keeps combing her hair with razored hands. I hum snatches of sacred songs, mutter invocations and flattery to the wraiths and divinities that haunt this place, beg help of any who might have an interest in my protection. Clenched within my guts is a tight fist of fear.
My eyes are gritty with fatigue when Morcant and the she-wolf finally appear, almost hidden by the undergrowth, in the shadows of the trees. Morcant the wolf turns towards me and there is that strange smearing of form, as if the village painter has smudged his image on the hall wall, then the huge shaggy outline of the grey wolf shrinks to become the man, Morcant, who kneels on his hands and knees, naked in the mud of the forest floor. The she-wolf holds her ground even as a wolf becomes a man. If it’s strange for me, how much stranger it must be for her. I see her tense, her tail and ears drop, then Morcant reaches out his hand to stroke her tawny head and she licks his fingers as if she were an ordinary hound. Morcant puts his face next to hers and she licks that too. His knees are visibly trembling as he hauls himself up on to two legs, his feet are splayed at a strange angle as if he has forgotten how to balance on two legs and he has to use the sturdy she-wolf to right himself. The relationship between them is so trusting and intimate that I feel uncomfortable observing them. I don’t say anything as he staggers towards me.
Ever practical I dismount and hand over his clothes. ‘See anything useful on your travels?’ I ask.
He shakes his head and scratches the stubble on his chin; he does it as a dog might scratch his neck. I wonder if with each transformation he becomes a little less human.
‘There are man tracks everywhere in the forest – some old, some new. We stayed away from all of them.’ He shrugs as he struggles into his tunic. His pale torso is criss-crossed by small cuts and abrasions, marks of the wolf’s history on his human flesh. I find myself staring at his well-muscled bare chest and have to force myself to look away. Ger had stowed a bag of bread on the mule and I offer Morcant some. He eats it greedily, from which I gather that his hunting last night was not a success.
‘Trista?’ He struggles to get the word out.
‘What?’
‘The wolf is getting stronger.’
I thought he looked bigger and fitter than before, then I realise that isn’t what he means.
‘You’re stronger too.’ Even as a man he seems more powerful. The strain of my night’s visions has made me so weary, I can barely speak. I have to rest, if only for a short while. I attend to the mare. Morcant keeps his distance. ‘I’ve been riding all night – would you be able to stand watch for a while?’
He hesitates and seems about to speak, but my eyes are already closing.
I wake with a start I don’t know how much time later. The sun is high. I am freezing and Morcant is gone.
It takes me a moment to stand up. My feet are numb. The things I saw last night are still lurking in the undergrowth, creatures of mist or madness. I rub my eyes but they still remain. I think I hear something and the creatures scatter like birds in a battle. Someone is coming and Morcant has abandoned me. I stagger after my lost mare. Fortunately she hasn’t wandered far away. Was the food I ate in Ger’s hall poisoned or cursed? My body feels as slow as my brain.
I ride for a while before I see him, all but hidden in the gloom of the forest. He is a beast again. He carries something bloody in his mouth. I think it’s a rabbit. He looks as embarrassed as a wolf can. The shadow man that is his human self will not meet my eye.
‘You should not have left me!’ I sound aggrieved, like a nagging wife, even though I’m right. I can see the she-wolf behind him, eyeing me warily. She is still a wild creature. She sniffs the air, glances at Morcant, then turns and runs. I think Morcant is about to do the same; he turns as if to follow her but then stops. He watches me, waits for me. I urge the mare further into the wood, following the she-wolf. Whatever is a threat to the wolves will surely be a threat to me.
The half-seen things that seem to live here are all heading in the same direction, away from the source of the noise I thought I’d heard. They crawl and limp, flutter past my ear on crooked wings or swing from the winter trees. Morcant walks alongside me, keeping his distance from the mare but matching his pace to hers. We go as quickly as I dare but the ground is treacherous and carpeted with a heaving crowd of eldritch beings. Luckily the mare doesn’t seem to notice.
There is no doubt now. I can hear voices. I don’t want to be caught defenceless and fleeing.
I halt the mare and slide from her back. I waste moments struggling into my mail. It is difficult enough even when my hands aren’t stiff with cold. I need help that Morcant’s paws can’t give me. Finally I manage to pull it down over my hips, belt my sword and grab my helmet. It has taken me too long; the voices are getting closer. I make for Morcant’s side.
Morcant begins to run, but slowly so I can keep up in my heavy shirt and poor condition. They are gaining on us. I don’t know how many there are but it sounds like more than we can fight. They are speaking the Roman tongue. I’m getting to recognise it even though I still cannot tell one word from another. Morcant the wolf bares his teeth. Morcant the shadow man reaches out as if to touch my hand. His spectral fingers hover over mine. His keen senses will have told him exactly how many men pursue us: he thinks it’s over for us. I try to run faster but my legs have nothing left to give. I stumble and only save myself by falling on the wolf. I turn to see the twenty or so armed men stride into view. I draw my sword. We can’t fight so many but I’m ready to die trying. I glance towards Morcant who bares his teeth. At least the she-wolf got away.
A hail of spears lands close to me. Morcant growls and backs away. He does not run, even though he would be too fast for these men to capture or kill. He should save himself. Do they know who we are? Do they think us the thieves, deserters, murderers who escaped the fort of the Ninth Legion?
They have come prepared. Three men approach with spears and a net of the kind we use for fishing. It seems that they do know who we are. I grip my sword more tightly, ready to back Morcant when he attacks, but as the men come closer he does the last thing I expect. He allows them to take him: a weaker wolf will always submit to the stronger.
They hang him from a pole like a slaughtered boar, or a deer, like meat hunted for a feast. I have rarely felt so helpless. I cannot run and I cannot fight. All I can do is endure.
A tall man with the fair skin of a northman approaches me. I sheathe my sword. My chances of getting away were slim with Morcant; they don’t exist without him. There is nothing to be gained from fighting this one man. He is tall, fit and rested, and there are too many more. He is speaking at me, making harsh guttural sounds which mean less than Morcant’s growls. He grabs my helmet, pulls it roughly from my head and hits me – an open-handed slap across my face. The blow stings and I taste blood where his ring breaks my skin. I’ve been in this position before. I can’t bear it again. I hang my head, not in shame but in a kind of weariness. I am already broken: bereaved, abandoned, beset by visions and delusions, lost. There is no need to break me further.
The northman shoves me towards the rest of the men. They are all in armour, except for one – a young red-headed man dressed as a tribesman. At first I think it is the Parisi pedlar because his face is familiar, but then I realise it is one of Ger’s men, the one who sang a drinking song. He must have left before me and ridden hard to bring a detachment after me so swiftly. I ought to have taken more notice of the druid’s and Ger’s warnings. Did they guess they had a Roman sympathiser in their midst?
He pulls my head back upright, by my hair. ‘Seeress slut,’ he says in my own language. He is not gentle and I want to spit in his face, but I don’t. Perhaps in this I have to follow the wolf. I have reverted to the slave, Trista, who somehow survived when it might have been more honourable to die.
What frightens me most is the sudden return of my visions. The last thing I need right now is to be lost in some other now, when I need my wits about me. Someone punches me in the guts for no particular reason and I pitch forward, hunched around the site of the assault. Perhaps I should have made a stand but someone slices through my sword belt and takes my weapon before I can launch a belated attack. I see the sword with a plunderer’s eye, the elaborate designs on the leather sheath; its jewelled hilt set in gold is a prize to be fought for. It causes me almost physical pain to see it taken from me: I have never carried a finer blade.
Chapter Twenty-two
I keep my head down for all of the day’s march. I don’t know where they are taking us both or why. I don’t understand why we haven’t been killed at once.
I find out when the young Kelt chooses to taunt me.
‘This lot make sacrifices to their she-wolf god who founded their city. Their festival Lupercalia is tonight. You and your wolf are going to die, unnatural bitch. They don’t like women pretending to be men, especially Roman men. They’re going to make you suffer!’