Chapter Seven
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.