Chapter Twenty-nine
I can’t stay here where there is the stench of men, their cooking, their fires, their middens and their graves. Where there are so many tribesmen there are accidents and several fights have yielded mortal wounds. Man-stink buries all other scents. It makes me angry and I know I walk with hackles raised. I am protected by the word of Caratacus, but wherever I go by I see murder in men’s eyes. Others come to stare at me as if I am a wonder. There are many warriors whose throats look ripe for the ripping and it is hard not to snarl and worse.
Trista is gone, cared for by Caratacus’ women, kept close because of her gifts. She is lost, laid low by visions, and even the sweet-smelling grey ones can’t reach her. There are druids here. I’ve heard they are sending for more – more soothsayers and philosophers, diviners and tale-tellers. I listen to the talk of this camp but little of it makes any sense. One thing is certain, I don’t want to see any druids; I keep out of their way. There is talk that there are other shapeshifters too, but in all the confusion of man-stink I’ve not detected their scent. I am a wolf now. I was a soldier. I was a shapeshifter. Now I am a simply a wolf.
I will fight when the time comes because Trista will fight and she will have need of my teeth, my claws, my strength and my ferocious power. Now I must answer the needs of the wolf. My mate has come for me, crossed the wide river at a narrower point and found me. She howls for me and I must go. I have told the grey folk to try to tell Trista I will return. Trista will understand, but I don’t think the grey folk do.