Wolf Blood by N. M. Browne Read Free Book Online Page A

he has no real stomach for this fight – I see it in his eyes. As he steps the final pace towards me I dance out of his way so that the first hack of his butcher’s blade misses me entirely. His long shield catches me a glancing blow on the arm and that in itself is almost enough to knock me over. Now that I am closer to him I can see that his shoulder is a mess of dried blood. I can hear the agony in the timbre of his voice: the cry he gives is not of aggression but of pain. I am so close his breath is in my face. To me he already smells of defeat. I act quickly and I stab at his chest before he has time to raise his longsword a second time. I put my strength behind the thrust and time it right. He buckles. I don’t flatter myself that I could better him were he fit, but he is not fit and I finish him cleanly. A mail shirt would have saved him and I am pleased that the female wears Lucius’. It might keep her alive long enough for me to help her. I grab the sword from my enemy’s dead hand and sheathe my gladius. It’s a while since I have held a Keltic weapon, but the length and heft and weight of it seem natural to me. It’s a fine weapon with a well-honed edge and I am grateful I did not feel its deadly touch. I am alive. My blood sings with the joy of it and I run towards the woman.
    She has a fighter’s focus. She grunts with the effort of fending off the powerful attack of the Chief’s man. It would have been easier with a shield to absorb the blows. She has nothing but her own sword to keep his blade from biting home. Desperately she parries each slashing sword stroke. She is using her own sword two-handed, bracing against the impact of each powerful hit. Thus far her blade has not shattered and she has not weakened, but she is yet to find an opening to counter-attack. She’s tiring. It is in the lines of her face, the grimness in her eyes.
    Her opponent wears no protective armour. I come up quickly behind him and with one clean two-handed blow hamstring him. His scream sends all the birds from the treetops and he crumples to the ground. She finishes him cleanly. The ground is pink where blood is diluted by slush, red and dark where it has pooled next to the fallen Chief. There are other men nearby – I can smell them. Maybe they’re the Chief’s reinforcements.
    I yell, with what breath I have left, ‘Let’s get away from here!’
    She nods. Her blackened mail is stained with blood, though I don’t think it is hers. She’s panting with exertion. ‘Thanks,’ she says, letting her sword arm drop. She’s lost her helmet somehow in her struggle and her face is splattered with gore. She bends over to recover her breath, gasping. Her sword is also stained and her hands tremble with weakness. She did well to fend the warrior off and without her I would have been dead within the first minute of this fight, mown down by the mounted warriors.
    The Chief is not dead. He groans, a sound of such agony that I am about to kill him as I would an animal to end his suffering, but the female shakes her head.
    ‘He doesn’t deserve a swift end,’ she says and I am glad that, for now at least, she’s not my enemy.

Chapter Nine
    Trista’s Story
    Morcant fights well enough when the wolf is roused. I stand to recover myself and watch him as he jogs towards the pony. He even moves differently when the wolf is awake. One of the two mounts has escaped but the remaining pony senses the wolf and bucks and rears in terror. Morcant looks puzzled. His frown deepens when Bric, the war dog, will not approach even though his master lies bleeding. It’s true: Morcant really doesn’t know what he is.
    The Chief screams. I have to fight my instinct to grant him mercy. I don’t think I’m cruel, but I hope he dies in agony – for Cerys and Elen and all the other slaves he brutalised. He killed my brothers too at Ragan’s Field, even if his men wielded the final blows: Evan, Bryn and Kai the black-handed. He didn’t kill