Cal lifted his nose and sniffed at the damp air. People smell; an odour thick with
stale sweat, cooked meat, ale, mead and smoke. It was drifting faintly through
the trees, mixing unpleasantly with the fresh and earthy aromas of the forest. He
turned his head and sniffed again, seeing several of the other wolves do the same
before whining and glancing his way. Fear of man was a deep primal instinct for
the wolves and they wanted to leave.
Padding forward to the edge of the trees, Cal gazed up at the stone fortress.
It was ugly, a small mountain of piled rocks set starkly apart from the
surrounding land and forest. It put a bad taste in his mouth just to look at it. He
licked his chops. A breeze rustled the trees bringing more bad odours. Glancing
to either side, he searched for the source of the offending smell. There, moving
close to the edge of the trees, a small group of men, blind to the darkness of the
night beyond what the light from their burning torches revealed. They were
hurrying along, trying hard to keep up with two large dogs that were pulling hard
against the ropes that held them. The dogs had their noses pressed to the ground,
their tails wagging furiously as they followed the scent of the wolf pack.
Hunters again. Three times over the last eight nights that the wolves had kept
their vigil, the doors to the fortress had swung open and Saxons and Picts had
come out seeking to hunt and kill them. So far, Cal had managed to keep the
wolves one step ahead, combining his instincts as a wolf with his memory of
being human; once again, he knew it was time to leave. Giving a short bark, he
turned and led the pack on a steady run south through the dark forest, crossing
and re-crossing their path to confuse the dogs and finally following a small
stream for a stretch. As the sound of barking faded into the distance, they slowed
to a steady lope having enjoyed the exertion of the run, their tongues lolling
happily from the side of their mouths, their breath steaming in the cold night air.
They continued towards what had become their regular daytime lair, a series of
small caves, high up amongst a rocky outcrop that offered a good viewpoint
should the hunters ever manage to get this close.
Dawn was lending a rosy glow to the eastern sky by the time they arrived.
After a last check to see that the pack was together and safe, Cal lay down in the
entrance of a small cave; the sound of the pack howling, calling the few
stragglers to catch up, fading as he fell into a contented sleep.
The following night, the wolves returned to the fortress and Cal immediately
noticed a difference as he reached the edge of the trees. A lot more people had
arrived, with more wagons, and there was much more activity than on any of the
previous nights. Behind him, the wolves were nervous, making small whining
sounds as they milled about, unable to settle. Turning round, he wagged his tail,
and then stood, walked out of the tree line to show he had no fear of the humans'
camp, and sat down to observe what was happening.
There were thousands of men now camped in front of the fortress, an area
that just a few days before had been clear desolate hillside. As he tried to take it
all in, he saw more arriving, Saxons, some Picts, and a few others he didn't
recognise, lighting their way with burning torches. This new group was directed
to an area close to the forest, and he watched with interest as they made camp
before retreating into the trees to wait.
Around him, the wolves grew more restless, clearly unhappy as the sounds
of men throwing up shelters and calling to each other drifted back to them.
When three men entered the trees to find firewood, the wolves slunk back into
the shadows to watch silently. They also watched Cal, waiting for him to signal
them to leave, but he didn't. Instead, as the men left with their wood, he trotted
forward, snarling when one of the wolves made to follow him, giving a clear
message that they were to stay where they were.
Knowing the humans had limited night-vision, the silver grey wolf that
carried the consciousness of Calvador moved silently into the Saxon camp. The
humans' scent was heavy in the cold night air and was thick in odours most
unpleasant. It mixed with the slightly more acrid smoke that drifted from the
camp's numerous fires to aggravate his highly sensitive nose. Moving from
shadow to shadow, he padded amongst the hastily constructed huts and
roundhouses, avoiding several stumbling figures, and listening to the few
whispering voices that he came across; but any conversation he managed to
overhear was in a language he couldn't understand. Feeling slightly frustrated, he
began to make his way back to the security of the forest. He set off, but then
noticed a large fire crackling and spluttering close to one of the largest huts with
several people gathered around it. More logs were tossed on and glowing embers
burst up to float away into the dark star-filled sky, the sight enticing him closer
as the flames forced the darkness to retreat and dance as shadows, eager to rush
back in should the flames begin to falter. Six men stood about the fire, warming
themselves as they passed a flagon of mead between them, talking loudly and
laughing at some shared joke.
Keeping low, Cal crept forward.
The language was the same foreign tongue he had been hearing elsewhere in
the camp, which again meant he couldn't understand anything. However,
something made him wait a little longer, maybe it was merely the comforting
lure of the fire. He contented himself in studying the men.
They were big, bearded and wrapped against the night's chill in cloaks of
coarse wool. The flames from the fire reflected upon conical helmets, pulled
down over cloth hoods to keep the cold wind from their ears and necks. A nose
guard hung from the front of each helmet, which, as the light from the fire threw
shadows across their faces, made the warriors appear as frightening apparitions
to the young wolf as he skulked nervously in the shadows. Stilling his nerves,
Cal tried to concentrate on their conversation. It sounded as if they were
complaining and moaning, probably about their march here, or the cold and the
necessity of being at Vortigern's bleak fortress, but they seemed to be enjoying
the mead. Twice he heard the name Ambrosius and was just about to move away,
believing he could learn no more, when a figure strode from the darkness
making him shrink back with an involuntary whine when he saw who it was, a
Saxon dressed from head to foot in black.
'Horsa!' The six warriors jumped to their feet. The one who had hissed the
warning to his fellows stepped forward to greet the newcomer.
Cal realised he had been gradually edging back and stopped moving, forcing
himself to stay and see what would happen. Horsa had clapped the warrior on
the shoulder and accepted the proffered flagon of mead. He was drinking
greedily, heedless of the pained looks of the others as they saw their mead
flowing so freely down his neck. Another man appeared from one of the shelters,
this one dressed in normal clothes and a felt hat, tied under his chin. He made to
walk past, but then changed his mind and turned to address Horsa in a crisp
arrogant voice that Cal had no trouble understanding.
'I will repeat to you what I have just told your brother. We march on
Ambrosius at first light. King Vortigern has decided to end their threat before the
weather worsens rather than wait the season out through to the thaw. Have your
men ready, we have a three-day march ahead of us.' He spun on his heels and
strode off, disappearing into the darkness without waiting for any reply. The
black warrior shook his head, appearing weary as he addressed the others. There
was an angry dialogue of Saxon curses when he had finished, and then without
warning, all eyes turned to the shadows where Cal was lying and he heard a
word he understood, 'Wolf!'
A chill fear struck him. Springing to his feet, he ran, heedless of any caution,
relying now solely upon his speed to put distance between him and the Saxons
and it wasn't long before the angry cries faded behind him. When he reached the
forest, the other wolves ran out to him, tails wagging, licking his muzzle, and
lying down in front of him, relieved and happy that he had returned. After
dispensing with the minimum of greeting rituals, he led them on a run through
the forest, taking them as directly as possible back to the caves where he could
safely leave the pack and awake in his human form.
'Uther!' Cal lurched upright, his eyes wide and staring, reflecting the light
from the hut's flickering fire. Drawing in a series of ragged breaths, he allowed
his sleeping fur to fall to the side as he rubbed at his face and tried to slow his
beating heart, momentarily overwhelmed with the shock of returning to his body.
'Uther!' Glancing to the side, he cursed the inability of his human eyes to see in
the dark. He could just make out the sleeping form of his friend, the furs drawn
tightly up around his face keeping the chill draughts at bay. 'Uther, wake up!'
Leaning across, Cal shook him roughly by the shoulder until his friend's eyes
flashed open. 'They're coming, Uther… the Saxons are coming!'
* * *
A wet and rainy morning found the camp in a state of frenzy. Word had
spread quickly that the Saxons were marching and they would soon meet them in
battle.
With nerves on edge, and a belly feeling as if it were alive with bees and
butterflies, Uther stood close to Cal and gazed about, as each tribal chieftain
barked their commands, organising their men. The two friends had become
accustomed to the comfort and routine of the camp over the last few weeks, and
to see it in uproar like this was unsettling to say the least. All about them people
were loading chariots and wagons, dismantling shelters or feverishly sharpening
weapons. Many were hurriedly preparing food, passing it out as soon as it
became ready, with warriors eating as they worked.
'Hey!'
They glanced round and saw the familiar figure of Samel striding towards
them. The little Iceni was crunching on the remnants of an apple, turning the
core over to see if there was a bite left that he had somehow missed. With a
momentary look of disappointment, he tossed it aside and approached, cleaning
his fingers through his beard.
'We get to fight, I hear.' He clasped each in turn by the forearm by way of
greeting. 'About bloody time if you ask me!' A broad grin split his face. 'Meryn's
gonna be sore if he misses all the fun.'
'He's not come back then?' Uther asked, and his shoulders dropped as Samel
shook his head. 'I had hoped he would be here.'
'He asked for one full cycle of the moon,' said Samel. 'It's been scarcely half
that since he went off, but don't you worry about old Meryn, he'll hear all the
noise and come running soon enough, you mark my words. Anyhow, I didn't
come to talk of him. I came to ask if you'd like to join with me. I have two of my
boys sick with fevers, so we have a chariot free. I thought you might want the
use of it?'
'That sounds like a fine idea,' came a voice, and they turned to see
Ambrosius and three of his men walking towards them. 'We travel today to
Mount Badon,' continued Ambrosius, 'the site that has been chosen to meet with
Vortigern.' He placed a hand on Uther's shoulder and addressed them all. 'I
would be pleased if you and your band would ride alongside me.' Samel offered
a nod in agreement and drew himself up as Ambrosius lowered his voice and
addressed him directly. 'You may need to give my brother here a lesson or two
on the finer points of a chariot's use, Master Samel, and I would ask you to look
over them both when the time comes for battle. However, I think it best if you
stay to the rear of the battle. We cannot both expose ourselves to our enemies -
our people must not be left without a leader if we both should fall.'
'We need no milk-mother,' spluttered Uther, his face reddening. 'Cal and I
will be just fine and we won't be left behind. We will, however, be looking out
for you, brother. If you need our help, just call, we'll not be too far away.'
Ambrosius grinned and Samel failed to contain a burst of laughter.
'I thank you for that, Uther. We shall all look out for each other on the
battlefield, and I for one will be riding with more confidence knowing that you
are both close.' As Ambrose strode away, Samel pushed Uther and Cal towards
the waiting chariots.
'Come on lads. A chariot isn't so hard to handle, I'll soon show you how.'
However, the chariot was hard to handle, at least for Cal it was. After a brief
attempt with the reins, he gave up and passed control over to Uther, who, with
some practice and shouted instruction from Samel, did fare just a little better,
and sort of managed to get the horses to do what he wanted. Much of the
problem was the mud within the camp. Branches, laid as paths, made it easier for
people to get about on foot, but the horses and chariots were having trouble,
moving sideways as often as they were going in a straight line. That was, until
they became caught in icy ground and one of the many deep ruts making it
impossible to do anything but go in a straight line. The horses seemed happy
enough, obviously more used to the conditions than their passengers were.
'I feel sick,' shouted Cal, tapping Uther on the shoulder.
Uther glanced at him, and then quickly snapped his attention back as the
chariot slid to the left and one of the horses lost its footing. 'You feel sick or
you're going to be sick?' asked Usher, raising his voice over the rumble of the
chariot.' His answer came as Cal hung over the side of the bouncing wooden
frame and noisily expelled the contents of his stomach into the mud, much to the
delight of the onlookers.
'Hey! Mind the chariot, boy,' shouted Samel, from his seat on a fallen tree as
Cal glared at him, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Samel clapped his hands and
let out a shriek, and then a below of laughter. There were four of them watching
the spectacle of Uther and Cal's efforts as charioteers. Sometimes offering
advice, but mostly, like then, just laughing.
'You must have eaten something bad this morning, eh? Well, don't you
worry, lad. There's nothing like a good chariot ride to set you straight. Take her
down to the wood and back. Let them really stretch their legs.' He ran over and
slapped the closest horse on its rear. Jumping with shock, it gave a loud whinny
and set off with Cal holding on as best he could and Uther pulling them round
towards the distant tree line. They had almost made it to the trees before Uther
managed to bring the horses back under control and they came to a stop. Cal slid
from the back and lay in the wet grass panting and lifeless while Uther looped
the horses' reins to the closest tree.
'Are you all right?'
Cal didn't move. He lay with his arm covering his eyes and his chest heaving
as he drew in deep, ragged breaths. 'I knew I didn't like riding horses, and now I
know I don't like riding in chariots, either.' He lifted his arm and glanced over
towards the trees. 'Uther… don't move.'
Uther glanced up to see what had startled Cal and stared into the wood. His
jaw began moving up and down slightly, as if some part of him wanted to say
something but couldn't find the words.
Cal's voice softly broke the silence. 'They won't hurt us… at least I don't
think they will. I've never been this close to wolves without being part of a wolf
myself.' Uther continued to stare into the shadows between the trees where three
pairs of yellow eyes regarded him silently. Behind him, the horses suddenly
pulled against their reins, jumping in the traces as they caught the wolves' scent.
'Are they… your wolves? The ones you were with, I mean?' Uther began,
edging back towards the chariot.
'No… they're not. I think we had better leave… let's get out of here.' Moving
slowly, Uther untied the panicking horses and just managed to jump on beside
Cal as the pair turned and fled, dragging the chariot behind them.
They arrived back to find Samel sitting alone on the tree trunk, grinning.
'Look at the pair of you now, bred to the chariot you are, the way you
handled it coming back here. Now go gather your gear, we're leaving just as
soon as you two are ready.'
The clouds parted late in the morning and the sun made its first real
appearance in days. Even Cal cheered up. The rest of the day went by in quiet
contemplation with thoughts left pondering the coming battle as the great
column of men, horses and chariots filed out of the camp and headed north. By
late afternoon, they had their first sight of Mount Badon. From a distance, the
peak appeared like a giant anthill as people worked feverishly on fortifications
and the construction of a triangular fort, the bare bones of which were
silhouetted against the pale pink sky of the setting sun.
They rode in and were directed to an area on the southern slope, close to the
shelter that had already been erected for Ambrosius. Samel and his men
immediately began to unload the poles they had dragged from their previous
camp and started to assemble their own large shelter. Cal and Uther joined in.
Darkness came early as clouds brought back the rain, but the shelter was
complete and the sounds in the camp changed from the shouting and cursing of
construction, to the softer noises of warriors settling in for the night. Three
young children brought bowls of greasy porridge laced with boar and some kind
of root vegetable and Uther sat staring absently into the dancing flames of the
fire, struggling to keep sleep at bay even while he ate. It had been a long
exhausting day. Combined with the rising tension as thoughts turned to the
coming battle, he was ready to rest. Lying down in their warm furs, it wasn't long
before both he and Cal were asleep.
It was a strange experience to fall asleep as a weary boy and then awake just
a moment later as a well-rested wolf, but Cal was getting used to it and took only
a few moments of peering round, sniffing the air to clear his thoughts. He raised
his head from between his paws and gazed about absently. Several of the other
wolves were close, still sleeping, lying in the mouth of the cave with the cold
rays of the half-moon painting them in its silvery light. Getting up, he shook
himself, and then bowed down, stretching his forelegs before standing and
shaking out each back leg in turn. A breeze ruffled his fur as he stared down into
the near darkness of the forest below and sniffed at the cool evening air.
Thirsty, he trotted down to the small spring at the edge of the forest and
lapped happily at the sweet water. When his thirst had been sated, he continued
looking, watching as the ripples on the water settled to a smooth mirror-finish,
allowing him to stare, transfixed at his reflection in the moonlit surface as a
silver wolf gazed back at him. Moving his head from side to side, he marvelled
at the face that copied him, and then with a jolt of shock, realised the acrid smell
encroaching upon his senses was smoke.
Raising his head, he sniffed at the breeze, trying not to give in to the feeling
of panic that tugged at him, smoke and people. He tensed; his worst fears
realised, and glanced around. Before he could decide upon a course of action, a
high-pitched yelp came from the rocks above him, followed by the angry
snarling and barking of dogs and wolves, the exchange ended abruptly after a
series of terrified squealing yelps. Cal ran back up the path, his human
consciousness at last urging caution as he neared the top.
The hunters had found them. They must have approached from down-wind
so the wolves wouldn't smell them. Crawling through a clump of bushes, he
stared out at two wolves lying dead on the path, their eyes staring sightlessly
past him. Cal's world spun and he fought the urge to vomit. He looked up as a
Saxon warrior approached and tried to pull his spear free from the closest wolf.
With his foot placed on its lifeless chest, the warrior heaved on the shaft and
cursed when it didn't immediately come free. Next to him, a large black dog was
savaging the dead wolf at the throat, growling and shaking it from side to side.
At last, the warrior's spear broke past the wolf's ribcage, making a wet sucking
sound that made the warrior laugh. With a parting kick to the lifeless carcass, he
cleaned the spear on its fur and moved away with the dog following, tail
wagging. Cal crept after them.
Closer to the caves, three other wolves were trapped, snarling and struggling
under a heavy rope net. Cal stifled a whine, and then offered thanks to the spirits
that it was only three and that the others must have gotten away. He could smell
the wolves' fear, but there was nothing he could do for his three trapped pack
mates so he turned away, intending to get into the forest and find the remaining
members of the pack. But instead, another wave of panic hit him as he faced
Horsa climbing up towards him with a spear in one hand and a burning branch in
the other that he was sweeping from side to side.
Horsa saw him and screamed. 'Wolf!' then took a mighty leap and stabbed
his spear down in a vicious arc.
Baring his teeth in a snarl, Cal sprang to the side, dodging the spear-tip as he
tried to get past and down into the forest. Horsa corrected his thrust and quickly
stabbed again, narrowly missing Cal, who spun just in time. A bush blocked his
way and Cal had to turn to the side giving Horsa the opportunity to strike again.
The metal head of the spear caught him, grazing his back leg as it passed making
him yelp.
'Yaaahhh!' Horsa screamed, and thrust the burning branch into Cal's face,
singeing his fur in a noxious cloud of smoke, but fear only gave him more
energy and he managed to push past. Another series of high-pitched yelps from
higher up the hill signalled the end of the wolves in the net, and Cal dashed on,
panic now overwhelming him. Turning at the last moment, he narrowly avoided
another Saxon waving flames, and then a blue-faced Pict loomed up from behind
a bush and loosed an arrow. The arrow missed, but Cal realised he was fast
running out of options; they were boxing him in. Another wolf ran past; ignoring
him in its frantic bid for freedom, providing a distraction that Cal took advantage
of. With a mighty leap, he soared over the head of the Pict, and landed below the
killing ground. A rush of relief ran through him as he sped for the tree line, but
then a shock of confusion ran through him as his back legs collapsed beneath
him and his energy seemed to melt away. He rolled to a stop, barely conscious,
stunned to find himself down and unable to move.
A blinding wave of pain finally caught up and flared through him and for
some moments, his vision became lost within a blistering white light. Gradually,
it receded into a calm release as he exhaled his last breath and gazed in despair at
the moonlit trees. The smell of damp grass was rich in his nostrils and he could
feel his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth, he suddenly felt thirsty
again. With his vision slowly dissolving into a red mist, he watched absently as
Horsa bent down to stroke his fur.
He was floating above the body of a poor dead wolf… and then… he wasn't.
* * *
'Well, if he died, how come he's sitting there blocking the heat from the fire?'
The farmer laughed and his wife joined him with a shrill cackle. Several others
stood up to leave and there was a muttering about proper stories and how the
storyteller had ruined what could have been a nice tale; they were meant to have
happy endings. It wasn't right, especially for the children.
Calvador Craen shot to his feet and rounded on the noisemakers. His hand
shot out towards the door that someone had already unbolted, and it banged shut,
each bolt slamming home with a crack that reverberated around the room.
'Silence!' His eyes flashed yellow in the firelight as people hastily found their
seats again. 'Open your minds and cease your foolish prattle… peasants, lest I
show you how much of the wolf remains.' He bared his teeth and a low animal
growl filled the room. Seeing everyone was returning to their seats, he took a
deep breath and forced himself to relax. 'Continue, Uther. Tell these fools about
my death, but do not ask them to pity, nor mourn me, reality is something larger
than their small minds could ever hope to grasp.'