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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.

Chapter Eight
    Morcant’s Story
    The air reeks of bloodied men. They ride with the stench of corpses. The stink of smoke is in their hair, in their clothes, on their skin. Their horses are terrified and so is their dog, a war hound trained to yield to men. The female is beside me, readying her weapons with quick, practised movements. I watch her from the corner of my eye. She is straining to see what is ahead. I can’t see anything but I don’t need to, I can hear them. Four men – two on horseback, two on foot trailing a little way behind. I can taste them.
    There’s a small chance that they will pass us by – if we keep still – but it doesn’t seem likely. The river draws them here– as it drew me; its rushing waters can be heard for miles.
    Trista swallows hard when she sees them. I feel her whole body tense. She trembles and I don’t blame her. Two against two mounted men, two foot soldiers and a war dog are not good odds. Worse, the riders are both broad, grizzled men with the tough look of veterans. I’ve no doubt Trista knows what she is doing but she’s young and even with the mail shirt to lend her bulk, she seems slight for her height. Neither of the mounted men is wearing armour, though they have shields strapped across their backs. I note the glint of gemstones on the scabbard of the oldest man, the gleam of gold around his neck. My companion points to him and mouths ‘Chief’. This is her sworn enemy? I take a closer look. He may have a torque as thick as a snake around his throat but he has no helmet, no chin guard, no mail, nothing but a singed tunic and a fur-lined cloak to protect him. The silver fur is wolfskin; my stomach churns. The wolfskin jogs a memory: I’ve seen this man before. He’s the one who attacked Julius. It is thanks to him that I was left alone with Lucius. I’ve more reasons to hate him than the female knows. I glance at her. The muscles on her