Extract from Mother of Wolves
Mother of Wolves goes free on Amazon 29th - 31st January. Here is an extract to whet your appetite. If you like it, why not pop over to Amazon and download a free copy from http://www.amazon.com/Mother-of-Wolves-ebook/dp/B0082BT6G8 and http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mother-of-Wolves-ebook/dp/B0082BT6G8
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A day later Lupa walked up the old road to the crossroads. The ancient signpost survived even though the travellers no longer had need of it, not since the new road had opened. The former gallows which had also stood at the spot had been torn down, nevertheless the place still had a sinister air. Lupa shivered in the bright summer sunshine as she strode towards the cross. The damned were said to be buried there and she could believe it. But she shivered more at what she might find, holding herself so tight inside that she shook. She forced herself on.
She found nothing. There was nothing to be seen. Just the grass and the sign with its white hands pointing – “Five miles to Newharbour, eighty miles to…” The sign was broken here. She sat with her back to the post and breathed deeply. In the midday sun the scent of the heather was almost overpowering. Her head swam. She did not know what to think. She had so expected the worst. What was she to do now? Walk the five miles to Newharbour, a destination of last resort? Go back to the safety of the cave? Without an answer, that would be torture. Perhaps she had indeed been foolish: the meeting a success and Toro was now on his way home, expecting to find his wife waiting for him. What would he think of her? Her mind went blank and she closed her eyes.
She opened them once more and very deliberately looked around. There was nothing there, nothing. But that was of itself wrong. If there had been a meeting, there should have been some marks in the grass. She scanned the ground closely now, walking bent double, dropping at times to her knees to examine the turf, looking for crushed leaves or the imprint of a boot. She stood upright again. Her father had taught her how to detect the slightest sign of man or beast. Thirteen men with a horse-drawn wagon could not have been here. Something had happened, but not here.
The old signpost had a third finger, which pointed up into the hills. The heath rose steadily, a haze of purple heather, and through it the road Toro and his men should have taken. Lupa walked briskly up the track. Rabbits scattered from her path into their warrens under the twisted gorse bushes, linnets sang on the branches above, large bees bumbled drunkenly in the flowers, all around were the contented sounds of high summer. She walked steadily for three hours, always climbing, towards the High Tor, a dark grey shape against the intense blue sky.
She emptied her mind, as her father had taught her, so she would not miss the signs when they came. She walked, like an animal, with senses heightened. Her ears pricked to the cries of ravens, her nose caught the stench of carrion on the breeze and she followed the sound and scent up the hill. Still she kept her mind empty: an angry mind and a heart full of sorrow were no good to her now. They would come soon enough, now she must be the hunter and read the trail of death.
It was the horse she came to first. Still between the shafts, it lay in a small quarry, the typical tribal cart smashed by the fall. The wheel marks told the tale of an animal spooked and dashing away from danger to its death.
A little further on the body of a man lay head down, half on the track and half in the bushes. He wore the bright clothes of the tribe. She waved the flies away from the corpse, and they rose in an angry buzzing crowd to reveal a bloody hole in his back. He had been shot as he fled. He had not even drawn his knife. She walked on, mind and heart empty.
[image error]
A day later Lupa walked up the old road to the crossroads. The ancient signpost survived even though the travellers no longer had need of it, not since the new road had opened. The former gallows which had also stood at the spot had been torn down, nevertheless the place still had a sinister air. Lupa shivered in the bright summer sunshine as she strode towards the cross. The damned were said to be buried there and she could believe it. But she shivered more at what she might find, holding herself so tight inside that she shook. She forced herself on.
She found nothing. There was nothing to be seen. Just the grass and the sign with its white hands pointing – “Five miles to Newharbour, eighty miles to…” The sign was broken here. She sat with her back to the post and breathed deeply. In the midday sun the scent of the heather was almost overpowering. Her head swam. She did not know what to think. She had so expected the worst. What was she to do now? Walk the five miles to Newharbour, a destination of last resort? Go back to the safety of the cave? Without an answer, that would be torture. Perhaps she had indeed been foolish: the meeting a success and Toro was now on his way home, expecting to find his wife waiting for him. What would he think of her? Her mind went blank and she closed her eyes.
She opened them once more and very deliberately looked around. There was nothing there, nothing. But that was of itself wrong. If there had been a meeting, there should have been some marks in the grass. She scanned the ground closely now, walking bent double, dropping at times to her knees to examine the turf, looking for crushed leaves or the imprint of a boot. She stood upright again. Her father had taught her how to detect the slightest sign of man or beast. Thirteen men with a horse-drawn wagon could not have been here. Something had happened, but not here.
The old signpost had a third finger, which pointed up into the hills. The heath rose steadily, a haze of purple heather, and through it the road Toro and his men should have taken. Lupa walked briskly up the track. Rabbits scattered from her path into their warrens under the twisted gorse bushes, linnets sang on the branches above, large bees bumbled drunkenly in the flowers, all around were the contented sounds of high summer. She walked steadily for three hours, always climbing, towards the High Tor, a dark grey shape against the intense blue sky.
She emptied her mind, as her father had taught her, so she would not miss the signs when they came. She walked, like an animal, with senses heightened. Her ears pricked to the cries of ravens, her nose caught the stench of carrion on the breeze and she followed the sound and scent up the hill. Still she kept her mind empty: an angry mind and a heart full of sorrow were no good to her now. They would come soon enough, now she must be the hunter and read the trail of death.
It was the horse she came to first. Still between the shafts, it lay in a small quarry, the typical tribal cart smashed by the fall. The wheel marks told the tale of an animal spooked and dashing away from danger to its death.
A little further on the body of a man lay head down, half on the track and half in the bushes. He wore the bright clothes of the tribe. She waved the flies away from the corpse, and they rose in an angry buzzing crowd to reveal a bloody hole in his back. He had been shot as he fled. He had not even drawn his knife. She walked on, mind and heart empty.
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