Shadow of the Werewolf

by Magnus Hansen

  Shadow

  of the

  Werewolf

  Magnus Hansen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Magnus Hansen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design purchased from: depositphotos.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  After/words

  The V for Viking Saga

  Chapter 1

  Birka - a town on the east coast of Sweden, 950AD

  “We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far.”

  -H.P. Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu

  “You arrived at a bad time, my friend.”

  Cathal steadied himself on the swaying docks, as rough waves crashed against the rotted pilings. “How so?” he asked.

  The old fisherman exhaled loudly, then said, “People are afraid, so they aren't hiring. The only job you're going to find around here is chopping wood at the lumber camp.” He set down the bucket of fish he was carrying and rubbed his calloused hands.

  “What about the other industries?”

  Squinting his eyes, the old Norseman cocked his head to the side, sizing up the new arrival. “You are new around here. Haven't even heard the rumors yet, I take it?”

  Shaking his head, Cathal said, “No. Can't say that I have.”

  Letting out a grunt as he bent down to retrieve his bucket, the fisherman said, “Follow me to the market, and I'll let you in on a bit of local gossip.”

  Cathal continued to stroll down the creaking dock, beside the old man. He was hoping to get a job at the infirmary, but he was willing to accept any type of employment, if the money was right.

  “The town of Birka is in a bit of a mess these days,” said the fisherman.

  Cathal found the long, confident stride of the Norseman difficult to keep up with. “Why is that?” he asked.

  “It's the damn foreigners. No offense, mind you. Too many migrants have been coming to our shores. So many, they outnumber the Norsemen. There's Slavs and Goths and Turks-”

  “I'm surprised the Turks would come this far north,” interrupted Cathal.

  The old fisherman gave the new arrival a sideways glance as he switched the heavy bucket to his other hand. “The Turks go wherever there's money to be made, but I suppose that could be said of all the men here. The Turks have taken over the reindeer herding camps. The Slavs have taken over the lumber camps. The Norsemen still hold onto the mining and fishing industries. It's the herding and lumber operations where men are being murdered, so the Norsemen don't mind too much.”

  “What? Are there any suspects?”

  Instead of answering, the fisherman stopped in front of one of the bustling market shops alongside the shore and started to barter with the shopkeeper. After a few moments on intense arguing, the Norseman received three silver coins for the bucket of fish. He nodded as he placed the coins into an old leather pouch tied to his belt. “What were we talking about?” he finally asked.

  With an incredulous look, Cathal said, “The murders...”

  “Ah, right. The murders. Follow me to the tavern and I'll tell you all about it. The first round is on me,” he said, tapping his coin pouch with his fingers.

  Cathal let out a heavy sigh. What choice did he have? He just arrived in Birka. He had no connections, and his own coin pouch was nearly empty. Quiet and sullen, he once again fell instep with the Norseman, as they ambled over the rutted, muddy road. A few minutes later they found themselves seated in a smoky tavern filled with dangerous looking men.

  The old fisherman leaned forward in his chair and said, “About a year ago, wolves started to attack the loggers and reindeer herders to the north. In the beginning, there were only one or two attacks per month, but recently, the attacks have become more frequent, more deadly. The Turks and Slavs are blaming the Norsemen, saying the wolves are being unnaturally aggressive, as if they were trained to kill. It's true the Norsemen want the migrants out. Another foreigner murdered in the woods is a cause for celebration, as far as they're concerned. But the foreigners are too firmly entrenched. If they leave now, the entire economy of Birka would collapse.”

  “Trained wolves?” asked Cathal, crinkling his brow.

  The fisherman grunted and rapped his knuckles on the table. “It's nonsense, of course. Both the Turks and the Slavs are superstitious fools. They'd accuse their own mothers if it meant another silver coin in their pockets. No, the reindeer herders and woodcutters simply have the misfortune of encroaching on the territory of a large wolf pack. Birka is situated on a small island on the eastern edge of the mainland. The wolves have nowhere else to go; they're simply defending their territory.”

  A large serving girl with troubled eyes clopped over to the table and set two cups of mead in front of them. The fisherman pushed a coin in her direction and waved her off. He then took a smoking pipe that was wedged in his belt and held it up to the light. Seemingly satisfied, he stuck one end of the pipe in his mouth, grabbed a candle that was laying on the table, and lit the pipe. He coughed a few times as he drew smoke, then spat a glob of phlegm on the floor.

  Cathal quietly observed the man as he sipped his cup of mead. “About that job...”

  “Right! Well, you won't be able to find work as a fisherman, I can tell you that. If you're not a Norseman like me, no one will hire you. Same goes for working in the copper mines. The only place you'll be able to find employment is at the logging camp.”

  “I can chop wood.”

  The Norseman almost choked on his pipe. “Hmm, yes. Glad to hear it.” He then brought up his cup and took a sip of mead. His eyes were intently studying Cathal. “There's a reason why they need new workers. Lately, one or two woodcutters have died every week in the forest, and the ones who survive the attacks get the frothing disease.”

  “Frothing disease?”

  “Aye. The infirmary is full of the poor wretches. The wolves carry some kind of disease that, once a man is bitten, brings about a fever. After a couple of days, the victims start vomiting and frothing at the mouth. A few days after that, they're dead.”

  “I have heard of this disease,” said Cathal, shaking his head. “There's no cure for it.”

  “Aye.”

  During the break in conversation, Cathal took the opportunity to study the men in the tavern. It was easy to distinguish the Norsemen – they were tall and robust, of fair hair and full beard. The Slavs were of a darker complexion – black hair and angular faces. The Turks were the most curious – they had dark eyes, close-cropped beards and olive skin. All those men had endured harsh, brutal lives. Numerous scars covered their exposed skin. No matter the race, their demeanor seemed to match their rough countenance.

  Through the crowded room, Cathal continued to study the faces of those beastly men. They seemed deeply troubled; their conversations muted. They cast furtive glances amongst
themselves. It was then that his eyes settled upon a Slavic man who was looking intently at him. Startled, Cathal looked down at his drink.

  “Tomorrow you get a job, yes?” asked the fisherman, as he slapped his heavy, calloused hand on Cathal's shoulder.

  Pursing his lips, Cathal said, “You sure I can't get a job fishing? Or working on the docks?”

  “I'm afraid not. In this town, Norsemen only hire Norsemen. If I were you, I'd resign myself to getting a job at the logging camp. Its run by the Slavs, but at least they're more trustworthy than the Turks. Though you're still going to need to watch your back – if the wolves don't get you, those Slavic criminals will. They're little better than common vagabonds.”

  “I have some experience with medicine. Perhaps the infirmary could use a new doctor?”

  The fisherman shook his head. “The infirmary is run by a völva. Unless you've pledged your allegiance to the Norse gods, you won't find any work there. Besides, medicine is for women.”

  “Harrumph!” grumbled Cathal, looking at the bottom of his empty cup.

  * * * * * * *

  Cathal woke to the stinging kick of a leather boot. He had spent the night at the workman's camp – a temporary shelter used to house migrant workers. He could hear men grumble and complain in a mixture of foreign languages, as they put on their clothes and prepared themselves for another day of hard labor.

  After pulling on his boots, Cathal walked over to the campfire and asked a passerby where the logging camp was located. The man, a Slav by the look of him, raised his arm and pointed to the north. “About a half mile up the trail,” he said with a lazy yawn, before continuing on his way.

  Looking around, Cathal wondered where the workers acquired their rations. Was food provided, or was it their responsibility to provide for themselves? In his travels, he noticed that each culture had different notions about such matters. He unconsciously pinched the coin pouch that was tied to his belt...only a few coins left; enough for a few days of sustenance, and little else.

  “Heading up to the logging camp?” asked a voice from behind him.

  Cathal swung his head around, and was surprised to find a slender Irishman and a very large wolfhound. “Yes. It's to the north, right?”

  “Aye, follow us. The man who runs the logging camp doesn't take kindly to slackers. I hope you're ready for a hard day's work.”

  “Hard work never bothered me,” remarked Cathal, falling into step beside the man. The wolfhound happily followed them. “That's some animal you've got there.”

  “Old Biter is the only reason I got a job at the lumber camp. The Slavs like to hire their own, but the wolves have been killing off workers faster than they can refill the positions. Once they saw the size of Biter, they hired me on the spot.”

  “That's an interesting name for a dog.”

  “Ha! I suppose it is. Her real name is Amber, and she's a real sweetheart. But around these types of people, you need to act tough. My name is Faolan, by the way.”

  “Cathal. Nice to meet you.”

  They walked up a leaf-covered dirt trail. Overhead, the morning sun began to peek behind the branches of towering oak trees, which cast looming shadows on the path before them. Cathal could smell freshly cut timber.

  “I think there's a position available, but don't be surprised if they place you on the northern perimeter, close to where the wolf attacks have been taking place.”

  “Have the attacks really been that bad?” asked Cathal.

  To this, Faolan snorted so hard, that a string of snot shot out of his crooked nose and landed on his unkempt beard. “Worse!” he said, absently dabbing at his beard with the cuff of his sleeve. “They're intelligent bastards. Sometimes I'll catch a glimpse of them far off in the treeline, then a moment later they're gone. Last week I saw a pack of a half-dozen wolves chasing a man to the edge of the river. The man jumped into the water and swam to the far shore, only to be ambushed by a dozen wolves on the other side!”

  Cathal's eyes grew wide. “That's unbelievable.”

  “Believe it. You'll probably be getting that man's old job.”

  Try as he might, it was difficult for Cathal to not feel a little apprehensive.

  “Ah, don't worry about it.” Faolan slapped him on the back. “Just stick with me and old Biter, and you'll be safe enough. There's one thing you should know before you meet the foreman. Everyone in Birka is borderline racist, and the murders aren't helping matters. The Slavs are actually accusing the Norsemen of the attacks, saying the wolves are trained to hunt and kill foreigners.”

  “I've heard. Why would they say that?”

  “Once you see those wolves in action, you'll understand. They act with an unnatural intelligence. I've picked up a few words of their language since I've been working here, and from what I understand, the Slavs have seen a man walking amongst the wolves.”

  Cathal furrowed his brow and gave his companion a sidelong glance. “That's ridiculous.”

  Shaking his head, Faolan said, “Doesn't matter if it sounds ridiculous or not – they believe it.”

  As they came to a clearing in the woods, Cathal could see a group of men sitting around a low-burning campfire, warming themselves. Almost as one, they turned and looked at the new arrivals with dark, brooding eyes. When they saw that it was Faolan, his hound, and a rather plain-looking foreigner, they turned back around and continued to speak amongst themselves.

  “Who's in charge?” whispered Cathal.

  Faolan nodded towards a small wooden cabin, just beyond the campfire. “Domyan is the man who runs this camp. You'll want to speak to him or his sister, Danika.”

  As Faolan and his wolfhound sat by the fire, Cathal walked towards the cabin with tentative steps. If he couldn't get a job here as a woodcutter, he could try his hand at reindeer herding, but that idea didn't appeal to him. He would rather not be up to his knees in deer guts all day long.

  After knocking on the door, Cathal looked back over his shoulder, towards the group of men that were lounging around the campfire. Out of the dozen or so men that were quietly conversing, most were Slavs, a few were of Turkish descent, and Faolan. Biter walked around the campfire, accepting pets and greetings from the rough-looking men.

  The door creaked open and a tall, rather ominous looking Slavic man stepped out. He had straight black hair that framed his strong, angular face. Instead of a traditional beard, the man wore long sideburns that traveled halfway down his scarred jawline. He glanced at the men sitting by the campfire, then casually looked at Cathal with a raised eyebrow. Rubbing his chin, he cocked his head and said, “You look familiar... Ah, yes. I remember you from the tavern last night.”

  Cathal's eyes slightly widened. That was the man he had locked eyes with last night at the tavern!

  “I suppose you're here for a job,” said Domyan, as he cleared his throat and spat a giant glob of phlegm to the ground. “You only need two requirements to work here. One – you work hard. And two – you're not a Norseman. So, what say you? You're not a Norseman, are you?”

  “Irish. Pleased to meet you.” Cathal offered his hand in greeting.

  Domyan looked at the offered hand with a mixture of boredom and amusement. He then flashed a sinister smile and slapped Cathal on the shoulder, ignoring his hand. “Another Irishman, eh? You'll be working on the northern perimeter today. Faolan will show you the way.” He then scratched his lower back and yawned.

  The men around the campfire cast furtive glances at Domyan. Seeing their apprehension, the foreman picked up a large stone from the ground and threw it at the campfire, causing a huge plum of fire and sparks to shower over the laborers. “Well, daylight's burning,” yelled Domyan. “Get to work!”

  Scrambling to grab their axes, the workers quickly stepped towards their assigned areas of the lumber camp. The foreman watched the workers with narrowed eyes, looking for any sign of idleness. Then, with a bored grunt, he turned around, walked back into his cabin, and slammed the door shut.

/>   Cathal was left standing there, alone. A whistle from the northern woodline pulled him from his contemplations.

  “Grab an ax from the tool shed and follow me,” said Faolan. “And pray we don't see any wolves today.”

  Chapter 2

  “Have you ever worked as a woodcutter?” asked Faolan.

  The two men stood at the northern edge of the lumber camp, while Biter happily loped off in search of rabbits. The morning sun shown brightly overhead, casting a multitude of swaying shadows upon the forest floor. The faint sound of chopping could be heard in the distance.

  “I've chopped down trees,” replied Cathal.

  “That's not what I asked.” Faolan turned around and pointed at a group of trees to his left. “I'm sure you've noticed the birch trees around here. Birka is located on the island of Björkö, which literally means 'birch island'. Birch is a fine wood, but its real value lies in the bark. They make tar from the bark, which Norsemen use to seal their longships. The Norsemen also have a drink they make from birch sap – after it's fermented, the stuff has a real kick!”

  “I've had that drink more than once,” admitted Cathal.

  With a laugh, Faolan said, “Spoken like a true Irishman.” He then pointed to another cluster of trees. “Over there you can see a few spruce and pine trees. The wood on those trees is mostly used for furniture – outside exposure will cause the wood to rot, after a time.” He then pointed to one last group of trees. “And of course, we use the oak trees for everything else – building longships, cabins, ax-handles, just about anything you can think of. That's the type of tree we're mostly interested in, but I'll have you start with chopping down the smaller birch trees. After a few days, I'll show you how we take down the bigger oaks.”

  “I appreciate your help,” said Cathal, as he hefted his two-handed ax and began to chop away at one of the birch trees.