Cathal looked to the treeline once again. The wolves were gone. He could see the faint glow of twilight from the horizon, as the sun dared to shed light on the blasphemies of man.
“It is done,” said Domyan. He then turned and addressed his workers. “Go back to camp and get a few hours rest. We still have a full day's work ahead of us.”
Domyan led the way, with his men following in single file behind him. They walked in silence. As the morning light washed over the land, birds started to sing and chirp, giving a stark contrast to the night's horrific events.
The woodcutters entered the logging camp and trudged to their sleeping quarters without a word, ignoring the blood-stained ground. Cathal stumbled up the three steps to the cabin, exhausted from the chaotic events of the day. He fell upon his cot and stared at the crossbeams on the ceiling. Exhausted as he was, it took him nearly a full hour to fall asleep, as he contemplated the treachery of dark gods.
* * * * * * *
In his dream, he was walking down a twisted path through the dark wood of the forest. Looming shadows surrounded him, shifting and stretching. Overhead, the sun quickly arced over the sky, then descended and gave way to the moon. A minute later, night passed into day. The cycle of day and night quickly repeated – every minute, another day, another night. During each cycle of night, the moon became fatter, more ominous.
Finally, the full moon shown directly overhead and stopped. The moon-struck shadows froze in place as hundreds of hungry, amber eyes peered at him from a distance.
In a panic, Cathal stepped off the path and ran towards a light that was shining just beyond the horizon. As he ran, shadows from the trees contorted around him, somehow slowing his progress. The harder he pushed forward, the stronger the shadows became. The shadows were like quicksand, pulling him back from the light. Despite it all, he continued onward, towards the horizon.
And then he saw it – a raging inferno, reaching up to the heavens. Inside the inferno were dozens of screaming men, reaching out to him; pleading for mercy. He stood before the inferno, feeling the heat blast his skin, listening to the cries of damned men.
A hand softly touched his shoulder. With trepidation, he turned around and looked up. It was the psoglav – that demonic creature with the head of a wolf and legs of a horse. It towered over him, smelling of rotted, diseased flesh. The creature bared its lips, revealing jagged iron teeth. It then spoke in an spectral voice, “One of us-”
* * * * * * *
“Get up,” grumbled the foreman, as he roughly kicked the cot.
Cathal opened his eyes to see Domyan glowering over him. He glanced at the other cots. The loggers were sitting up, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. How long had they been asleep? Not long, judging by the morning light washing into the rickety cabin.
“Get dressed and meet me outside,” said Domyan. “We're going into town to get more workers. Hurry up.” The foreman then turned around and marched outside.
Cathal sat there for a moment, rubbing his temples.
“Get going,” said a raspy voice. It was Mirko. “When the foreman says hurry up, you hurry up!”
Nodding his head, Cathal slowly stood up and stretched his lower back. He was too tired to argue. He put on his clothes, noticing the stares from the Slavic men in the cabin. Why did Domyan choose him to go to town? He then looked down at his hands. They were still blistered and raw.
“Get going, Irishman,” repeated Mirko.
“Yeah,” sniffed Cathal, clearing his throat. As he walked outside, he squinted his eyes against the morning sun. Judging by its position in the sky, he only had a couple hours of sleep.
“What a night, eh?” said Domyan. He seemed to be in unusually good spirits, despite what had just transpired. Motioning for Cathal to follow him, the foreman continued, “In the last few months, I've lost a total of five woodcutters. I complained to the chieftain, of course. He just brushed it off, barely compensating me for my losses. The chieftain never said as much, but it was obvious that since the workers weren't of Norse descent, they were expendable. But last night – seven more dead! That brings the total to an even dozen dead men. Not even the chieftain can ignore that.”
“Is it the chieftain's responsibility to supply you with workers?” asked Cathal.
Domyan shot him a caustic glance. “It is the chieftain's responsibility to make sure the woodcutters have safe working conditions. When he doesn't live up to that responsibility, he must compensate me, either by coin or by replacement workers.”
Cathal considered the foreman's words. It seemed strange to him that the Norsemen would allow foreigners to take over certain industries in Birka. But the economics and politics of the town were beyond his concerns. He was here for an entirely different reason. Besides, there were more pressing matters at hand. He turned to the foreman and said, “There seems to be something other than wolves in these woods.”
The foreman grunted and said, “So it seems.”
“Any ideas on what that might be?”
With an arched eyebrow, Domyan replied, “I have more than a few ideas on what that thing might be. The Slavic workers say it's a psoglav, a wolf-headed creature steeped in Germanic lore. But if you talk to the Turkish workers, they say the creature is an erbörü, a monster that is half man, half wolf. Of course, the Norsemen have their own tales of werewolves. Interesting, is it not? Three distinct cultures in different parts of the world that have similar myths. Tell me, Irishman, do your people also have legends of werewolves?
Cathal nodded his head. “Over five-hundred years ago, there was a Christian bishop by the name of Saint Patrick. He tried to convert the people of Ireland to Christianity. Some of those people held onto their old beliefs, so Saint Patrick put a curse upon them, turning them into werewolves. There's also an Irish legend of a mercenary group who could change into wolves. They did not fight for money, but for the flesh of newborn children. Even so, it was a price the kings of Ireland willingly paid to repel invaders.”
Domyan remained silent for a time, and considered Cathal's words. Finally, he said, “Do you see? There is a connection between wolf and man, no matter the culture.”
“The chronicle of werewolves goes back even further than you might imagine,” continued Cathal. “Even Greek and Roman historians have mentioned it in their texts. The first instance I discovered was from over two-thousand years ago, when King Lycaon of Arcadia killed his own son and offered the remains to Zeus. Zeus was so outraged, he transformed King Lycaon into a wolf.”
“Zeus?”
“He's the most powerful of the Greek gods.”
The foreman started to laugh. “Ha! You're a doctor, a historian, and a fine woodcutter!” He then grew more serious. “You seem to know a lot about history, for a doctor.”
“I can read and write in Latin. It's simply a hobby of mine.”
“Latin, eh?” Domyan grumbled. “I never had any use for the written word. Bunch of nonsense.”
Cathal remained silent. His conversations with brutish men usually devolved in such fashion. No matter. They were now walking through the northern part of Birka, towards the chieftain's longhouse. All manner of people – Norse, Slavs, Turks, Franks and English, bustled among the dusty dirt road. He could see shops and markets selling all types of goods. Some of the booths offered smoked meats and fish, while others offered jewelry and trinkets. He made a mental note of one booth that sold herbs and tinctures.
“The chieftain's longhouse is up ahead,” said Domyan. “Stay quiet and do what I tell you. The chieftain is the stingiest man I have ever met. If we're to get new workers, we need to impress upon him how dire our situation is.”
Cathal crinkled his brow. What was the foreman up to? He still didn't know why the foreman selected him for this little expedition. As they approached the longhouse, he could see a guardsman standing in front of the door.
“What is your business?” asked the guardsman, his bored eyes casually sizing up the foreman.
�
�What do you think?” barked Domyan, pointing his finger in the guard's face. “Tell the chieftain I need a word with him.”
The guardsman sneered contemptuously, then cracked open the door and yelled inside, “Torsten, the foreman of the logging camp wants a word.”
After a moment, a voice from inside the longhouse said, “Why am I not surprised? Send him in.”
Swinging the door wide open, the guardsman jerked his head to the side, motioning for them to enter. Once the two men were inside, the guardsman slammed the door shut behind them. Cathal was surprised to find the chieftain sitting at a table, playing a board game with a little girl. His daughter, perhaps?
“Give me a moment,” said Torsten, his eyes intently studying the board. “You wouldn't know it to look at her, but young Ulla here is the best Hnefatafl player in Birka! Have you ever played?”
“I'm afraid not,” said Domyan with thinly-veiled indifference.
Torsten kept his eyes on the game. “It's rather simple, once you understand the rules. The board is an eleven-by-eleven grid. One player attacks with white stones, while the other player defends with his black stones. The defending player must protect his king by moving it to a corner grid, or lose the game.”
“I don't have time for such things,” replied Domyan in a listless tone.
“Ha! And yet you have time to come here and bother me with your nonsense. I swear, if you want workers, go out and find them! How is this my problem?”
“It's your problem because the only workers available right now are Norsemen, and they refuse to work for me!”
“Rightly so. It's dangerous in those woods,” snorted Torsten.
The young girl laughed and clapped her hands.
Domyan gave the girl a deadpan stare, then continued, “Look at this man's hands.” He gestured for Cathal to hold up his hands. “All of my woodcutters are working their fingers to the bone just to fill orders for your longboats. Now that half of my workforce is gone, we won't be able to fill those orders.”
Ah, so that's why the foreman brought me along, thought Cathal.
With an exasperated sigh, Torsten pushed away from the table and stood up. He was a tall, barrel-chested man with long red hair and a braided beard. He marched towards Domyan and stood before him, crossing his arms on his chest and tilting his head to the side. His gray eyes had a slightly menacing bearing.
The foreman stood his ground and offered the chieftain a half-smirk. Domyan was as tall as the chieftain, but his body was starkly different. He was lean, almost gaunt, with muscular shoulders and a cruel, scar-ridden face framed by straight black, shoulder-length hair.
After a tense moment, Torsten finally said, “I suppose I could spare a few slaves. It will cost you two silver a day, per slave.”
“Two silver? For a slave? I pay my workers one silver a day. How am I expected to turn a profit? I'll give you one silver a day per worker, and you'll take the deal, if you want enough lumber for your longships and cabins.”
Torsten stood there and scratched his beard. He started to grumble under his breath, then a glint came to his eye and a mischievous smile spread across his face. “Alright, then. I suppose I can spare three workers for that price. You'll find them in the slave's quarters. Their names are Greger, Gottfrid, and Gustav. The guardsman at the front door will show you the way. Anything else?”
Raising one eyebrow, Domyan said, “Only three workers? I lost seven last night.”
“Seven? The guardsmen told me you lost three.”
“Three workers were killed, and four more were badly injured. You know they're as good as dead. The frothing disease will take them soon enough.”
Cathal shot a glance at the foreman. Domyan didn't mention the ritual by the shore last night. Interesting. He sighed inwardly and looked at his blistered hands.
“Well, three is all I can spare. Be grateful I'm giving you any workers at all. This meeting is finished!” The chieftain turned and walked back to the table where his daughter was patiently waiting.
“Your turn!” said the young girl enthusiastically.
Domyan scowled and stomped out the door, with Cathal following close behind him. Once outside, the foreman exchanged a few words with the guardsman, then turned to Cathal and said, “I need to round up the slaves and conclude some other matters here. Go back to camp and start working.” He then turned and followed the guardsman to the slave quarters.
Cathal watched as the two men marched off. He then turned and walked towards the market. He needed some supplies, and there was also the matter of repaying the old fisherman for the cod he lost at the docks yesterday.
Was that only yesterday? He let out a heavy sigh. Seven men had died since then. Nine, including the two guardsmen. He was witness to a brutal ritual, and he learned that his foreman was fervently devoted to one of the dark Slavic gods. There was a strong likelihood that the wolves would attack again, and something unexplained was walking amongst those frightful beasts.
Yet he continued to stay. He shook his head in exasperation. He would need to send word back to the council. Matters in Birka were far more dire than the elders had suspected.
Chapter 6
The sun seared overhead as strong winds blew dust and debris down the busy dirt road. Cathal stood before one of the booths that lined the market and perused the selection of herbs and tinctures. The old Norse woman working behind the booth kept a sharp eye on him; it was clear she didn't trust foreigners.
Cathal was pleased to find myrrh and comfrey leaves, as well as a variety of other herbs for sale. None of the herbs were labeled, but he was easily able to identify most of the dried extracts. His eyes then fell upon the herb he was searching for. He pointed at the small jar and asked, “Wolfsbane?”
The old woman nodded and said, “Hunting wolves, are we?”
“Yes. Something like that,” he replied with a grim smile. Wolfsbane was used to coat arrowheads and animal traps to poison wolves and bears. Even whalers used the poison to tip their spears.
He pointed to the myrrh, comfrey, calendula and wolfsbane, and the woman put a portion of each herb into separate small pouches. After paying the woman, he walked to a booth selling fish and other meats. He was pleased to see a cod even larger than the one he had lost yesterday.
Luckily, he had just enough money to purchase the fish. He held the giant cod in both hands and walked towards the docks. The slimy skin of the fish burned the broken blisters on his hands. At least he wasn't in danger of it jumping into the ocean, he grumbled. Cathal squinted as the howling wind blew dust and dirt into his eyes. He didn't see the old fisherman anywhere.
After asking several Norsemen, Cathal realized that after two meetings with the man, he didn't know the old fisherman's name. He finally found a dockworker who recognized his description. The man pointed towards the tavern.
“He's at lunch,” said the tall Norseman, as he lumbered past.
Cathal let out a heavy sigh and trudged back towards town. A few minutes later, he found himself in the tavern, looking over the smoky din of laborers and fishermen. He soon found a familiar face hunched over a tall cup of mead. He then walked towards the fisherman and threw the giant fish down on the table with a smug look on his face.
The old fisherman leaned forward with surprise and said, “Ah, that's a good one!”
“Glad you like it. The man who sold it to me said it was the finest cod in the ocean.”
“Ha! To the merchants in town, every fish is the finest in the ocean!” He motioned for Cathal to take a seat.
As he pulled up a chair and sat down, Cathal said, “I must apologize. This is the third time we've met, and I still don't know your name.”
“Mats. My friends call me Old Mats.” He grabbed his smoking pipe that was cinched in his belt and lit it with the candle that was sitting on the table. The candle fluttered and sputtered as he drew air. He then blew out a large plume of gray smoke.
“My name is Cathal,” he said, watching as the smok
e slowly dissipated into the air. “I must say, I don't see too many Norsemen smoking.”
With a half-smile, Mats nodded. He thoughtfully puffed on his pipe and said, “It's a habit I picked up from the Turks. I taught them how to play dice, and they taught me how to smoke.” The old man then leaded in with a grave look on his face. “That was some nasty business up in the woods last night.”
“You heard about that?”
“Of course. A death in one of the camps always gets the tongues wagging, but five dead in one night? It's unheard of! By far the worst attack yet.” He then shook his head and looked down his nose at his pipe. “Nasty, nasty business.”
“The Slavs think the Norsemen are behind the attacks,” said Cathal. “They say the wolves only attack the foreigners.”
Old Mat's eyes widened in surprise. “What now? That simply isn't true! The chieftain lost two guardsmen last night protecting the woodcutters.”
“Yes, but the way the Slavs tell it, the guardsmen had to intervene. Otherwise there would be a rebellion in the camps. Industry comes first, welfare of the migrants come second, they say.”
With a snort, Old Mats shook his head. “Nonsense. Those men in the camps are encroaching on the wolves' territory. The Norsemen could see what was happening, and so they got jobs working close to Birka, leaving the more dangerous jobs for the foreigners. The only thing the Norsemen are guilty of is taking care of their own; giving preferable jobs to their own kinsmen.”
Cathal paused for a moment, scratching his short-cropped beard. “That's what I figured. There's something odd going on in that logging camp, and I can't quite put my finger on it.”
“How so?”
The Irishman crinkled his brow and considered for a moment. Finally, he said, “The foreman and his sister are two of the strangest people I've ever met. If I didn't see the creature while in their company, I'd swear one of them was the werewolf.”
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