After a few moments, Cathal stumbled and fell. Cursing his luck, he quickly regained his feet. That's when he saw it – a dark form emerging from the woods. It was hunched over and snarling, loping towards them with a malicious sneer on its face. The beast stared into his soul with hateful eyes.
Cathal felt a scream rise from his chest, but he heard no sound. He was screaming, but the world around him seemed silent and nearly still. It was as if he were in some kind of horrific nightmare, bound in place, awaiting his inevitable demise.
The beast was thirty feet away from him and closing fast, when an arrow streaked past Cathal's ear and thudded into the werewolf's chest. The creature reached up and ripped the arrow from its body and tossed it disdainfully to the ground. The beast roared hatefully at Cathal, then turned and tore off into the woods.
Cathal started to babble incoherently. The stress from being almost torn apart, in addition to seeing Greger ripped limb from limb, was too much for him. He rolled over and clutched at the earth, grabbing handfuls of dirt and leaves as he chanted Celtic litanies over and over.
With a disgusted scowl, Domyan shifted his leg back and kicked him in the side. “Get up,” he growled. When Cathal continued to chant and clutch at the earth, the foreman reached down and dragged him to his feet, shoving him forward. “Run, you coward!” he yelled.
Finally, Cathal regained enough of his faculties to stumble forward. He could see Gustav running ahead of him, with his bony knees raised comically high in the air. With the foreman pushing him forward, Cathal was finally able to break into a run. A few minutes later, they were back at the logging camp, doubled over and gasping from exhaustion.
Danika rushed out of her cabin with a fierce look in her eyes. “What happened?” she asked.
“What do you think? Another damned wolf attack,” spat Domyan. He notched another arrow in his bow and carefully watched the northern treeline.
Gustav was on his hands and knees, sobbing uncontrollably. “Greger is dead! My dear brother is dead!” he repeated over and over.
“Well, I doubt that will make much of a difference to our bottom line,” laughed Domyan.
Danika rushed to Gustav's side and tried her best to console the slave. She then shot her brother a scornful glance and said, “Stop acting like a goat's ass and do something!”
“What am I to do?” growled Domyan, as he continued to scan the woods.
As the siblings argued, Cathal glanced over towards the campfire, were several of the woodcutters were gathered. Most of the Slavs were nervously looking about, unsure of what to do; all save for one. Mirko returned Cathal's gaze with a roguish grin.
They recovered Greger's body a few hours later. Half his corpse was missing; the sharp edges of gnawed bones stuck out of his body at precarious angles. His right leg and arm were gone, as was half of his face. Greger's one remaining eyeball gazed blankly at the darkening sky above him.
After they buried the body, the loggers slowly walked back to camp. The two remaining Norse brothers stayed at the gravesite, mourning their loss. They quietly stood by the grave, solemnly bowing their heads and whispering prayers to their gods.
Once they were back at the campsite, most of the men started drinking right away. They sat around the fire, watching the flames and smoke reach silently towards the stars, as they ruefully passed a jug of mead amongst themselves.
“To hell with this,” said Cathal, as he stood up and marched towards the south.
“Where are you going?” asked Faolan, as he stood up and hurried after him.
“The chieftain needs to know about this. He needs to do something about this. I'm not just going to sit around while the wolves pick us off one by one. Domyan refuses to do anything about these attacks. Who else am I to turn to?”
“Don't be a fool,” pleaded Faolan. “The chieftain doesn't give a damn about us.”
“No, but he does care about his own kind. Slave or not, Greger lived in this town for decades, and with two of his guardsmen dead from the previous attacks, the chieftain will need to take action, unless he wants a riot on his hands.”
Faolan grabbed his arm. “Stop and listen to reason. The chieftain isn't going to listen to you. I doubt he'll even grant you an audience.”
Cathal gritted his teeth and said, “He'll grant me an audience once he learns who I am.” With that, Cathal wrenched his arm free of Faolan's grasp and continued to storm down the trail towards Birka. After a few minutes he glanced behind him. He was disappointed to find that Faolan did not follow him.
With a weary sigh, he continued onward, down the dark trail.
“He's not here,” said the guardsman with a tired yawn.
“Well, where is he?” asked Cathal impatiently.
“Where do you think? He's at the tavern, where he is every night.”
Cathal exhaled loudly, then turned around and stomped off, towards the tavern.
“You're wasting your time, Irishman,” the guardsman called after him.
As he stormed away, Cathal lifted his hand and waved the guard off in a dismissive manner.
The tavern was not far; he could already hear the clank of cups and silverware and rowdy patrons singing out of key. As he approached the front door, a drunken Norseman stumbled out, bent over and barfed on the ground in front of him. The man then righted himself on unsteady legs, smiled a toothless grin, and stumbled back into the tavern. Wonderful, thought Cathal, as he pursed his lips and stepped over the puddle of yellow and brown vomit.
He opened the door to find the tavern teeming with rowdy, drunken Norsemen. Music was playing in the back of the room, as three men, who could barely play their instruments, plucked and strummed their lutes and patted their drums. One Norseman was standing on the center table, singing to the discordant tune. Cathal almost did a double-take. The man standing on the table was Torsten, the chieftain.
With a disgusted snort, Cathal walked up to the chieftain and tried to get his attention. He stood there for a moment waving his arms. When he wasn't noticed, he reached up and grabbed Torsten's leg.
One of the Norsemen from the crowded room roughly nudged him and said, “You do not touch the chieftain!”
Cathal took a step back. The Norseman was nearly a half-foot taller than him and was obviously looking for a fight. Shaking his head in frustration, Cathal walked to an empty table and took a seat. He would need to wait for the right moment to approach the chieftain.
He sat glumly and impatiently tapped his fingers on the table. Every few moments, some drunken idiot would bump into him, then walk off without an apology. Cathal didn't know what was worse – Torsten's horrible singing, the band's lack of musical ability, or the smell of dozens of unwashed halfwits packed into the small tavern.
“Can I take your order?” asked a portly barmaid.
He sat there for a moment, deciding if he should stay. Finally, he held up two fingers, signifying two cups of mead. The barmaid pursed her lips then walked off, quickly vanishing into the throng of rowdy patrons.
Cathal couldn't get the image of Greger's mutilated body out of his mind. The way those wolves tore through his flesh and snapped his bones as if they were twigs... He shuddered involuntarily, dipped his head down, and placed the palms of his hands on his temples. He then squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to cast out the disturbing images that permeated his distraught mind.
“We're out of cups,” said the barmaid.
He opened his eyes to see the waitress holding two drinking horns. She shoved both horns in his direction, which he awkwardly accepted with both hands. She then walked off without a further word.
With a heavy sigh, Cathal started drinking from one of the horns. There was nothing he could use to hold the drinking horns upright on the table so he sat there and drank the contents down as quickly as possible. A short while later, the barmaid came back and he once again held up two fingers.
A couple of hours later, and Cathal was thoroughly sloshed. At least a dozen drinking hor
ns littered the surface of his table. They rolled and jumped every time one of the drunken patrons bumped into the table. Cathal was so inebriated, he didn't even mind. He could barely remember why he came here in the first place.
Then it hit him. The wolves. And that damnable creature! He snarled and slammed his fist down on the table, causing several of the drinking horns to jump and roll off the edge, clanking to the floor below. At that point, Cathal was beyond caring about any of it. He came into the tavern with something to say, and by the gods, one way or another, that damn chieftain was going to hear him out!
Cathal stood up then attempted to climb onto the table with unsteady legs. He swayed to and fro, almost falling over. Steadying himself, he slowly stepped onto the chair, then made an exaggerated step onto the table. Success! He grinned foolishly as he bent over and picked up two of the empty drinking horns. He then straightened himself into a full standing position and shouted, “I have something to say!”
The uproarious crowd barely acknowledged him, as they continued to grunt and sing and have a merry time of it. Not to be ignored, Cathal stomped his boots on the table and yelled, “There is a demon amongst you! Half man and half wolf!”
The music abruptly stopped, as the crowd of drunkards settled down and looked at him with suspicious eyes.
“Not three hours ago, the wolves killed another man. A Norse slave, by the name of Greger.” He could hear a few gasps from the crowd. Good. In a small town such as this, everyone knew everyone else. “At the north end of the logging camp, the wolves came and ripped Greger limb from limb! He's now lying in a shallow grave while you are frolicking about, oblivious to the danger that surrounds you.”
The tavern was completely silent now. He had their undivided attention.
“Last week a total of nine men died, including two guardsmen, and no one did anything about it. Will you sit here and do nothing? Are you but sheep, waiting to be slaughtered?” Cathal then took the two drinking horns and held them to his forehead. With his bloodshot eyes and tar-blackened skin, he looked as if he were a crazed demon. He looked over the drunken crowd with accusing eyes. “You know of the demon that stalks these woods. The demon commands the wolves, inciting them to attack! And if you do nothing...if you just sit here like the miserable lot of sheep you are, the demon will come for you!”
The crowd of patrons stood on their feet and screamed at Cathal, enraged beyond measure. How dare a foreigner talk to them in such a manner! A few of the rowdy Norsemen started throwing half-filled cups of mead at him. He tried his best to protect himself by covering his head with his forearms.
Sensing the mounting danger, Cathal attempted to step down from the table. Then, from the periphery of his vision, he saw a large object careening through the air towards him. Before he had time to react, a chair smashed into the side of his head, knocking him off his feet and onto the floor. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness, was a large group of angry Norsemen forming a circle around him.
Chapter 12
As he opened his eyes, Cathal could see the sturdy crossbeams of a vaulted ceiling overhead. He was lying in a comfortable bed, with a wool blanket pulled up to his chest. He tried to sit up, but the throbbing in his head caused him to reconsider.
Cathal slowly raised his hand and felt the side of his head. He then looked at the tips of his fingers...blood. His head was bandaged and blood was already starting to seep though the fabric.
“I like the way you stopped that chair with your head,” laughed the chieftain. “In Birka, we duck when things are thrown at us. But to each his own.”
Cathal let out a soft groan and lightly touched his head once again. It was swollen and sensitive to the touch, but he didn't think his skull was fractured.
“The völva advised that you not pick at your wounds.”
“I'm a doctor,” mumbled Cathal.
“Eh, a doctor? So you're a woodcutter, a drunkard, and a doctor? What an industrious group of people you Irishmen are,” boasted Torsten. “I might also add that you're an instigator, provoking the good people of this village.”
“The good people of this village are being murdered on a regular basis, and you're doing nothing about it.”
“Watch yourself, Irishman,” said Torsten. “If I hadn't intervened at the tavern, you'd be dead by now. We Norsemen don't like being lectured to by outsiders.”
Despite the throbbing pain in his head, Cathal managed to elbow his way up to a sitting position. “Surely you know there is something in that forest; something other than the wolves, that preys upon us.”
“I've never seen such a thing,” spat Torsten. “Those rumors are made by frightened, superstitious men. And I keep Birka safe enough – within the town limits, we haven't lost a single person in months. It's only the industries to the north – the woodcutters and herders that are having problems with the wolves. By all accounts, it's their problem to deal with.”
“I tell you that if you don't deal with this problem soon, the wolves will overrun Birka, and this settlement will be but a memory.”
“Know your place, migrant. The only reason I saved your worthless hide is because we have a shortage of loggers, and Birka has quotas to fill.”
“Do you really think a doctor would risk his life as a laborer for a few coins? The rumors of what have been transpiring here in Birka have reached all the way to Ireland. The church has taken notice, and sent me here to investigate.”
The chieftain narrowed his eyes and said, “What are you getting at? Ireland has no power here. From what I understand, half of England and Ireland are under Norse rule!”
“Politically, yes. But there is one institution that transcends political boundaries.”
Torsten let out a weary sigh; he was beginning to see what the Irishman was getting at. “The church.”
“Yes. There are active trade routes between our two cities. More than a few Viking traders came to our shores with tales of demons stalking Birka. The church took notice, and sent me to investigate.” Cathal only gave the chieftain part of the truth. There was no need to complicate matters by telling him of the collusion between the Celtic religious leaders and the Catholic church – it was actually the Celtic council that insisted on the investigation.
The chieftain shook his head in consternation. To think that Ireland had a hold over any Scandinavian settlement was laughable, but the power of the church was another matter entirely. Christianity had a firm hold on the region. “And if I refuse to cooperate?”
“I have already sent word of what I've found here. I fully expect an envoy to arrive within the month, but I'm afraid they will arrive here too late. We must act now! You're full cooperation will not only be appreciated, but compensated as well.”
Torsten's ears perked up. “Compensated, eh?”
“You know how wealthy the church is. They will be fully willing to compensate you for any damages or loss of life, but only if you cooperate. Think about it – nine men died last week, and another Norseman was ripped apart just this afternoon. How many more deaths will it take before Birka erupts into anarchy? Help me quell this threat now, and I'll make sure the church rewards you for your efforts.”
The chieftain might be stubborn, but he was also a practical man. He leaned against the table and folded his arms across his chest. “What do you suggest?”
“Gather a large group of men – guardsmen, fishermen, loggers, any volunteers you can find. Put a bounty on each wolf, one silver each.”
“One silver each? That's outrageous!”
Cathal held up his hands in protest. “One silver each, which the church will gladly compensate you for. Think of how many people will volunteer! We send out a large hunting party tomorrow morning and take care of this threat once and for all. And if we also find the monster that lurks in the woods, so much the better.”
Scratching the side of his chin, Torsten finally relented. “Alright then, but in addition to one silver per wolf, I want twenty silver for each man that
I lose.”
“Done,” agreed Cathal.
The chieftain opened the front door and briefly spoke with his guardsman. He then shut the door and said, “Get some rest Irishman, for tomorrow we hunt.”
The next morning, a large group of nearly fifty Norsemen gathered outside the chieftain's longhouse. As Cathal looked over the group, he saw a few familiar faces, most notably Old Mats, Faolan, and his wolfhound, Biter. However, he did not see anyone else from the logging or herding camps.
Walking towards Faolan, he raised his hand in greeting and asked, “Is anyone else coming? I'm surprised Domyan isn't here.”
Faolan shook his head, “I think the wolf attacks have affected the Slavs more than they let on. They've lost more than anyone else and want no part of this. Besides, Domyan said there's no way he would hunt side by side with the Norsemen. He even let me borrow his bow for the hunt. He told me to have fun and to bring him back a wolf pelt.”
Cathal heard the chieftain clear his throat. He turned around to see Torsten holding his hands high above his head, trying to get everyone's attention.
“Alright, listen up,” said the chieftain in a loud, commanding voice. “We're going to start at the western coast, and work our way north from there. Be careful not to shoot any reindeer, or any Turks for that matter.”
That brought a few good-natured chuckles from the crowd.
“Quiet down,” the chieftain continued. “Once we get to the northern part of the island, we'll fan out and make our way eastward, killing as many wolves as we can. Remember, it's one silver per wolf. And don't steal anyone's kill! Let's be civil about this; there's plenty of wolves out there for everybody. Okay, let's move out. The sooner we get this over with, the better.”
The Norsemen fell in behind the chieftain in a loose, staggered formation. They were relaxed, almost jovial, enjoying the prospect of the morning hunt. Cathal was more than a little worried. He fell in behind the Norsemen, towards the back of the formation and stared at the ground, brooding. He was startled when a large, rough hand clapped him on the shoulder.
Shadow of the Werewolf Page 10
