by Guy Haley
'A first mark for the failure of the first challenge. Suffer four, and your soul is ours.'
The shadow wolves banged their drinking vessels upon the tables, playing an insistent rhythm.
'So then, the second challenge!'
The rhythm increased in tempo, its coordination tumbling apart. The shadow wolves howled. At the cacophony, the massive wolf before the high table twitched and rolled over in its sleep.
An old crone came limping out from among the tables. She was neither wolf nor shade, but a living being of flesh and blood, though greatly aged and infirm.
She tottered to a stop before Leman Russ and looked up at him with eyes milky with cataracts.
'This is my dam,' said the Great Wolf. 'The den mother, the far hunter, the worst killer of men. You shall wrestle hen. If you beat her, then you have won. If not, then you shall try the next challenge. Three bouts. If you are put down for five seconds you lost the point. Two points out of three is the winner.'
'Very well,' said Russ. He braced his fingers against one another and cracked his knuckles. Even he, the Emperor's executioner who had in the past done whatever was asked of him no matter how distasteful, balked at fighting an old woman. He reminded himself all this was wyrd-made, two steps from maleficarum. She was as much an old woman as he was a stone He adopted a wrestler's crouch. The crone was so budded with age her head came only as far as his waist.
'Are you ready?' he said. 'I will try to be gentle.'
The old woman gave him a toothless smile; then rushed him, moving so quickly he was caught entirely by surprise She locked her arms about his leg. Arms that looked as feeble as kindling possessed a terrifying strength. At her touch his flesh drilled, and the strength flowed from his leg. His knee budded. With a tremendous heave she flipped him over onto his back. Before he could get up, she sprang upon his chest and knelt upon him. A bag of feathers weighed more, and yet she crushed the breath from his lungs until he was gasping.
The wolves chanted, and Russ recognised in their growling speech the numbers used on Fenris, 'Fyf, for, tra, twa, onn!' They howled and yipped and banged their lanxes. Harassed looking wights drifted among them, topping up their drinks as quickly as they were spilled.
The old woman slipped off his chest so cautiously Russ thought she might stumble and break her wasted bones. 'First round to Mother Erla!' howled the Erlking. 'Again!'
The second time Leman Russ was better prepared. The old woman came at him with the same blinding speed. This time he caught her shoulders, and their arms locked. His calloused primarch's hands gripped shoulders no more substantial than sticks wrapped in paper, but in them was the fortitude of mountains. She pushed at him hard, stronger than a full-grown konungur. Russ pitted all his potency against the crone, but it was not enough. Again, the chill of ice and weakness crept into his limbs, starting in his biceps where she held him so viciously, and spreading to his bones and thence his organs. Deep aches plagued him. His joints locked. His vision dimmed. His legs trembled, and the woman forced him down to one knee, then the other, so that his eye-line was level with her gummy mouth. She released one of his enfeebled arms, grabbed him by the hair, and gently pushed his face down onto the iron-hard ice where she held him as the wolves counted down from five, banging out time with their lanxes and horns whether they were full or not.
Russ struggled to rise. The weight of a world was upon him, a cold world, composed of ice and hatred. Too much for any man to bear, primarch or not.
'You cannot beat her, you cannot beat her!' howled the Erlking. 'I tell you, you cannot win!' The hall erupted in gleeful yips. The old woman stepped back. Russ rose shakily to his feet. Bent double, his hands upon his knees, he gasped until his strength returned. When he looked up, the old woman was stood where she had begun her assault, her back stooped, her eyes blind, limbs trembling with age so that her fingers described tiny oscillations beyond her control. He should have been able to knock her down with a hard breath, and yet here he was, bested by a crone.
'See, my warriors, he is the best the Verse has to offer! Two out of three!'
The shadow wolves roared and howled with laughter.
'I tell you what little man,' said the Great Wolf through tears of mirth, 'before she lays you out on the ice again. If you can beat her this last time, I shall call you victorious. How is that for sport?' Russ nodded, barely able to speak. 'Good enough.'
The third time he moved first attacking with a baresarks fury. The old woman met him, her spindle limbs set against his. He pushed and strained until the sinews stood out on his neck. He might have pushed a mountain back with greater ease. The crone would not budge and so Russ pushed all the harder. By dint of superhuman exertion, he forced the crone back half a step, bringing forth a gasp of amazement from the man-wolves. But the mightier the effort he exerted, the quicker his strength fled and this time, without the Erl-mother doing ought but hold him in place, he sank to the ground and the chanting of the wolves resumed its prior volume. His enfeebled fingers slipped from her arms, and Russ flopped to the floor, where he let out an involuntary groan.
The wolves laughed. The old crone hobbled away cackling. Or maybe she was weeping. Russ could not tell. His world was grey and its details hard to discern, and all pleasure was wrung out from it.
Slowly, he recovered, getting into a crouch, and then shakily to his feet. Not quite the full measure of his strength returned. His hair fell across his eyes, and he noticed a fresh band of grey shot through the copper-blond.
'Fetch him mjod!' growled the Erlking. 'Honour our guest for his entertainment.'
A shadow wolf loped to the primarch, slopping mjod from a horn held in a clumsy, half-human grip. Russ snatched the vessel and downed the contents in one.
'So, another challenge failed.' The Erlking did not move; but a second claw stroke opened in Russ' flesh, and bled freely into his musty furs. The cut was deep. Russ did not flinch, but growled.
'Your third challenge; oh lord of wights,' said Russ.
'Yes, yes, the third challenge!' one of the Erlking's hersirs bayed. The wolves broke into a chorus of howls that degenerated into cruel laughter.
'A simple one. You see the beast before my throne?'
Russ looked at the giant wolf asleep in front of the dais. 'I do.'
'You must move him, that is all,' said the Erlking, 'by cunning or by brute strength, it matters not, simply move him. To the left, to the right, back or forwards. You choose.'
'Very well,' said Russ.
He walked to the head of the beast and stared down at it. His wolf-brothers, Freki and Geri, would have reacted instinctively to his presence, knowing what he needed from them without the primarch performing so much as a finger twitch. This affinity extended to all Fenrisian wolves. They instinctively knew he was a lord of rare power, and deferred to him accordingly.
The Erlking's wolf remained resolutely asleep.
'Wolf!' said Russ. 'I ask you to move.'
The wolf did not so much as twitch.
Russ grumbled. He went to the high table and took up a coward's greasy limb, and dangled it in front of the wolf's great head.
'Wolf! Come wolf, move!' he said.
The wolf's nostrils flared. A paw twitched. It did not wake.
Russ threw down the blackened arm and wiped his hands on his suit of pelts.
'Right then,' he said. 'We'll do it the other way.'
The thing was huge. The biggest Fenrisian wolves grew to be the size of battle tanks. This pet of the Erlking's was only a little more modest than they, stretching four metres nose to rump.
Russ stared at its belly, flexing with the slow breaths of sleep. It was not going to be easy, no matter how simple the task appeared.
'A wolf of that size should be no trouble at all for the mighty Leman Russ,' said the Erlking. 'If you can but move him, you will triumph. Careful now, your chances dwindle.'
Russ grunted. He wiped his hands again, then shoved them under the belly of the wolf.
/> Fur enveloped him. It was soft as a woman's breath, warm as a good spring day. He pushed under the beast until his forearms were completely beneath it, and shoved.
Asleep, the wolf was a deadweight, as heavy and boneless as a water resupply sac for a void ship. Russ could not move it at all.
He tried again. His face reddened. A grunt of effort escaped his lips. If this were a mortal wolf, he would have been able to heave the thing onto his shoulders and shift it without breaking a sweat. But like the old woman before, the wolf was as immovable as Asaheim itself.
Russ stood straight, and shook black hairs from his arms. The wolf had not stirred throughout the whole of his attempt.
'Do you yield?' said the Erlking.
'Not yet,' said Russ. 'I am just warming up.'
'Why not try his paw to begin with?' said the Erlking. 'Where the foot goes, the rest will follow.' The man-wolves laughed. 'Though remember, I said move him a foot, not move his foot.'
Russ shot him a black look, then went to the rear of the wolf. The wolf's back legs were crossed. He eyed the uppermost paw, then spat upon his hands, rubbed them together and slid them around the leg away from the sensitive pads. He bent his legs, preparing to lift. He took in a deep breath, focused, and heaved.
He could not budge it. The paw was no bigger than a feasting plate, but heavier than a Land Raider.
Back straining, Russ pulled at the paw. His face turned crimson to the roots of his hair. He let out a bellow of frustration.
The paw shifted from the ground, creeping upwards fractions of an inch at a time. 'A fine feat!' shouted the Erlking. 'Now you must move the rest of him.'
The wolves laughed and banged their implements on the tables. Russ heaved harder, pushing from his legs, the muscles in his back on the verge of tearing. Up the paw went, past Russ' knees, then past the top of his thighs. Slow as a glacier inching its way down the mountains into the sea, Russ drew himself upright. His teeth were damped, knuckles of his interlaced fingers white, until he had the leg high off the ground.
At this disturbance to its slumber the wolf shivered, and pushed out its paw, sending Russ flying backwards with such force he cracked the post he landed against. On breath ragged with the effort, he tasted blood.
The shadow wolves roared out their appreciation.
Russ picked himself up. The wolves' laughter fell back into a cacophony of howling. Russ wiped blood from his lips with the back of his hand.
The Erlking pointed at the primarch. His long tongue hung like a wet flag out of the side of his mouth, yet his words were clear.
'A good effort, but you have failed again. Take your mark.'
The Erlking swiped his paw through the air, and again burning pain crossed Russ' chest so that there were three deep furrows clawed through his wolf pelts and his flesh. The blood would not stop as it should, and his furs were sodden with his vitae.
'Three marks against you. Bah, I declare your life is forfeit. My hersirs, my jarls, prepare for another course in our feasting!'
A hundred shadow wolves stood at once, upsetting their benches in their haste to be on their feet. Some snatched up their weapons with no care for the others in the piles, knocking them noisily down, while the rest exposed their teeth. They waited to pounce.
Russ considered fighting them, ripping as many of the Hel-kin down as he could before they tore his soul to pieces. The wolf in his heart bayed for that outcome.
Kva's words echoed in his ears.
'Remember, my lord, what you are. Remember that you are more than a wolf.'
'Wait!' he shouted. His protest was lost in the rumpus. 'Wait!' He bellowed so forcefully his shout knocked back the shadow wolves. They bristled, and shrank from him. 'What, my lord, of this fourth task?'
'You cannot win it,' said the Erlking dismissively. 'You have proved yourself unworthy. I retract the offer. My warriors, we feast on godling's flesh tonight!'
The shadow wolves drew nearer again.
'I demand my right to perform the fourth task!' Russ said.
The Erlking snarled. 'If you will. Name the four things that I challenged you with.'
Russ grinned. 'This is the easy part,' he said.
'Not so easy,' insisted the Erlking. 'The others you failed. You will prove as unwise as you are weak.'
Russ laughed. 'We shall see.' He swept his arm out behind him to where he had supped with the shadow wolves. 'Your guest Amarok bade me drink his bowl dry. How could I succeed in draining that lanx, when he had me attempt to swallow the Savage Sea? First, as ice, when frozen in the Helwinter, then when molten in the Fimbolsommer. He held the Wolf's Eye itself to my head in pretence of help, and yet I did not burn.'
The Great Wolf's expression set. 'Very good. You have guessed well once. You will not again. Be ready my wolves, to rend this false wolf and gulp down his flesh.'
Russ gave a confident smile. 'We shall see,' he said. 'The old woman. She is Bad Wyrd, a foe no man can beat, the fate of those who do not fall in battle. Age slaughters every warrior in the end, if he does not sleep upon the red snow. Is the Muspjall not her domain, staffed as it is by her victims?'
The Great Wolf growled.
'Your wolf, your pet. Why! What fool do you take me for?' He pointed at the sleeping monster. 'That is none other than Morten himself, the greatest wolf of all, and lord of the lowest of death's halls.'
The wolf looked up. Two heads, not one regarded Russ with piercing eyes. One mouth yawned capaciously, then it settled back down to sleep.
'No man can move death,' said Russ. 'It is a point we all must come to, and it cannot be dislodged by mortal effort. There! In naming the three of your challenges I win the fourth. They were not fair, you sought to deceive me. The deceiver is always undone.'
The Great Wolf laughed. It began as a wet, grumbling noise, the growl of a predator warning a hunter from its kill, rising to become the clashing of pack ice loosed by the burning sun. It finished as peals of thunder cracking around an erupting volcano's peak.
'Not so, Leman of the Russ. Now you must name me. Here you shall assuredly fail.'
Russ smiled broadly and stabbed a finger at the being. 'You are the Great Wolf. You are me.' And then he spoke the name Kva had whispered in his ear, a name he had never borne, but that encapsulated who he was. 'I know you by your spear. My spear.'
A hot wind blew.
'No!' The wolf howled in anguish, and all his shadow wolves howled with him. 'No!' Its shadow skin writhed and turned in on itself. It grew larger, more hulking, more bestial.
With a howl that shook the stars, the wolf leapt over the table. Russ sidestepped and caught it at throat and crotch, using its own momentum to pitch it over his head and send it crashing into the fire pit. Burning coals burst everywhere as the wolf yowled in the fire, its shadow fur ablaze. His warriors writhed as if they too were alight. They shredded on the air like smoke on the breeze, and blew upwards, whirling away through the smokehole towards the steely stars. When the wolves were gone, the shades of the aged servants sped after, stretching like dough, their grotesquely elongated faces shrieking.
The hall followed its occupants into the sky. First the furniture fell upwards, rattle-banging into the rafters and shaking loose the shingles. A bench rammed itself across the smokehole, battering repeatedly at it, knocking the space wider and wider. Splinters of wood rained down. Another bench slammed into it, then another, stoppering the hole like debris in a storm drain, until the first bench shattered under the pressure and the others followed, folding in on themselves with dry-branch cracks. A table came apart as it spun madly upwards. Tableware scythed the air like shrapnel. Russ dodged flying crocks and drinking horns. Bloody human bones bounced from his head. A spinning chair caught him a hard blow on the temple and he stumbled. Other tables joined the frantic airborne jig. They rose and fell and danced about before a sudden force hurled them up, where they smashed against the roof and crashed apart and the fragments flew upwards into the sky. A beam dislodged and fel
l, ringing off the ice with an idiophone's musical impact. Shingles tore from their pegs. Rafters bent themselves in half and shot skywards. The remaining furniture made for these new holes and easier freedom. The boards of the walls shook and wrenched themselves from the ground. Snow burst within, though in truth so little remained of the hall it could no longer be said to enclose a space. The great wolf-headed posts and the timbers of the A-frames were last to go, shaking with such great violence to free themselves from the earth that two exploded into yellow splinters, and the others cracked and sundered with wooden screams as they struggled from their holes.
The Great Wolf stood blazing in its own hearth. It clawed at itself, ripping its flesh in its agony so gravely that skin split in twain from the crown of its head to its belly and sloughed away into the growing fire. A human figure stepped from the ruin into the maelstrom of wood splinters and howling immaterial winds.
Russ crouched in readiness to leap as the whirlwind lessened. The last fragments of the hall sped away. Upon the plain of snow were Russ, his host and the great wolf Morkai, still sleeping as if nothing had occurred. Behind the death wolf the Spear of the Emperor flew from the remnants of the disintegrating wall and impaled the ground, the shaft pointing to the stars. The shadow wolves were gone, and their hall so thoroughly disassembled it was as if neither they nor the building had ever been. The hearthstone alone remained to attest to its existence, the last embers upon it burning themselves out.
The figure steamed. Blood obscured its face and garb. It took a step closer to Russ. He stepped back. Adrenal compounds and other, more esoteric chemicals swelled his muscles.
The being took another step. The blood flickered off him, as if it were shadow and he had simply stepped into the sunlight, and he was revealed.
Russ was confronted with a version of himself. This one had none of the barbaric trappings of Fenrisian life. No wolf pelts or charms, no tattoos. His hair was cropped in a short, military style to match the smart grey uniform he wore. His clothes were perfectly made but undecorated save for a pair of collar studs fashioned in the shape of the numeral VI.
