by William King
“Ragnar of the… Thunderfists.”
“You don’t seem very sure of that.”
“I am not sure that there are any Thunderfists any more,” said Ragnar simply.
“Like that, is it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I assume you were chosen after the battle in which your clan was…. harmed.”
“Yes.”
“It was a great battle?”
“It was a fierce and hard one. I’m not sure I would call it great. My village was burned. My people put to the sword. My girl—”
“Yes?” Kjel asked. He appeared sympathetic.
“I don’t know.”
“Best forget her then,” said the squat brutal youth on the next pallet. He smiled as if he enjoyed being the bearer of bad news. Ragnar could see that his teeth were large and square and even. His nose had been broken and badly set. His reddish hair was cut in a style that seemed unusual to an islander like Ragnar, cropped short and to the skull. “You’ll never see her again. You’ll never see anybody you know again.”
“There’s no need to sound so pleased about it,” Ragnar said. The other youth shook his head and clenched his fist. It was not a gesture of menace though, Ragnar could see, more an expression of anger.
“By Russ’s iron bollocks, I am not pleased about it! I am not pleased about any of this. I expected to join the Chosen, to enter the Hall of Heroes. Instead what did I get? Sergeant bloody Hakon and his bloody speech about how bloody useless we all are.”
“Maybe you should take that up with him,” Kjel suggested with a grin.
“Maybe I will. On the other hand, after seeing what happened to Strybjorn and Ragnar maybe I won’t. At least not until I learn what makes him so different from the rest of us.”
“You think that something made him that way?” Ragnar asked with interest. “You don’t think…”
“It’s just what I’ve heard round the camp but it seems the survivors of these little bands are taken away to some ancient temple and magic is worked on them. They are transformed into beasts or into men like Hakon and Ranek. By the Ice Bear’s ivory droppings, I’m bloody hungry. When do you think they’ll feed us?”
“You think Hakon is a man?” said the fourth member of the group, the one who looked too young to be there. Ragnar looked at him closely. His features were fine and he looked delicate and intelligent, more like a skald than a warrior. “I mean, those fangs and everything.”
“He is surely not a ghost,” Ragnar said. “Not the way he hit me today anyway.”
“I was amazed that you almost got out of his way,” the youngling said. “I didn’t think anybody could do that.”
“Ragnar didn’t,” the surly one said.
“He almost did.”
“Which are you, Sven Dragonfire or Henk Winterwolf?” Ragnar asked.
“I’m bloody Sven,” the short squat one said. “And, by the Ice Bear’s sacred right buttock, you have a good memory.”
“I’m Henk,” said the youngest and rose to shake hands with them all. Ragnar clasped hands. So did Kjel but Sven merely lay there with his hands behind his head staring at the ceiling.
“That would mean the last of our bloody merry little band is Strybjorn Grimskull,” said Sven.
“Yes,” Ragnar spat. Even he was surprised by the venom which showed in his voice. Sven’s grey eyes flickered right to look at him.
“You don’t like him, do you, Ragnar? Why?”
“He was one of the scum who attacked my village.”
“That’s not good,” said Kjel.
“He should be dead. I thought I killed him,” Ragnar said.
“You didn’t do a very good bloody job then,” Sven said. “Considering he’s up and walking about — or at least he was until old Hakon knocked him into the land of dreams.”
“The Wolf Priests used their magic to heal him. They did the same for me,” said Ragnar.
“I think they may have done the same for all of us,” Kjel said. He pulled open his tunic to reveal a long scar running right across his chest and down across his belly. “I don’t think anyone could have survived the wound that put me here without magic.”
“How did you come to be here?” Ragnar asked.
“There was a battle,” said Kjel.
“I think that goes without bloody saying,” Sven sneered. Kjel shot him a disgusted look.
“I was with a raiding party going down the great glacier. We were looking for sheep to carry off—”
“Sheep!” snorted Sven. “What were you going to do with them I wonder?”
“In the valleys a man’s worth is measured by the size of his flocks.”
“I’ll bloody well bet it is,” Sven said, his voice all innuendo.
“Anyway, we were ambushed by the Wolfsheads just as night fell. The battle was sharp and fierce. I must have killed or wounded about five of the Wolfsheads before one of them put his spear in me. I thought it was all over then but I looked up and I saw an old man looking down from the hillside just before the darkness took me. When I woke the same old man was there but I was in one of the flying ships on my way here. How about you, Sven — what feat of great heroism did you perform to be chosen?”
“I killed eight men in single combat.”
“Eight? At once?”
“No. One after the bloody other. They were all brothers. They killed my uncle and refused to pay weregeld so I called them out at the Allthing Feast. The Wolf Priest watched while I killed them and then he told me I was chosen.”
“You weren’t wounded? You didn’t… die?”
“Eight men died. Eight grown men and warriors. They died, not me. There wasn’t a wound on me.”
“Truly Sven, you must be a mighty warrior,” Henk said.
“Truly,” Ragnar said dryly.
“You don’t bloody well believe me?” said Sven suddenly. The light of violence flickered in his eyes.
“I never said that,” Ragnar said. “After all, you’re here aren’t you?”
“And don’t you bloody well forget it,” said Sven.
“What about you, Henk?” Kjel asked. The youngling blushed and seemed embarrassed.
“I fought with a troll,” he said. “Killed it with my spear. It had killed my uncle and all his brothers and it was already wounded so it wasn’t that great a feat.”
“The Wolf Priest must have thought so.”
“He would most likely have killed it easily if I hadn’t.”
“Why was he there?” Sven asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe our croft being on fire attracted his attention. Who can say?”
Ragnar looked at the youngling in astonishment. He had faced and killed the deadliest creature ever to walk the surface of Fenris after it had done for his family, and he talked about it as if it were nothing. Indeed he seemed embarrassed about taking the credit. Given their tales it seemed that all of his companions were worthy of respect. Even the Grimskull, perhaps.
There was a gust of wind and all eyes present turned to look at the open door. Sergeant Hakon entered, carrying the still unconscious form of Strybjorn. He stomped over to an empty pallet and dumped him unceremoniously on the straw.
“Best get some sleep,” Hakon said. “You’ll need all of your strength tomorrow.”
Without saying another word he walked around the room and snuffed the whale-oil lamps with his armoured fingers then he walked to the door again in the darkness, picking his way over recumbent bodies with no apparent difficulty. The door slammed shut behind him to announce his departure.
Silence fell over the long hall. Ragnar lay for a long time in the darkness wondering whether to take his knife and slit the Grimskull’s throat. In the end he decided against it. He wanted his foe to be conscious when he killed him.
“That strange gurgling sound you can hear is my bloody stomach,” Sven muttered. “By the balls of the Ice Bear, I’m bloody hungry.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hunting
The Grimskull snarled and struck out with his own wooden rod. The curved point caught Ragnar just below the ribs and sent all the air from his lungs. It was thrust home with all the strength and weight of the Grimskull’s massive body behind it. This was knife practice and no blows were pulled. Hakon did not want them to get used to fighting against foes who did not strike as hard and fast as the real thing. The pain doubled Ragnar up and made him want to be sick. He felt barely able to stand. His senses reeled. All around him he could see the grinning, jeering faces of the other aspirants. They were arranged in a circle to watch the fight.
Strybjorn brought the baton cracking down on Ragnar’s skull. Stars flared in the Thunderfist youth’s field of vision. He let out a long grunt of pain and fell to his knees. He saw Strybjorn draw back his foot to kick him.
Suddenly cold, hard anger erupted from somewhere deep within Ragnar. He allowed himself to fall forward and at the last second wrapped his arms around the Grimskull’s legs. With a heave he toppled Strybjorn over. There was a loud crack as his foe’s head hit one of the rocks protruding from the soft turf. Ragnar allowed himself a triumphant snarl and crawled forward to straddle Strybjorn’s body. He took his own wooden baton and placed it across the Grimskull’s windpipe and pushed forward, fully intending to stop off the flow of air, and choke his foe to death. The crowd’s cheering filled his ears; obviously they did not understand his intention.
Suddenly a cold, armoured hand grasped Ragnar’s neck and lifted him off Strybjorn. Ragnar lashed out with the baton but it hit the hard carapace of Hakon’s armour and broke. The sergeant looked down at him.
“Some unorthodox knife work there, by both of you. Still, at least you were fighting as if you meant it.”
He set Ragnar down on the ground and glanced over at Strybjorn. The Grimskull coughed, spluttered and glared over at Ragnar with eyes full of hatred. “I won,” he gasped.
“No, you didn’t,” Hakon said. “Your last stroke would have disembowelled Ragnar, sure, but if he had been using a real knife instead of these curved bits of wood his last blow would have pierced your eye and gone into your brain.”
Ragnar allowed himself a grin of triumph. The cold clear mountain air tasted sweet with victory. He even managed to ignore the pain in his ribs. “I still would have killed him with my return,” Strybjorn said sullenly.
“Maybe you would have at that,” Hakon said. “You’re fierce enough.”
He turned to the crowd and pointed at Kjel and one of the newcomers Ragnar did not recognise. “You two! Come on! We don’t have all day.”
Ragnar glared over at Strybjorn once more, knowing that he would have killed the Grimskull for sure, if Hakon had not intervened.
Ragnar felt his breath coming in gasps. The mountain air suddenly did not seem thick enough to sustain him. The early morning chill bit into his flesh. His heartbeat sounded loud in his ears. Sweat ran down his brow and stung his eyes. His long black hair was plastered to his forehead. His legs felt like jelly. The slope before him seemed endless.
“Come on!” Sergeant Hakon yelled. “You can do better than this. This is just one little hillock.”
Kjel came abreast of Ragnar and managed a sickly grin. “Easy for him to say. We’re not all half goat and half wolf,” he panted.
“Save your breath for running,” Ragnar gasped out. “Remember: last one to the top has to do it all again.”
“I’d better leave you behind then,” Kjel said and loped ahead, his long stride covering the broken ground swiftly. Ragnar mustered the last of his strength and charged on, thinking that Kjel had been right. The sergeant had made it look easy. He had started after them, but even in his heavy armour had swiftly overtaken the lightly clad aspirants. He had reached the top of the hill while they were only half way up and now he stood there, looking utterly unwearied and bellowing at them. What was his secret, Ragnar wondered.
“Come on! Run!” shouted Hakon. Ragnar risked a glance over his shoulder. A long way below them, in the low valley, he could see Russvik. It looked tiny from this height. They had covered an enormous distance so far. Seeing the small figures of his fellows strung out behind, he was grateful to realise that at least he was not last. And he’d better make sure that he stayed that way.
On shaky legs he stumbled wearily on towards the brow of the hill.
“Who among you can hunt?” Sergeant Hakon asked. About half a dozen weary voices answered in the affirmative. They were all tired. For the past week it seemed they had done nothing but hard physical exercise. They had run up to the top of the hills overlooking the camp so often that Ragnar felt as if he could do it in his sleep. They had chopped wood. They had run up the hill carrying a log of the wood they had chopped. Those who had not been fast enough for Hakon’s liking were made to do it again and again until they collapsed with exhaustion.
They had done endless exercises which had contorted their bodies and pushed their physical endurance to the limits, leaving them gasping for breath on the cold ground as their muscles spasmed and convulsed. They had drilled with spear and dagger. They had been shown how to fight with the axes they used for chopping wood. They had thrown spears at straw men.
The bits that had involved fighting or practising to fight had been almost enjoyable, Ragnar thought, and he had excelled at them. He had always been chosen as the best in his group of five to face the best of the other Claws. It was something that seemed to rankle Strybjorn and Sven but there was nothing they could do about it. He had consistently bested them in practice. With weapons he was better than either. At wrestling they had repaid him for the knocks he had given them with the blunted weapons. Both of them were strong and quick and cruel.
Ragnar hoped that soon they would start practising with real edged weapons. Then there would be an accident and Strybjorn Grimskull would go to greet his ancestors knowing that Ragnar had sent him there.
“Surely more of you than that know how to hunt?” Hakon said with a sneer. The aspirants all looked at each other warily. They had learned not to make claims to the sergeant. It usually ended up with extra duties or a severe drubbing when their level of competence did not reach Hakon’s exalted expectations.
“Well, if none of you know how to hunt, I suppose we will have to teach you. It’s the only way you’re ever going to see meat again.”
Small band of hunters moved in single file up the long rocky path. Ragnar turned and looked back the way they had come. The chill wind whipped his long black hair around his face. The clouds scurrying across the sky seemed somehow closer than ever. At least, though, they were white and intermittent, not dark and heavy with the threat of rain. He sniffed the air and caught the scent of pine. Strangest of all to him was the absence of the salty sea tang he had known all his life.
Far below them, Russvik was visible as a tiny collection of huts surrounded by its wooden parapet and the deep ditch. All around them massive peaks loomed skywards. He was breathing hard. They all were. His thighs felt like jelly from the prolonged effort of climbing the steep slope. His knees felt weak. His face was flushed. It was a relief to see that none of the others looked any better.
All that running up and down the nearer hills started to make sense now. Ragnar doubted that any of them could have made it to this height without rest if they had not been prepared for it by the training. It was exhilarating though. They had come further in the past day than it had been possible to walk without going into the sea on Ragnar’s home island, and they had barely seen a tiny fraction of this vast land. It seemed to go on forever. The pillars of the peaks seemed to support the dome of a sky that lay infinitely far above them. The clouds were greyish-white and pregnant with the th
reat of snow. Strange trees covered the hills. They had needles instead of leaves and cones of wood littered the ground beneath them. They had been taught that if those cones were open it was most likely going to rain. If they were closed the weather might stay fine. It was another part of the strange lore they had been taught in Russvik. Large birds nested in those trees. Sven had already suggested foraging up there for eggs but the others had wanted to push on, to find something bigger, a deer or a wild goat that they could take back and show off to the other Claws.
This was the first time Ragnar’s Claw had been dispatched to hunt. It was considered an honour to be trusted beyond sight of Russvik on their own, which in itself was galling, a cutting insult to the pride of the fierce young warriors. None had dared to complain to Sergeant Hakon that they were being treated like children. Now, they were confident of their new found skills. They had spent many days being taught basic survival techniques. How to survive in the howling Asaheim blizzards. How to find their way by the stars alone. Ragnar had found the last quite easy, being used as he was to travelling at sea. Granted, the stars here in Asaheim were slightly different, but the constellations were the same. They had been taught how to light fires quickly and efficiently. How to make lean-tos from branches, to give them at least some shelter from the harsh elements. They had been shown the basics of tracking in the wilds. It was not all that difficult to master. They now knew to look for the places the beasts came to drink, and to keep their eyes open for tracks. They knew how to build snares for rabbits and hares and other small animals. Those who had never learned were taught how to gut an animal, strip off the pelt, slit the belly and let the entrails pour out. Once again Ragnar, who had been gutting fish all his life, found it easy.
Now, armed with their spears and shields and daggers, they had been sent out into the wilds. It was as simple as that. They were to go and they were not to come back until they had hunted fresh food to eat, or lost a warrior trying. It seemed that training to be a Wolf consisted of being thrown into the water, and then thrashing about until you learned to swim. To Ragnar, it seemed that the attitude of Hakon and the others back in Russvik was that there were plenty more initiates where they came from. It was Ragnar’s duty to prove himself, and he realised that no one else would look after him now.
