Stormcaller

by Chris Wraight

  He’d got better at it, honing his senses, learning from the others.

  Jorund tensed. He said nothing, but his hands began to move. The hunt-signals came fast – flickering fingers, gestures. On his final signal, the hunt-pack burst into movement.

  They ran as one, softly, loping through the snow with high, silent strides. None of them spoke. Baldr kept pace easily, and the pack spread out, sweeping under the pine eaves. Soon each hunter was only visible to his counterpart on either side, and the net spread wide. The prey – tilbrád – were wary and agile, and far faster than a man if given a start.

  Baldr stumbled as he ran. Swallowing a curse, he picked up his pace, veering past a giant trunk and ploughing through a deep drift that lapped up to his knees.

  He was falling behind. The others were older, stronger, more used to the chase. Baldr pushed hard, hearing his breath echo inside his close-tied hood. He stumbled again, tripping on something beneath the snow, losing his footing and staggering against the curled root of another tree.

  He couldn’t match the speed of the pack, no matter how much he pushed himself. Flushing from shame, panting like a dog, he kept going, reeling and tripping as the hunters pulled away from him.

  Baldr didn’t know how long he’d been running before he heard the growl.

  He froze – his head whipped round, his heart thumping. Tree trunks marched off in all directions, black like obsidian against the gloom. The terrain rose and fell in snow-covered clumps, broken by the jagged teeth of moss-clad rocks.

  For a few terrible moments, he saw nothing. The echo of the growl resonated through the forest, low and quiet, like the soft crack of earth breaking. Baldr stared back and forth, peering into the dark, his axe-blade poised.

  Then, slowly, as if resolving from the smoke of a fire-pit, he saw twin orbs of amber in the night. They were a long way away – thirty metres, across a tangled mass of snow-laden briars. They did not blink. They shone dully – black pupils, golden irises, fixed, steady, unmoving.

  Baldr felt as if his limbs had been run through with lead. He heard the purring growl again, running along the ground, making the hair on his neck rise. He smelt it for the first time – musty, wet, dog-thick. The beast had come from upwind, just as they were doing to their prey.

  Baldr squeezed his fingers on the axe-heft, terrified, his blood raging in his temples.

  Why doesn’t it move?

  His eyes adjusted further. He saw the huge, ridgebacked spine curving over the briars’ edge. He saw grey fur, claws sinking into the snow, ludicrously muscled shoulders bunching and flexing.

  It was twice his height, a dozen times heavier, draped in a thick, dark mane. Long jaws pulled back into a snarl, sending beads of saliva glistening down to the snow.

  It seemed to be regarding him as closely as he regarded it. Its huge nostrils flared. Its massive paws raked the ground before it. The beast was fighting against something – some pull, some drag.

  Then it roared – a massive, throaty, throttled bellow that shook snow from the branches above it. With a twist and a thrust, it pounced, shouldering clear of the briars and bounding towards him.

  Baldr held his ground, almost paralysed with fear, his axe-head clasped stiff. The beast ate up the ground between them, gaping its obscenely long jaws to reveal rows of yellowing, blood-mottled teeth.

  The first spear came in from Baldr’s right, hurled hard so the shaft trembled as it hit. Another whistled in from the left, thunking into the creature’s withers.

  The beast yowled and skidded to a halt, throwing up slush. More spears hurtled from the trees. They all hit – the hunters of Fenris who lived to adulthood had superlative aim.

  The beast thrashed back and forth, caught in a crossfire of hurled barbs. Baldr suddenly felt the vice of fear lift, and hefted his axe.

  The beast stared at him, golden eyes wide with pain and fury. Baldr threw, sending the axe head-over-heel, watching as it cracked into the creature’s shoulder, biting deep, sending a fountain of wine-dark blood jetting.

  Then he was running, scampering into cover again, weaponless in the face of the creature’s wrath. He heard great echoing roars as the hunters loosed more spears. He heard the scrabble of claw on stone, and the crack of branches as the beast charged at its tormentors.

  He kept running. His lungs burned, his muscles protested, but the thrill of danger, the stink of fear and exhilaration, kept him moving.

  He slid to a halt under the lee of a felled trunk, twisting round to see if he was being pursued.

  He saw men running between the trunks, some to throw spears, some to withdraw. He didn’t see the beast. He heard its yowls and its barks, muffled in the snow and the trees. The noises grew fainter as the pack drove it off. They couldn’t kill it – even Baldr knew that – but they could give it enough pain to lope away, slinking back to lick its sores and gashes in the hollowness of some meat-rotten den somewhere.

  Baldr fell to his haunches, still breathless, feeling the burn of the cold air as he forced it into shocked lungs.

  Jorund found him later. The headman laughed gruffly, grabbed him by his furs and hauled him to his feet.

  ‘Got a shock?’ he asked, smacking the snow from Baldr’s shoulders and making him stand upright. ‘Stumbled on a real killer?’

  Jorund grabbed his chin and forced his gaze up to meet him. Baldr stared ahead blearily.

  ‘Throw your axe first,’ Jorund said, not letting him go. ‘Fear will kill you quicker than the cold.’

  Baldr nodded, shamed. He could still feel the pull of terror around his heart, and knew that was weak.

  ‘Why did it wait?’ asked Jorund thoughtfully, studying him hard. ‘Never seen that.’

  Baldr didn’t know what to say. Jorund was handling him roughly, like a piece of carcass to be dragged over the fire-pit.

  ‘Maybe you’re marked,’ said Jorund, lightly, shaking Baldr and slapping him on the shoulder. ‘Or maybe it had eaten already.’

  Jorund dropped him, then tramped over to the others. The hunters were retrieving their spears. Once they had weapons in hand again they pulled together, respectful of the shadows.

  Baldr had lost his axe. For all he knew it was buried in the wolf’s flank, sticking from its hide like a trophy.

  He looked back into the trees, back into the depths where it had retreated. His heart-rate had slowed to something like normal.

  Why did it wait?

  Jorund called the hunt together. They had lost the trail and scared any prey far out of reach. Another failed trek, another hungry night.

  ‘Back to the aett,’ Jorund ordered, not looking at Baldr, not waiting to witness the looks of disappointment from the rest of the pack.

  Baldr fell in with the others, keeping to himself, ignoring the mutters and glares that came his way. Once they started marching again, in line just as before, weapons kept ready, the monotony of the walk took over.

  They fell silent. He remained so. The snow kicked over his boots, the blood of the wolf froze and crystallised on the ground.

  Why did it wait?

  Winter came in, blasting from the north as the last vestiges of health bled from the land. Prey became harder to find, and the iron pots that hung over the fires contained little more than dried tubers and boiled grass. More of the Ascurii died, and Faer spent his days in visions, trying to plot a path through the maze of the future. He emptied the last of his rattle-bags, scraping the strands of fungi from the leather and burning them, inhaling the god-smoke to make his visions true.

  The days shortened, down to a few hours of grey light around noon, bordered by the long, frigid nights that forever threatened to gust out the fires and plunge them all into oblivion. Jorund showed his age, Ana showed hers. Lives were short on the death world – short and vigorous, driven by the eternal cycle of ice and fire.

  It was at th
e nadir of the Great Year that Faer foretold the coming of others. Jorund sent scouts up to the headlands every day, watching for sails. The seas were closing up with ice, so passage by boat would soon be impossible.

  Weeks passed, and nothing came. Some began to mutter against Faer – that his visions had led them nowhere, that they would starve before the next summer, that they should have stayed in the old lands.

  Baldr never joined in. He sat with his mother and sharpened his new axe. He hadn’t missed out on another hunt, and his young limbs had grown supple and strong. He hadn’t lost his nerve again, and his axe and spear had accounted for two kills – a good tally for one of his age and stature, and much needed.

  Hrom was the one to see them first. He came running to the aett, out of breath and with his hair hanging wildly around his face.

  ‘Sails!’ he blurted, panting.

  ‘How many?’ asked Jorund, standing grimly before him.

  ‘Four,’ said Hrom. ‘More, maybe. Fog’s heavy.’

  The hunters stirred themselves. Jorund sounded his bronze horn to summon the other scouts back, and the Ascurii girded themselves for fighting. The Greater Island wasn’t much of a home, but neither was anywhere else during the Long Winter, and the newcomers would not be coming to barter.

  The Ascurii could muster only thirty warriors by then, more than half of them longbeards with unyielding joints and wasted muscles. No one questioned Baldr’s presence among them. Aegnor was even younger, barely able to lift the throwing spear he took to battle, and no one questioned that either.

  The warband marched back up to the headland where they had first landed. By the time they reached the vantage, the boats were already fighting through the swell to reach the beach. Fog rolled in from the ocean, breaking across rocks like summer sea-foam. The invaders waited until the last moment before jumping clear and hauling on the ropes.

  Baldr hung back. He had never seen men of other nations. They looked almost as fearsome as the beast had done – huge, pelt-clad, covered in unfamiliar totems and war-tattoos. One of them was a bear of a man with a thick black beard that spilled down a metal breastplate. He carried a double-bladed axe in two hands, and swaggered through the icy surf. Others came after him – thickset fighters with throwing axes and blunt hammers and iron rings piercing their faces.

  Jorund watched them come, gauging numbers. ‘As pinched as we,’ he muttered, fingering his own axe impatiently. ‘We can take them.’ He turned to Bolg, his cupbearer since Aesgir had been taken. ‘Now. Before they clear the beaches.’

  Bolg nodded curtly, thumping his own warhammer into an empty palm. ‘I count twenty.’

  The Ascurii broke into a run, careering down the steep path towards the shoreline. As he ran, Jorund bellowed his defiance, soon joined by the others. Baldr raised his voice with them, running as hard as they did, whirling his axe around his head. The fear left him, replaced by a growing excitement – a yearning to get into the fight, to crack the iron into flesh and bone. Together, the Ascurii tore across the stone-land, their leather boots thudding on the ice and granite.

  Jorund was first among them, hurtling down onto the beach and barrelling straight into the oncoming newcomers. Bolg was next, then the others, all sprinting, whooping as the blades came to bear.

  Baldr darted among them, faster and shorter. A man with long red hair lunged at him with a spiked cudgel, trying to catch him on the nape before lumbering after more serious prey.

  Baldr dodged the blow. He lashed his axe-head across, not aiming, just swiping. It connected with the man’s trailing wrist, and the edge cut clean through, taking the hand off at the bone.

  The man screamed and collapsed, clutching at his pumping wrist, trying to staunch the torrent that sprayed from the wound. Blood splashed against Baldr’s chest and face, blinding him. He staggered back, wiping his eyes, only to see his enemy slump onto his back, writhing in agony.

  A fierce pleasure blazed through him. He spun his axe about and buried it in the man’s chest, ending his yelps. Then Baldr whirled around, ready for the next one.

  By then the stony beach was riven by cries and screams, by the clang and thud of metal blades clashing and finding their targets. Blood dotted the air like kicked chaff. Men ran at one another, shaggy locks flailing, arms pumping. Jorund had beaten his man and was grappling with another. Bolg had had his legs chopped from under him and lay twitching in a slick of gore.

  The tang of blood made Baldr heady. He flung himself at the nearest newcomer – a boy not much older than him, hefting a long maul. The boy squared up, long sandy hair flying across his face. He bared his teeth like an animal, and ran at Baldr.

  Baldr waited for the maul to swing in, jerking out of the way at the last moment. He darted back with his axe, hoping to catch the boy’s leg, but missed by a hand’s width.

  The boy was as quick as he was, slippery as a worm. They circled one another, lunging and feinting. Baldr rushed him, hammering the axe down, but the boy got his maul up to parry and the weapons banged together.

  Baldr pressed the attack, working the axe around to thrust it up at the boy’s chest. The sandy-haired fighter fell away, retreating, keeping his weapon raised.

  ‘Had enough?’ taunted Baldr. The boy didn’t respond – only then did Baldr realise he didn’t speak the same tongue.

  They clashed again. The boy swung his maul at Baldr’s head – a wild lunge, full of venom. Baldr nearly didn’t dodge it, and felt the rush of air as it swished past his face. Before he’d had time to feel the shock of the near hit, he was twisting at the waist, backhanding the axe across at chest height.

  The blade bit deep, cracking bone and carving the muscle open. Baldr’s opponent screamed, dropping the maul as his limbs spasmed. Baldr hacked again, severing the boy’s neck and dropping him.

  Before the body had even hit the stones, Baldr was roaring in delight. He could feel the heat of the blood on him. All around him, men fought desperate battles – eyes were gouged, skin was ripped, throats were throttled.

  He whirled, looking for fresh kills. As he did so, his eyes suddenly caught the top of the headland, a long way off now and part-masked by drifting fog. For a moment, just a heartbeat, he thought he saw a hunched outline on the summit. He thought he saw two golden eyes, ridged fur, a long maw.

  He kept moving, but the sight distracted him, so he didn’t see the man bearing down on him, fresh from beating an Ascurii hunter into the bloody surf. This man was bigger than the first one he’d killed, wearing snarled furs that made him look half animal. The man rushed Baldr, giving him no time to swing his axe.

  Baldr ducked, aiming to pounce clear and get space, but something hit him on the back, followed by a hot, sick rush across his head and spine. He crashed to the ground, tasting salty grit in his mouth.

  He tried to rise, to get to his feet, but something heavier cracked across his back, flooring him. His vision blurred, and the pain came on – astonishing pain, radiating out from hot wounds.

  Somehow, he pushed himself onto his back, axe still in hand. He tried to rise, to find some way to fight back before the lather of blood in his mouth choked him.

  The man didn’t come after him – he was standing, mouth open, looking up at the sky. The clouds were churning, tearing like fabric. Baldr thought he saw the shadow of some enormous bird swooping out of the emptiness, but then his eyes failed him.

  He arched his ravaged back, racked in agony, feeling his heart racing out of control. Still he clutched the axe in his hand. He heard a booming roar, like the sea coming in, and heard men’s voices raised in alarm and terror.

  Then he was out, lost in a crimson world of pain and madness.

  He slept for a long time. At times he half roused, and realised that he was not dead. The world was filled with sounds and smells he didn’t know. Everything was thundering, swaying, tilting.

  It was hard to o
pen his eyes. Something had been done to them – it felt like wires across the lids.

  He managed it, during one of the rare times his awareness returned, just briefly, before the pain pulled him back under.

  He was in some kind of chamber, square-sided, smooth like the face of an axe. Men towered over him, draped in matted furs. They looked like giants. They smelt like wolves. They didn’t look at him.

  He twisted his head. He was lying on the floor, and it felt as if the earth were shaking. Far off, he saw a door, open to the white sky. The clouds seemed to be racing past it impossibly fast.

  He didn’t know what he was seeing. He didn’t know why the floor of the chamber was vibrating and juddering like a seer in a fit, nor why the air was so painfully thin, nor where the thunder-roar came from.

  His head cracked back, he felt groggy again and knew he was going under. Just as he did, the clouds ripped apart, showing him the face of a mountain through the narrow door.

  He was above it. He was above the mountain.

  Baldr passed out then. The rush of oblivion embraced him, dragging him down, sucking the last warmth from his battered, bloody, hacked body.

  He slept.

  It would be a long time before he woke, or saw that mountain again, or saw or felt anything else. In his sleep, unbeknown to him, came healing, and change, and augmentation. Whispered voices came and went like dreams.

  When he woke, much later, nothing was the same. It would never be again. Only the name remained, the one he had been given on the ice-crossing so the gods would know his soul.

  Baldr. Fjolnir. God-marked.

  I. The Cardinal

  Chapter One

  ‘He will wake,’ said Ingvar.

  Gunnlaugur looked sceptical. ‘How long?’

  ‘A few days.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Olgeir says the same. Fjolnir dreams again.’

  Gunnlaugur looked down at his hands. A thick cloth hung between his fingers, black with cleansing oils. His massive thunder hammer, skulbrotsjór, leant against one knee, its ornate gilding half swabbed. The old detail was coming through again, obscured for too long by blood and filth. Cleaning it away was cathartic – a reminder of old rhythms.