Fenrir c-2

by M. D. Lachlan

  When she returned, Jehan was still kneeling among the corpses, drooling out his psalms. There was blood on his lips and the corpse in front of him was torn and ripped, its guts spilled.

  ‘I cannot command it. I am a man, not an angel. I cannot command it. It is my love for you that has weakened me.’

  ‘I would be your strength.’

  ‘Our love has been a sin against my deepest vows. God has turned his face against me.’

  ‘How can He hate you for loving?’

  Jehan had tears in his eyes. ‘I do not know, but He does.’

  Still she felt his will, the strength of his soul.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘The choice is infirmity or abomination, the unholy and proscribed use of magic or to be the victim of magic. One way or another I am bound for hell. The choice that faces my mortal body is its pain or the world’s. In imitation of Christ, I choose my own. I will be what I was. Tie on the stone.’

  She put it about his neck. As she did so, the runes returned to her, shining, chiming, melodious. ‘You can remove it when you become too weak.’

  ‘I will not remove it.’ He swallowed hard and stiffened his jaw.

  ‘Then what of us?’

  ‘It cannot be. It cannot be.’ Tears were in his eyes and he was panting great reedy breaths like a man dying of consumption.

  ‘Whatever you become, I will be by your side,’ she said. ‘I will take you to Helgi. He will make us both whole again, free us from the magic that holds us in its grip.’

  She reached out with her mind to the horse rune, its golden lustre colouring her sight, turning the silver trees to a breathing bronze.

  ‘We will need,’ she said, ‘an animal.’

  64

  A Seat at the Oar

  It quickly became clear that there was no way through by land for Leshii, Ofaeti and Hugin. The road to the east was alive with hostile warriors — Franks and Norsemen hard at war with each other. If they went far enough someone from either side would decide to kill them for their possessions.

  The rain poured down and the three struck for the coast under heavy skies, Ofaeti and Hugin trudging through the mud and Leshii riding the mule. There had been no sign of the horses. When the weather cleared the land seemed fresh and there was smoke on the breeze. This was pleasant to Hugin. On his high mountain he had often caught the scent of fires in the valleys below and wondered what it would be like to live his life around home and hearth.

  The Raven knew that when Sigfrid had died a large contingent of the Vikings besieging Paris had decided to head off and try their luck in the lands of Arnulf, the East Frankish king, so that was where they headed, hoping to pick up a boat. There should be either local Frankish craft to be bought or stolen and the chance of Viking ships with room for passengers.

  He had quit the woods in frustration, though his every instinct told him that was where she was. When all sign of her or the wolf had ceased he had given in and decided to try with Helgi, reasoning that she may still seek out the prince. And if she wasn’t there? If he was right in his suspicions she had to be. Could he kill Helgi? Perhaps, if the god did not yet know himself. But should he? Perhaps it would be better to protect Helgi from the wolf. But the god had a way of finding his chosen death, he suspected. So what options did that leave him? Find Aelis and protect her from the wolf, from the god and whatever other perils lay in her path. Defy the will of fate.

  Ofaeti followed, happy to let Hugin take the lead. Leshii was just glad to be out of the forest. Searching there had been a fool’s errand, he thought. And whatever waited for him at Ladoga, he would be glad to see home again, out of the forest in the cold autumn.

  A couple of weeks into their journey they crested a small hill and saw a wide marshy plain laid out before them with a town tucked into the crook of a river. The buildings were smouldering, a banner of smoke hanging over them in the windless air. Even at a distance Hugin could see that a terrible battle had taken place.

  The town was large and circular with tall and grassy ramparts. Twenty longboats were moored in front of it, and people were just visible, working among them, wading or using small boats, dragging things out of the river onto the swampy ground that bordered it. Grey light, grey water, Hugin had difficulty seeing what it was they were moving. Then his eyes focused and he saw bodies.

  ‘The Franks have held out,’ he said.

  ‘A cold welcome for Northmen here, I think,’ said Ofaeti.

  The Raven nodded.

  ‘Arnulf of Carinthia’s a different man to Charles the Fat,’ said Leshii.

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Ofaeti, ‘a man with glory to his name. It’s said that if he was the emperor in the west instead of fat Charles then we’d have slimmer pickings by far.’

  ‘Only pickings here for crows,’ said Hugin. He noticed Ofaeti giving him a funny look. ‘There are plenty of boats down there. If we can steal or buy one then we can catch the fleet as it retreats.’

  ‘If I had but eight of my beserkers we’d take one of those drakkar and be away as rich men,’ said Ofaeti.

  ‘A river barge would be better,’ said Hugin. ‘We’ll go down tonight.’

  ‘A good plan,’ said Ofaeti.

  When the night came little fires sprang up across the plain. On an island in the river a feast seemed to be taking place. Torches were everywhere — on the island and on the boats that shuttled between the town and the celebration.

  The three moved off the hill into a network of tiny hedged fields. Luckily there was a good path, and as they passed along they heard sounds of rejoicing from every little farm. It was late in the year; the Norsemen hadn’t burned the fields and the harvest was in. People had reason to be happy. It was cold, but the three men moved quickly and didn’t feel it. The path led to the raised riverbank.

  ‘Merchant, you can do the talking,’ said Hugin.

  The Raven and Ofaeti watched from a distance until Leshii had struck his bargain, then approached, their heads cowled. The Franks who had sold Leshii the boat watched the odd figures climb aboard. Strangers should in theory have been reported to the lord, but the people had been hungry during the Viking siege and the money was welcome. The merchant had bought a good-sized river boat with oars and a mast that Ofaeti shook in a disapproving way. The Viking said nothing, though. The Franks were within earshot, and the Frankish clothes he had taken from the outlaws were a thin disguise.

  A greasy moon put a smear of light onto the clouds and visibility, though not perfect, was good enough for them to set off immediately, so they got the mule on board.

  Ofaeti took the oars, and they pushed off out into the current. The boat slipped forward through the water with the flow towards the sea. Progress was steady, although every once in a while an oar would snag on a floating corpse or the boat would bump something. Ofaeti smiled and said, ‘A bit late for swimming, isn’t it?’

  Leshii kept his eyes on his feet and the Raven was silent. He knew what Munin had prophesied for him, and there, in the faces of the dead men looming like pale fish under the weak moon, he saw his future. Death by water. Given the choice he would never have gone by boat, but he had travelled that way before and intended to go east under sail if he could. He had a great destiny, Munin had said. But she had lied about so much. Perhaps he was destined to die in a stupid way — a fall from a boat, a spear from a villager. The fact of his death did not concern him, only that he would not be there to protect Aelis from her fate. He had died for her before. He saw the teeth of the wolf coming towards him, heard her screams in that tight little cavern where he had faced the creature. It wouldn’t be like that this time, he knew. Death by water.

  Dawn came up under a slate sky. There was a little wind and Ofaeti put up the sail. The current was with them and they made good progress. The river fed into another bigger one and they kept with its flow, heading for the sea. All around them the land was burned — houses and crops reduced to nothing.

  They tried to b
uy food but the people were destitute. Their farms and houses had been smashed and those who remained were just haunting their old lives, not living them. So the three went hungry.

  When it got too dark to see they pulled into the bank. The Raven lit a fire, Leshii let the mule stretch its legs, and they sat neither eating nor speaking until they slept. The next day was the same. The Vikings had not had it all their own way, even before their defeat at the upriver town. Norse heads adorned spikes at one farm, and Ofaeti had to be talked out of going ashore to avenge the injustice. It was one thing for a man to be left for the crows where he lay, another to flaunt his death in that way.

  On they went, the sky grey, the air spotting with rain.

  ‘I had not thought we had come this far inland,’ said Leshii.

  ‘The forest is difficult to read,’ said Ofaeti.

  The current was faster now so Ofaeti took down the sail but the boat did not feel steady ‘This is not boatbuilding,’ he said; ‘this is throwing wood in a pile, nailing it together and hoping it floats. The Franks should stick to their horses.’

  Finally a bay, broad and lovely, the iron clouds lighting up with the dusk.

  ‘The sun forges a blade of clouds,

  The oath wind fills our sails.’

  ‘I didn’t have you down as a poet,’ said Leshii to Ofaeti.

  ‘A warrior must be able to do the brave deed, but he must also be able to immortalise it, to have his sons sing it for ever.’

  Hugin nodded. ‘Such things allow our sons to honour us. I’m glad you have this talent, Ofaeti. You will sing a song of our adventures for me to hear in future lives.’

  Leshii had more pressing concerns. ‘Can this thing take us all the way?’

  Ofaeti shook his head. ‘It’s not an ocean vessel; it’s hardly even a river vessel. It’ll be swamped by any decent-sized wave. But, trust me, there will be northern men here. After a battle like that, someone will have a damaged ship to repair; someone will need to replenish his crew with slaves or be waiting for stragglers. They will be here and not far.’

  They disembarked and camped, and in the morning abandoned the boat and headed east. They’d walked half the morning when they found themselves above a little cove. There on the beach was a longship, men working on its steering oar at the stern. It was a big ship, long and low to the water, but its figurehead had been removed. There were only about twenty Vikings, three of them clearly wounded and laid out on the sand.

  ‘This is our ship,’ said Ofaeti and started to make his way down to the cove.

  ‘Hold, Frankish man!’ The Vikings had spotted him. ‘Know that we are ready for death but still ready to charge dearly for our lives. No horse can you bring against us here and must fight on your feet like a man.’ The man who spoke was tall and thin. He’d picked up an axe with one hand, though the other hung limp at his side and Hugin guessed it was broken.

  ‘Brothers,’ shouted Ofaeti, ‘I am no mare-bound Frank but an honest scrapper like yourselves.’

  ‘You’re a Horda man! I know you by your speech.’

  ‘To my bones,’ shouted Ofaeti, ‘which are cold enough. May I warm them by your fire?’

  ‘You speak fine words, friend, and I can see you are a witty man. Come, you are welcome,’ said another of the band.

  They were given a good reception. The men had some fish stew, which they shared. They were Danes but had traded with the Horda and Roga peoples and so were well disposed towards the three. Hugin saw they were wary of him, recognising him as a sorcerer, but he did what he could for them, tending their wounds, splinting their arms and making poultices and bandages from what he could find. The Vikings agreed it was a lucky day that they had come upon such men.

  As Hugin worked, Ofaeti came to his side. ‘A word,’ he said, slapping the Raven on the back as if telling him a joke.

  Hugin stood and followed Ofaeti to the longship, where the big Viking pretended to be examining the steering oar, asking Hugin’s opinion on how it might be replaced.

  ‘I know these men, or one of them,’ he said. ‘This is Skakki the Long. He is an outlaw in our lands. It’s not enough for him to trade; he has snatched slaves too — good Horda men. I will repay him with his death.’

  ‘We need him and his crew,’ said Hugin.

  ‘I know. But know this: when we are nearly at land I will kill him and his men.’

  ‘They are twenty.’

  ‘Yes, and I will die. But they will be fifteen or less by the time I do.’

  ‘We can’t dock a ship with just you. I am no sailor.’

  ‘I will do it near the shore. Very near. With luck his men will jump and swim for it. If they don’t, you can swim in too. I expect no help in this.’

  Hugin nodded but he couldn’t allow this to happen. He had to kill Helgi, that now seemed like the best course to stop the prophecy that the god would die at the teeth of the wolf. He was becoming convinced that Helgi was the god made flesh. Helgi was a great warrior, a patron of poets and of sorcerers. Odin was god of war, poetry and magic. And madness too. There could be no delay, so Hugin would have to kill Ofaeti. And yet he didn’t want to. The Viking had brought him a sort of luck. Was he Odin’s reward for all the warriors Hugin had sent to his halls? The fat man had shown him the wolf could be cut too. The Raven touched his sword. If he’d realised that in the monastery at Saint-Maurice, how different might things have been? When the wolf had still been in human form he might have been killable. Now? Hugin doubted it.

  Could he call on Odin? Hadn’t he betrayed the god? Wasn’t he going to try to save the woman who would call the wolf? Who could he call on then? Loki? The words went through his mind before he could stop them: Lord of lies, friend to man, help me to my purpose.

  The tall Viking joined them at the ship. ‘We’re trying to repair it but we can’t work with green wood.’ He tapped the broken steering oar. ‘We’ve had no luck at all on this voyage. We hit the Franks here with over a hundred ships, but Arnulf is a mighty king and he knows his land. He brought his cavalry through the marshes to attack us. I had never seen so many horses. We were slaughtered and only just made our ships. The oar got torn off landing here. Sandbanks.’

  ‘Don’t you have anything to show for your troubles at all?’ said Ofaeti.

  ‘Nothing. Well, only them — slaves we picked up down the river.’

  Hugin followed the man’s nod to where two men sat tied back to back. He hadn’t noticed them before. One was a farm boy, terribly beaten, scarcely conscious. The other was a very strange fellow indeed — tall and muscular, his skin looked almost as if it belonged to the sea, pallid like the belly of a shark. His hair was bright red and stood up in a shock.

  ‘The boy’s not likely to make it, but the big one’ll fetch a bit at market.’

  ‘Let me look at the oar,’ said Ofaeti. ‘I have some skill as a shipwright and it won’t be too much bother to fix. I can borrow a bit from your deck and our little boat, if it’s still where we left it.’

  ‘I like you!’ said Skakki, slapping Ofaeti’s back. ‘I’m glad you’re aboard. Maybe now our luck has changed!’

  65

  The Ice

  Jehan’s heart felt like a cooling rock, his once strong body was now a useless weight as Aelis had pushed his baggage of limbs up onto the horse. The world was fading. His sight had gone, and now the night sounds, once so sharp and clear, seemed muted, far off. Smell, a sense that had been stronger than vision to him, seemed stifled and blunt. The flavours he had known — the laden breezes of the forest, the teeming airs of the meadows, the tarry stink of far-off oceans, the million rots of bog and fen — were gone. In their place was the thin palette of human perceptions.

  Aelis had called the horse — a big brindled mare. The animal had come trotting out of the woods to wait beside her while she helped him up.

  The two travelled north to the coast and then turned east. Aelis easily found the way through the vast forest, guided by a rune that shone like a beacon.
The other horses she had taken from the Raven and his companions followed them at the beginning of their journey. Then she raised her hand to dismiss them and they turned into the deep woods.

  Jehan was finding the going very hard physically, almost impossible. His body chafed with the movement of the horse, his joints ached and his muscles trembled. His mind came back to him and he often wept with the memory of the things he had done, the people he had killed.

  Aelis was beside him. ‘Do you want me to take off the stone for a moment?’

  ‘I cannot give in to murder.’

  She nodded. The girl she had been was just like a movement of the light inside her, a rainbow that appeared in a fleeting alignment of sun and cloud and then was gone, as the runes took her mind once more.

  When she did return to herself she longed for him — his voice, his touch but the confessor’s voice was weakening, his limbs no more use than dead branches to a tree.

  Aelis knew they could not go on much further. She sensed people in the woods, watching from the darkness, and she reached out to them to send them away, to push them shuddering into madness or to blind their eyes to their presence. She sensed the Northmen on the coast before she saw them — a beaten and bedraggled band seeking shelter in an inlet, hiding from the Franks, who would kill them in a second. They had wounded with them and men who smelled of rot and decay. She watched their camp. They were too scared to even light a fire, their ship on its side providing scant shelter from the sheets of fine mizzle.

  She told the horse to go. Then she took the confessor in her arms and walked down through the gorse to the little beach, calling a rune into her mind as she did so, the one that whispered of ocean depths, secrets and shadows. There on the sand she laid him down and ate with the northerners at their fire. None noticed her or the confessor because she did not choose to let them notice them.