Fenrir c-2

by M. D. Lachlan

  ‘I will see to it, khagan.’

  Aelis felt the warrior’s fear like a blast of cold air.

  Wine was brought and heated in a pot over the fire. Aelis drank in its sweet aroma. She was given roast goat’s meat and flat bread, which tasted wonderful to her. The wine made her feel sleepy, and when the food was finished she lay back on the mattress.

  Aelis drifted off to sleep and she dreamed. She was back in the forests of her youth, chasing hawkmoths that fluttered around her in the wet dawn. The moths sang and chimed with an odd music as she tried to catch them, some sounding high and melodious, some like the wind on the sea. She was lost to rapture in the morning light but then felt something uncomfortable at her neck. She looked down. It was the stone, the Wolfstone. She tried to take it off, but her hands wouldn’t do her bidding. It was ridiculous that she couldn’t do such a simple thing as remove a pendant from about her neck. She looked at the pebble and knew she had seen it before. It was a fragment like her, a shattered piece of a bigger thing. She knew its name — Gjoll in the language of the Norsemen — Scream. She looked around her. The woods had grown dark and the moths were all gone.

  Helgi stepped back from her bed. ‘Watch her,’ he said, ‘and do not let her take that pendant from around her neck.’

  70

  The Price of Lore

  ‘What have I in my hand, my cold friend?’

  To the Raven it seemed as if he was alone on the open deck. He couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from. He stood up. The sky was clear and dark, the still ocean its perfect reflection, and it seemed as though the ship floated on a bubble of stars.

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘It is your death.’

  The slavers’ captive with the moon-glow skin was standing at his side. No one else was on the ship. Had they all been killed? The man put out his fist and opened it. Inside was a tooth. Hugin recognised it as the tooth of a wolf.

  ‘My death is by water.’

  ‘What is Helgi’s death?’

  ‘By the creature of hoof and mane.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. And the girl?’

  ‘By the teeth of the wolf.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘All these things I have seen. Shown to me.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘By Munin.’

  ‘You know the truth of that lady’s tongue,’ said the god, as now the Raven was sure he must be.

  ‘Who was she?’

  The pale god moved his hands and a cord appeared in it. ‘Tie it,’ he said. ‘The knot the wild woman showed you. His symbol, the dead god’s necklace.’

  Hugin tried to tie it but couldn’t. Only two of the three knots would come. He just couldn’t think how to tie the final one.

  The god took the rope. ‘She was here,’ he said, pointing to one of the two knots. He pulled very hard on both ends of the rope. ‘And now she is here.’

  Hugin looked and the knots had been forced together, becoming indistinguishable from each other, becoming one.

  ‘Why couldn’t I tie the noose?’

  ‘Because Odin is not here on earth. The three knots are not yet together.’

  ‘How will the last knot be tied?’

  ‘What does the knot do? What is its purpose?’

  ‘Murder. Death.’

  ‘You have your answer.’

  ‘Aelis’s death?’

  ‘She carries the runes. One way or the other she will cease to exist.’

  ‘She carries the one rune, the howling rune, the one that draws the wolf.’

  ‘She does, but Munin found that she carried more. She sought the lady’s death to speed the god to earth, not to slow him.’

  ‘That is not true.’

  ‘She deceived you in everything, and yet you think she told the truth in that. This rune was in her.’

  He held out his hand again. A shape wriggled and turned on it, making it difficult to say exactly how it was composed. Sometimes its lines seemed horizontal, sometimes vertical, sometimes a mix. It was Ansuz. Odin’s rune.

  The Raven swallowed. He felt the blood drain from his face and a tightness came into his stomach. ‘The god set his runes in Aelis too? Then everything I have done has been against myself. I sped her to this fate when in rage I killed Munin.’

  ‘You are a warrior. That is what they do — indulge themselves at everyone else’s cost.’

  ‘I did not know.’

  ‘What killer ever knows what skeins go unwoven because of his interceding knife?’

  ‘If I had not killed her the god’s day would be further off.’

  ‘You would have needed to go further. The runes seek to unite. One rune carrier seeks to kill the others. You would have needed to protect Munin, even against her will.’

  ‘It is what I was raised to do.’

  ‘Well, I do try to be of service.’

  ‘You were the wild woman who said she was my mother?’

  ‘I am your mother and your father both. Like many gods I have many selves, eternal and temporary. Mine are lovely, seductive, wrong-headed and fecund.’

  ‘You served Munin.’

  ‘I am the hanged god’s servant, if one who hates and frustrates his master.’

  ‘I will atone for my errors.’

  ‘Then make sure that this does not happen.’

  The god took the cord from Hugin’s fingers, twisted it, and the third knot was in place.

  ‘How?’

  ‘The knot’s bond is death.’

  Hugin saw what the god meant. He needed to keep Aelis and whoever bore the other runes alive. While they lived, the runes could not unite and the god could not come to earth.

  ‘Is she at Aldeigjuborg?’

  ‘There can be no revelation without compensation. What will you do for me?’

  Hugin said nothing, his head heavy and his senses beginning to dull in the presence of the god. Loki, lord of lies. The name came to Hugin with a sound like frying meat.

  The god continued: ‘Would you live? Would you walk away? Will you be content to have played the wolf and never the shepherd? Will you join the ranks of those joyous and god-blessed murderers we call heroes?’ He clicked his fingers near Hugin’s ear and the Raven’s senses cleared.

  ‘I do not fear for my own life.’

  ‘Good job, considering,’ said the man, ‘but are you not dead?’

  ‘You know I only appear that way.’

  ‘A spell.’

  ‘A trick. I have lain by the side of the dead god in the darkness, and I have shared in his knowledge, no matter how fleetingly.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘I hate the gods.’

  ‘You are the only god here.’

  Loki waved his hand and the boat was full again, the whole crew asleep under the stars.

  ‘The men of this boat would act as gods. Like the gods they snatch children from their mothers for their amusement and profit. Like the gods they are cowardly and corrupt, though people esteem them heroes. I hate the heroes, with their murders and their wars.’

  ‘Then you must hate me for I have killed many men.’

  ‘Are you a hero, Hugin? Hrafn, my fine bird? Do you seek fame and glory?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you seek?’

  ‘I have only ever sought… safety,’ said Hugin, surprising himself with the word.

  ‘Then give me what I want.’

  ‘A sacrifice?’

  ‘Not a sacrifice. You do not care for these men.’

  ‘We cannot sail a boat with three of us.’

  ‘Then it is a sacrifice.’

  ‘Kill them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what do I get in return, god?’

  ‘To see your lady.’’

  ‘Will I save her?’

  ‘The future is a teeming city. How numberless its avenues.’

  ‘I will die.’

  ‘A
horrible and excruciating death.’

  ‘Will it save her?’

  The god leaned forward and whispered in Hugin’s ear, ‘I have shown you enough. Now what will you do for me?’

  The Raven woke up. The night was overcast and almost lightless, though his sharp eyes could see shapes in the darkness. It was enough. Behind him, against the faint, faint light of the sky, he could see a man at the steering oar, there more out of habit than for any useful purpose. Hugin guessed that the cloud had blown in quickly and the longship had had no time to make for shore before being caught in the pitch dark. When that happened it was better to sit tight and bargain with your gods than make for the land unsighted.

  Hugin did not move, he just said his charm under his breath.

  ‘I am a raven,

  A rag upon the breeze.

  I am a raven,

  The hungry mouth of death.

  I am a raven,

  The cracked voice of the night.’

  He said the charm over and over, opening that part of his mind that had opened in the mountain tunnel, that part that ritual and suffering had allowed him to touch. His knife had been driven into the ship’s rail. He pulled it from the wood, then he was just a shadow among shadows, a darkness with a blade.

  The helmsman was taken below the ribcage with a stab to the heart and died before he had a chance to scream. Hugin lowered him to the deck. The next few died quickly and silently, throats cut in their sleep. He took five that way, and crawled forwards to reach the midship. There was the smell of the mule, the bulk of the creature just visible. Hugin put his hand out, felt a turbaned head and crawled forward with his knife. No, the god had spoken of wanting murderers. Not him. Nor the fat Viking. He crawled round the merchant and touched a fat belly.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Ofaeti’s voice.

  Hugin had no time to lose. He sprang through the darkness, working his knife to deadly effect.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘I’m cut!’

  ‘A troll witch!’

  ‘I’m cut. I’m cut!’

  ‘Aaaah!’

  ‘Stay calm!’ It was Ofaeti’s voice.

  But the men went for their weapons and cut at the darkness, sightless and terrified.

  Hugin ducked to the deck as axe and sword bit, as arms lashed out and panic swept the ship.

  ‘I cannot see! I cannot see!’

  ‘Then stop fighting!’

  ‘Is this your work, Horda man?’

  There was a splash. Someone had fallen overboard. Then more screaming and the sound of axe, sword and spear striking home.

  It was quiet for a while. The first rays of dawn came from behind the horizon. Hugin sat at the prow. He had recovered his curved sword. It was in his hand, naked and gleaming in the new day’s light. Only five other men still lived on the longship.

  ‘You!’ said a slaver.

  The merchant was lying at the back of the boat with his hands over his head, while Ofaeti stood near him at the helm, a spear pointing forward to skewer anyone who came for him.

  ‘He has come back from the grave for us!’ The gap-toothed boy let his axe slip to the deck.

  ‘I’ll kill you again, ghost!’ Another slaver was not so easily scared and leaped towards Hugin with a spear. But the boat was full of dead and the dying, and he tripped as he advanced. Hugin grabbed the spear, stepped past its point and beheaded him. In a breath a second man had his leg cut off below the shield. He fell to the blood-wet deck and took a mortal blow from Hugin’s sword to the side of the head. Only the youth remained. He was crying and cowering from Hugin.

  ‘Why have you done this? Skakki’s dead. Honour is satisfied!’ Ofaeti threw up his hands in disbelief.

  Hugin pointed at the youth. ‘He must die too.’

  ‘Your magic?’

  ‘The gods.’

  Ofaeti turned to the youth. ‘Then there’s nothing for it, son. You have to fight him.’

  ‘He will kill me! He has killed us all!’

  ‘Believe me, the doors of Valhalla will open wide for the man who dies fighting him. It’s death one way or another, so stand up and face him. Don’t die snivelling and go to Hell.’ He pressed an axe into the youth’s hand.

  ‘Help me against him. He might kill you too.’

  ‘I have travelled with him for many days and he has had plenty of opportunity to do that if he wanted to. And even if that weren’t the case, he has offered me no harm, so why should I seek it from him? It’s a choice between you fighting him and me fighting him. You’ll excuse me if I choose you. Now go on, summon your courage.’

  At first the youth was tentative, but then his courage bit and he swung an overhead blow at Hugin, who closed and blocked high with the curved sword, taking off both the youth’s hands at the wrist. Hugin caught the axe and turned to strike the youth from the back, hacking deep into his neck and dropping him to the deck.

  Hugin looked down at the corpse he had just made.

  ‘Are you a ghost?’ said Ofaeti.

  ‘No. It was an enchantment.’

  ‘Nice trick. Good job we kept your body on the boat, though.’

  ‘Is it not bad weather luck to throw a witch into the sea, even a dead one?’

  ‘It is that. And thank your gods they were men of that opinion. I see one slave survived.’

  The pale red-haired man was by the mule, still tied to the farm boy, who had been speared straight through, the weapon still stuck in him. The red-haired man said nothing. Hugin looked at him but did not associate him with the visitation of the god.

  ‘Well,’ said Ofaeti, ‘there can be no slaves now. Free him and let’s see if we can sail this ship.’

  Leshii was convinced his leg had been broken by the mule. He swallowed down the pain and held out his knife. Ofaeti took it and went to free the slave. The man stood, seemingly no worse for his long ordeal.

  ‘Are you a sailor, friend?’ said Ofaeti.

  ‘I am a rare salt,’ said the pale man.

  ‘Then help me sort out the sail. Hugin, merchant, you help too. Then we can get the bodies overboard. That lot smelled enough when they were alive; death will not improve them.’

  The pale man was no liar and seemed a skilled sailor. The sail was up quickly, though the merchant was no help. His leg was really broken and he could not stand.

  ‘My people have a wind charm,’ said the pale man. ‘Which way do you want to go?’

  ‘Aldeigjuborg!’

  The man picked up a cord from the deck. There was a strange, complicated knot in it. He unpicked the knot and shook it at the sail. The wind filled its belly and the ship moved forward with a lurch.

  ‘We should have released you earlier,’ said Ofaeti, rushing to take the tiller. ‘I see you and I will be friends!’

  The pale man smiled. ‘Any service I give,’ he said, ‘I am sure you will repay.’

  71

  The Table of Demons

  This time it was happening faster. Before, the wolf had slunk out of him; now it came raging. The hunger was irresistible. Jehan groaned and screamed as his wasted muscles twitched into movement. His limbs seemed to crack and grate as he squirmed across the cold deck.

  He knew what he was going to do, knew what he needed. He was weak, his human thoughts locked below ice. Only the hunger of the wolf, the same hunger that kept him from death, was in his mind now.

  He writhed his way forwards until he bumped into something. He could tell it was not part of the structure of the boat, but something softer. He couldn’t make his body roll, so, shivering and shaking, he turned himself round on the floor with his legs. The effort was enormous, and, despite the cold, he was sweating. Now his head was against something that felt like a man’s coat. Groaning, he wriggled his way up the body. An arm. Again, he slithered along the icy deck in increments, his muscles impelling him on and then rebelling into spasms, his joints as solidly locked as the icebound ship. And then, an ungloved hand. The men who had come onto the ship had stripped th
e oarsmen looking for jewellery. Jehan was next to a half-naked Viking.

  He worked his head around until he had a finger in his mouth. He had too much of it, the whole finger, and couldn’t bite down. Jehan pushed back with his lips until only a fold of flesh was in his teeth. The first bite was agony. He could hardly puncture the flesh. His jaw was like an old gate long surrendered to decay and rust. But move it did, and the taste of blood, rich and deep, was in his mouth with the promise of more. He swallowed. Then he bit again.

  A flash of his old life came to him: the chapel at evening, the smoke of beeswax candles in the air. And then the memory slipped away, flickering into darkness like a hare into the woods. His old life was gone.

  While the monks of Saint-Germain went about their duties between vespers and compline he managed two bites. Between compline and nocturns he ate six. By lauds, as the sun turned the mist to a glowing grey, he had eaten the flesh of the whole hand, his neck freer, his jaw stronger. By prime he had removed most of the flesh of the arm. By terce he had the strength to tear open the belly and eat the lights, the liver and heart. By the time vespers came round again he was sitting up on the boat, the cold freezing the Viking’s blood to his clothes. But the blood in his veins was now warm, the confessor’s thoughts released from their shackles of cold.

  Jehan stood up and put his hand to his neck. The stone was missing. He looked down at what he had done. He felt the wolf inside him almost smirk, content to rest a while before feeding some more. Already his teeth felt too big for his head, his mouth more central to his consciousness than his hands. The change he had known before was rushing upon him now. That feeling was in him — a mixture of dread and glee as the human recognised the animal.

  Why had God put him through this again? He had regained himself only to lose himself. He had been content to die and to face the mercy of God. Now he was condemned to walk again, prey to the vilest lusts.

  He recalled Corinthians: You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons too; you cannot have a part in both the Lord’s table and the table of demons. He looked at the wreckage of the corpse. What was that if not the table of demons? The Lord had shut him out or he had shut himself out. Whatever had happened, there was no heaven after this. So what then? Embrace hell? Never.