Time of the Wolf

by James Wilde

  Acha bowed her head, her black hair falling across her face.

  “From across the whale-road they come, on wave-steeds, bringing doom to all,” the elderly woman continued. “Amid the spear-din, the battle-sweat will stain the hillsides. A new breaker of rings will arise, but his rule will be brutal and bloody.”

  “The End-Times,” Acha breathed, “as the Bible foretold.”

  “Starvation. Sickness. Many will die. This land will be blighted. And all the beauty we have made here, and the joy, and the songs, the wisdom of our ancestors, all the great things we have made and the great things we have done, will be washed away as if by the spring floods.” Britheva fixed an eye on Hereward through the swirl of blue smoke. “Are you afraid, Feeder of Ravens?”

  “There are prophecies and portents everywhere these days. If these dark times come, they come.”

  “You are ready.” The elderly woman chuckled. “You have been forged in fire. You know death as a friend, I see that, and not only on the battlefield.”

  Hereward flinched once more; the wise woman struck too close. Unbidden, his mind flashed to his mother’s dead face, her glassy eyes staring into his own, her features barely recognizable. And then to Tidhild, his love, lying in the pool of still-fresh blood, her pebble-eyes staring too, accusing. He had brought death to her hearth; he alone carried the responsibility for her ending. He had always feared that he was cursed, and now it seemed that this woman recognized it too.

  He started to rise, but Britheva grabbed his wrist once more and held him back with surprising strength. “Does the truth cause you pain?” she hissed. “There is a reason for all things. The pattern unfolds around us, but we see only the smallest part of it.”

  “And what do you see for him?” Acha asked.

  Britheva peered into Hereward’s face for a long moment. “I see him surrounded by fire, a wall of flames.”

  “No prophecy, that,” he replied with a shrug. “It has already happened.”

  “And it will happen again, and again, and again, for fire is your destiny, and blood too. The ravens will always follow you, their friend.”

  “So be it. I have accepted who I am.”

  The woman sniggered. “You do not know who you are. Not yet. But you will learn. If you live.”

  Hereward felt a spurt of anger at the woman’s words. “You cannot see inside me,” he snapped. Britheva only smiled.

  “Is he the one you saw?” Acha pressed.

  “It is possible. All things are possible. The gods play their games, but sometimes men resist.”

  “And then they are punished?” the younger woman went on.

  “And then they are punished.”

  Acha stared at Hereward and in her face he saw something surprising: a desperate hope. “Perhaps you will save us all,” she said quietly.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “EVERYONE IS GRIPPED BY A FEVER,” HERE WARD SAID IN IRRITATION as he and Acha walked back to Earl Tostig’s hall. “If doom and destruction lie ahead, why fret? It will come soon enough.”

  “Do you not fear Judgment Day?”

  The warrior wrapped his cloak tighter around him against the stinging flakes. “I fear nothing. My sword and my axe and my good right arm serve me well enough.”

  The woman eyed him from the depths of her hood but said nothing.

  Twilight was giving way to black, and the snow swept down in sharp flurries. Outside the houses and workshops, men stamped their feet and blew on their hands as they prepared to end their last working day before Christmas. Conversation rang with good cheer and the hails were loud and hopeful. Through the doorways, Hereward could see the comforting red glow of fires and smell the night’s stew bubbling in pots. Beyond Eoferwic, the night was deep and dark and still. No stars shone, and there was no moon.

  As the great hall loomed ahead, Acha came to a halt and stepped in front of the warrior. “You and I can find common purpose.”

  “To betray Earl Tostig?”

  “Though you refuse to acknowledge your destiny, it seems that great things lie ahead for you. I would join you on that journey. I am tired of this life here. I am weary of the struggle and the strife and the pawing hands of the men, and the sameness.” She leaned in closer so that it seemed she was about to kiss him. “In Cymru, I dreamed of glory and wonder, not this sour existence. I want more.”

  When the wind plucked her words away, a muffled silence lay across the hall’s snow-swathed enclosure for just a moment before a deep-throated growl rolled out from the dark. The hairs on the back of Hereward’s neck pricked erect.

  “What beast was that?” Acha whispered, afraid. She pressed closer, looking around.

  Hereward peered into the night. Nothing moved. “All this talk of the End-Times has left you seeing the Devil in the shadows.” He flashed her a grin, making light of it.

  Another growl rumbled out, and this time he could smell musk on the wind. Acha felt his muscles tense. “What do you see?”

  Hereward’s hand dropped to his sword hilt. Wolves would not have ventured so far into Eoferwic, even if they were starving, he knew. Puzzled, he sniffed the air and stilled his breathing so he could listen clearly.

  A roar thundered out of the night. The ground vibrated from a heavy tread, gathering speed, and a moment later a shape as big as a cart burst into view. The unmistakable silhouette loomed against the snow.

  Tostig’s bear, the one shackled and penned in the corner of the enclosure. Free.

  Acha shrieked. Hereward thrust the woman to one side, drawing his sword, but the beast was on him before he could pull the blade wholly from its scabbard. Another roar. His ears rang. A blast of meaty breath. A mouth torn wide, jaws strong enough to rip his head from his shoulders.

  He flung himself back, too late. Talons tore through his cloak and into the flesh of his arm. The glancing sideswipe threw him from his feet in a shower of his own blood. Slamming into the frozen ground, he skidded on the thick snow. Through his daze, he heard roars echoing all around him. Cries of alarm rose up, spreading out into Eoferwic.

  Hereward scrambled to his feet and went for his sword, but the scabbard was empty. Flickering torches appeared in the dark of the nearby streets, accompanied by querulous voices growing louder as they approached. Feet pounded in the snow.

  When the bear’s bellows receded as it moved away in search of other prey, he shook his head to try to dispel the fog. But a moment later Acha’s scream of terror rang out. Without a second thought, he lurched toward the sound. A rough hand caught his arm.

  “Leave her. She is only a slave. That beast is more fierce even than you.” It was Kraki, his voice a low growl of warning. The other huscarls surged from the hall.

  Hereward threw the Viking off and ran.

  A crash of splintering wood. Terrified shouts. He sprinted toward a semicircle of dancing torches that swept back and forth as if a tide of fire was washing against the enclosure. In their wavering light, he caught sight of Acha sprawled in the snow. The brown bear loomed over her, snarling jaws only a hand’s breadth from the woman’s petrified face.

  Hereward hurled himself onto the bear’s back, flinging his iron-muscled arms round its neck. The enraged beast thrashed from side to side in an attempt to throw off its burden, then reared up. Enveloped in its musky reek, Hereward clung on to the greasy fur, knowing that one slight slip could see him torn asunder. Shocked faces flashed by as he was hurled around, his feet flying. Each mouth formed an accusation of madness.

  “He has no weapon.”

  “The fool tries to kill it with his bare hands. He has lost his wits.”

  And he could not deny the charge.

  Half-slipping, his feet scrabbling for purchase, he glimpsed Acha stumbling away from the bear’s claws. She cast one uncertain glance back at him before she plunged into the crowd. Relief sparked in him, a response that surprised him with its intensity, but he had no time to examine it. Inflamed, the beast threw itself across the rutted street like a sh
ip caught in a storm at sea. Its flank shattered the shelter outside a metalworker’s workshop, then punched through the wattle and daub of a house on the other side of the way.

  Men and women in the growing crowd risked their lives for a sight of the spectacle and to marvel at this unarmed warrior who thought he could defeat a bear. In his excitement, a man stumbled too close. One swipe of a giant paw spilled his stomach into the snow. Before he had fallen, the creature’s crushing jaws had splintered his skull.

  By a pile of logs, the beast half-staggered and Hereward was torn free. Lurching out of a drift, he sucked in a deep breath.

  “Run, you fool!” someone called.

  Sensing that it had isolated its prey, the animal snapped round. The warrior took one step away, then came to a halt. How could he leave the cheering throng at the mercy of the fierce creature? An elderly man recognized the Mercian’s dilemma and shrieked “Stand your ground!”

  “Here!” The commanding voice crashed through the din.

  Hereward glimpsed Kraki barging through the crowd just as the bear charged. Something glinted in the torchlight, turning quickly. Hereward caught the thrown axe, gripped it with both hands, and braced himself.

  Black eyes glittered. Blood and flesh spattered off bared teeth. The beast’s bellow made Hereward’s ears ring, and then the world around him fell into silence. He stood his ground until the bear’s gaping mouth filled his entire vision.

  Then, with all the strength he could muster, he drove the axe down. The impact jarred every bone in his body, and the bear’s skull split in two as if he were slicing meat off a roasting pig. A wave of blood crashed against his face, and a moment later the dead but still moving bulk slammed him off his feet. When he came around an instant later, he was fighting for breath, the full weight of the stinking carcass crushing the life from him.

  After a moment, many men dragged the bear off him and he emerged to jubilation. Eager hands hauled him to his feet and slapped his back and shoulders. Grinning faces flashed past with words of praise that he barely heard. Turning slowly, Hereward felt stunned by the adulation of the crowd. In his life of hatred, suspicion, and contempt, he had never experienced anything like it.

  “They will tell tales about this in Eoferwic in the time of their children’s children’s children.” Kraki reclaimed his dripping axe from the bear’s skull. He looked the warrior’s blood-drenched form up and down. “Better get yourself washed. There will be women here eager to lie with the hero of the day, but not if he looks like a slaughterman.”

  “Your name,” a man shouted. “Who are you?”

  “This is Hereward, the greatest warrior in all Northumbria, perhaps in all England,” the Viking announced. “He has traveled to Eoferwic from the south to offer his sword in service to Earl Tostig. The earl has gracefully accepted.” Kraki gave a sly grin, satisfied that he had turned the act of heroism to the advantage of his master.

  Unsettled by the attention he was receiving, Hereward retrieved his sword and broke away from the crowd, striding back to the hall with the huscarl. As his surging blood subsided, he felt suspicion rise. “The bear could not have broken its bonds. It was set free. What madness would consume someone to release that monster?”

  Kraki replied: “The beast was half crazed from its imprisonment. No one would have ventured near it.”

  “The hall was abuzz with preparations for tomorrow’s festivities, and no one noticed a bear loose?”

  Kraki shrugged. “Unless it had only just broken free.”

  “The moment I entered the enclosure? During the fire, someone set light to the house I was searching.” Hereward came to a halt and confronted the Viking. “Was it you?”

  “Not I,” Kraki said, a flicker of indignation crossing his face at the suggestion. “No honorable man would murder in such a way. I care little for you, but if I wanted to end your days I would do it face to face, with my blade against yours.” He snorted and walked on. “Your trouble, you see enemies everywhere. But never friends.”

  “I have no friends,” Hereward called after the huscarl, “and I need none.”

  Inside the hall, he found Acha waiting for him. She offered no thanks for saving her life, but they held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Taking his arm, she led him away from the streams of servants decorating the hall for the feast. In the quiet of his home, she helped him to his bed and fetched a wooden bowl of fresh meltwater and a cloth to bathe the wounds on his arm where the bear’s claws had torn his flesh. Hereward felt uncomfortable at her tenderness and pushed her away, taking the cloth himself. As he cleaned off the blood, he watched her face. Many would have considered her features cold, perhaps emotionless. But he knew better. The truth lay beneath, where the woman she’d dreamed of being still struggled to survive.

  When he was done, her dark eyes met his once again. He saw the promise clearly. Holding his gaze, she leaned across him and brushed her lips against his. He felt the softness of her breasts and the warmth of her thighs pressing against him. Blood throbbed in his body, but it was not the consuming crimson passion of the battlefield; he had control over it, and he accepted it willingly. Unclasping her brooch, she let her dress fall away and allowed him to explore her body with his hands. Pushing her onto her back, he eased into her, and they moved together, sweat slicking soft skin in the chill of the room.

  When they had finished their lovemaking, they lay entwined in each other’s limbs while their breathing subsided, listening to the throb of the hall and the soothing melody of the church bells marking the onset of the holiday.

  Reflective, Acha twisted his blond hair around her finger. “You have no woman of your own?” she asked.

  Though her question was innocent, Hereward felt a tremor run through him.

  “What is wrong?” she asked, concerned.

  “I had a woman, once. Not long ago. She died.” He let his arm fall across his face, trying to drive the vision from his head.

  “The sickness?”

  “Murder.”

  Tidhild, staring at him with glassy eyes, the pool of blood around her growing sticky. The guilt consumed him.

  After a moment, she rested her head on his shoulder and whispered, “Tell me.”

  At first, Hereward thought he couldn’t give voice to the stew of emotions that had bubbled inside him since he had fled London. But as she traced her fingers across his chest, he realized he wanted to unburden himself, and Acha was perhaps the only person he could tell.

  He cast his mind back to the warm night when he had witnessed the murder in the shadow of the new abbey. He recounted the details free of emotion, but when he reached the point where he parted company with Redwald, his voice trembled and he had to pause to steady himself.

  “Redwald told me to hide at Aedilred’s house while he went to raise the alarm. I stayed there for a while, drinking ale, but a terrible melancholy came over me and I felt driven to visit Tidhild,” he continued, feeling the cold in the room for the first time. “We had been together since the winter snows had melted, and … we had grown close.” He paused, recalling those days when it felt as though his life was finally turning toward peace. “I had lain with women before, but Tidhild knew my heart.”

  “Would you have married her?” Acha ventured.

  “That question means nothing now.”

  “I am sorry. I did not wish to stir up bitter memories.”

  “I have hardened myself to it. I left Aedilred’s and crept through the night like a thief. Tidhild’s father was away and I knew she would be alone, but I felt something was wrong before I reached the door to her house. Some say we see the darkness ahead of us in our minds. That we all carry around with us the portents of the terrible things that will be.” He brought his arm around her back, finding comfort in the softness of her skin. “I found Tidhild dead, her blood still warm. She had been stabbed with a knife many times.”

  Acha leaned up on her elbow and searched his face. “Did you slay her?”

 
; “No!” Hereward exclaimed, his body snapping upright.

  “I have seen the way you lose yourself to the bloodlust. You had been drinking ale—”

  “I would never harm a woman.” The warrior lay back and closed his eyes. “It was not the first time I had seen such a sight.”

  Though he didn’t want to revisit that time, another part of him demanded that he set free the memories. “My mother. Murdered too.” He hesitated, a cold weight growing in his chest. “By my father. He did not mean to do it, but his rage consumed him. He beat her with his fists until she was gone. When I looked at Tidhild, I saw my mother … I saw me, there, both times.…”

  “You were not responsible.”

  “I was. It was clear the murderer went to Tidhild searching for me. Someone who wanted me silenced before I could reveal what I had learned that night. Tidhild was killed, perhaps as a warning to me, perhaps because she was there and no reason beyond that. But her death lies upon me. I can never leave it behind.”

  The sound of raven wings filled his head, and he thought he saw shadows flying across the wall of the room.

  “I ran to my father. He is one of the King’s thegns and had Edward’s ear on Mercian matters for many years.”

  “A thegn? After he murdered your mother?” Acha’s furrowed brow revealed her incredulity.

  “I was a child. Despite the horrors I witnessed, I kept my mother’s murder a secret, out of duty to my kin. But there was little love between my father and me after that time. He despised me, because I reminded him of the crime he had committed. Because I reminded him of his weakness. And though I tried to earn his respect.…” His words died in his throat. Shaking his head, he steadied himself. “I went to my father and told him about Tidhild. I was afraid his life was at risk as well. But he was sure I had slain her, and was lying to save myself. He thought me like him.” Hereward hammered a fist on the bed. Acha folded her smaller hand over it. “My father betrayed me. He ran to the King and raised the alarm. He accused me of murder.”