A Mighty Dawn

by Theodore Brun

  The growl skirted around him, rattling in the wolf’s gullet. He had to get to his sword, or an axe, or any bloody thing that had an edge. The weapons were only five paces off now. He was going to make it.

  But suddenly, there it was.

  The cruellest sight he ever saw. Yellow eyes, malignant with hunger and hate, staring at him out of the darkness. He froze as the wolf padded into the light of the fire. His weapons were not two strides away, behind the tree. But it was too late now.

  All too late.

  The wolf advanced, a rasp like gravel in its throat, lips curled to reveal vicious white fangs. Kai backed away, trying to squeeze courage from his knife haft; but there was precious little to be found.

  Pace by baleful pace, the beast became visible – a hulking body of black fur, shoulders jolting menacingly up and down. Those yellow eyes, intent as the gaze of Hel herself.

  Kai shuffled his feet, bracing himself for the moment that was coming. His mind flicked back to those hall-yard scraps he never could seem to avoid when he was a kid. Every time he’d take a beating from the bullies who were bigger and stronger. Every time he made damn sure he got back on his feet afterwards. But this was a fight from which there would be no getting up if he didn’t win it.

  He gulped, his back a slick of sweat, watching those pitiless eyes, hardly able to move for fear. A bead of sweat broke from his hair and he felt it trickle slowly down his spine. The exact moment it reached the small of his back, the wolf leaped.

  A blood-chilling bark filled the air. Kai saw the jaws flying at him, then the wolf’s paws hit him in the chest, the force knocking him flat in a cloud of snow.

  He cried out – but there was no one to hear. No one to come to his aid. The wolf’s great paws pinned his shoulders and he was too scrawny, his arms too weak to roll from under it. Pain was burning the side of his head, his ears filling with slobbers and snarls as the wolf thrust his snout, hungry to sink its teeth into his throat.

  But the gods had a sense of humour. In the tumble his jerkin had ridden up around his neck. Instead of flesh, the wolf had a mouth full of sheepskin and hair. Fangs raked his head; he felt blood pouring into his ear. And then at last, his wits jolted into action. Gripping his wretched blade tight, he slammed it, hard as he could, into the wolf’s body.

  He felt the knife go in, but he knew that wasn’t enough. Suddenly he was filled with rage, determined to wrestle his life out of the jaws of this slobbering mutt. His fist smashed into the wolf’s ribs, again and again, till his wrist ran slick with blood.

  The wolf yowled, its snarls rising almost to a scream. For an instant, the wolf opened its muzzle, only to lunge for his face. Instinctively, Kai raised his arm, blood and foul-tasting spittle splattering his lips. The wolf was convulsing, but even as its life gushed away, its jaws locked down on his arm. Kai wailed as its fangs crunched bone.

  But just when he thought he’d seen the last of his hand, the grip slackened, and the hulking body began to shudder; the snarls became shrill, fading almost to a whimper. And then, with a final wheeze of rancid breath, the beast gave over and sank dead as stone onto his chest.

  He lay, listening to the silence, until, realizing he could hardly breathe, a fierce panic seized him. He heaved and wriggled and squirmed until he’d prised himself out from under the weight of stinking clotted hair.

  He staggered to his feet, then immediately doubled over, retching his relief into the snow. When the nausea had passed, he wiped his mouth, catching his breath.

  The wolf lay still. A heap of fur and blood and twisted sinew. A dark stain seeped from its wound into the snow. He took a step closer. Then he saw something strange. Something about its limbs. He moved to see better in the firelight. The flames lit up one side of the wolf. Its fur seemed to have thinned almost to nothing in patches and its hindquarters were contorted into something that looked. . . Well, if he didn’t know better, he would say looked like the legs of a man.

  Curious, he came closer – still wary it might not be completely dead. But the creature was still. He put his foot to its flank and gave it a shove. The body rolled over.

  Kai nearly vomited a second time. There, where the wolf’s front paw had been, was a human hand.

  He didn’t need a second glance. He went to the fire, seized a burning branch and put it to the body. The flames began to lick and catch at the fur. He took another, and another, and soon the clearing was filled with the crackle of hungry flames and the smell of burned hair and flesh.

  Kai retrieved his cloak and swung it across his shoulders. Then he settled down to watch the thing burn. It was long before he turned away and looked up at the trees and the ice, and the shadows of the night.

  He hugged his injured arm close and shuddered.

  All around him, he felt the brooding whisper of evil.

  Erlan smashed against the Witch King’s chest.

  It was hard as iron, but the Nefelung lord wasn’t ready. He reeled back and Erlan slipped from his grasp.

  Next instant, he ran at the wall, burying the pain in his ankle. Three strides up the wall and he leaped again, his momentum slinging himself up onto the giant table.

  He skidded across it, mail screeching against stone. And there was Wrathling. He threw a hand, snatched the hilt, missed, his heart lurching. The ring-sword spun, he grasped again, and then he had it. He yelled in triumph going over the edge and clattering to the ground below.

  ‘So,’ hissed the Witch King, unhurried, ‘you choose death.’ Erlan crouched, ready, watching his foe tear off his cloak and fling it away. The demon drew himself up and reached behind his head. With a rasp that filled the chamber, he unsheathed a huge double-handed blade, far longer than any man could wield. But in that moment, Erlan saw the strangest sight of all he’d seen in that pit of darkness.

  Behind the Nefelung lord was a long slithering tail. It was thick as a man’s fist, black and gleaming, with a point of coarse hair. Erlan stared in horror and would have stared longer, but for the looming figure of the Witch King.

  His eyes flared with hate, his sinews tightened, and the massive blade arced out of the shadows. Erlan lifted Wrathling to meet it. The blades rang loud as a battle-knell. Erlan dodged, his arm shaking with the blow, but his mind still sharp.

  Black curses were pouring from the Witch King’s cruel lips. Erlan retreated, looking for space, but the demon came on. Erlan dipped left, ankle jarring, cutting at his opponent’s flank. But Wrathling was batted away as though no more than a twig.

  Azazel sneered. ‘Pitiful! I gave men weapons. Taught them how to craft steel. You think you can touch me? Come – again!’ Erlan went the other way, stretching under Azazel’s blade to slash at his knees. The huge blade clubbed Wrathling aside. But Erlan was ready. He spun, scything at the Witch King’s waist. His left felt horribly open, but he thrust in, muscles stretched to burning, and felt a thrill as Wrathling bit flesh.

  The Witch King screamed in rage. Erlan felt the whistle of the blade, but threw himself past the demon, to the sound of ringing steel smashing unblooded onto the ground.

  Azazel put his hand to his side and Erlan saw a stain spreading through his robes.

  ‘You bleed,’ he said through heaving breaths, feeling his mouth twist into a grimace.

  ‘I may bleed. But you will die.’

  The pale lord set again, feet slapping the rock, arms even faster. Erlan parried the first two, tried to dodge the third, but felt the bite of steel. Pain shrieked from his arm all over his left side. Then another lunge caught his leg. He staggered backwards, barely parrying the killing blow aimed at his neck. And then he felt a huge kick. Falling, he gave a desperate slash and his edge caught the demon’s calf.

  Next moment, he smashed against the wall. Wrathling flew from his hand with a clatter. Erlan pushed himself off the ground, dizzy, his movements slow as sludge. He flopped forward on hands and knees and began crawling to the hilt gleaming dully ahead of him.

  But he was tired now, so tired. .
. he could see the massive white feet astride his sword.

  ‘Kneel, slave.’ Erlan stopped and sat back, exhausted, on his heels, head limp as a dead ear of corn. His left arm was burning. ‘You had your chance to submit. Now I’ll take your head.’

  Erlan couldn’t move. He knelt, beaten, awaiting death. Was this the death he had been seeking, through all those long leagues in the snow? The Witch King swung away for the killing stroke. The blade swept round, singing through the foetid air with the demon’s massive frame behind it.

  No!

  Erlan flung himself backwards, flattening against his calves. The point sped past, close as a lover’s breath, and on.

  The force of his momentum spun the demon away. The hideous tail whipped round after his sword. Erlan stretched out a hand, caught the thing’s coarse end, and with his other snatched for Wrathling’s hilt.

  The tail was thick and Erlan hauled so hard his heart might burst. The Watcher jerked backwards, spinning the other way out of control.

  Erlan sprang into the Witch King’s embrace. He felt no pain. Had no doubts. He thrust Wrathling with all his strength upwards, into the demon’s body, burying it to the hilt into the broad chest. Erlan felt a slick of blood gush over his hand.

  Azazel’s pale face was high above him, his red coal eyes flaring with death. His arm curled over Erlan’s back, almost tenderly, and then his long fingers released the sword. It fell with a crash of steel.

  The Witch King sank back, pulling Erlan down like a lover to his bed. At first he sagged with him, the massive arms too heavy, but then his knees hit the rock, he pushed hard and he was free.

  Azazel lay on his side, a foot of Wrathling protruding wetly out of his back. He said nothing. Only his eyelids moved, blinking weakly.

  Erlan put his boot to the chest and heaved his sword free. The ancient Watcher fell onto his back, dark blood bubbling from the gaping wound.

  Erlan limped around to his head. The eyes glimmered like dying embers. His life was leaving now, would soon be gone for ever. Suddenly, strangely, the cracked skin began to fuse, becoming smooth as glass, and a spectral beauty settled on the Witch King’s face that seemed outside of time. A word passed over those pale lips – one Erlan didn’t recognize. A name, perhaps? He didn’t know. And then the eyes went black for ever.

  Erlan lifted his sword high and brought it down. Blood splattered in wet gobbets over his face and the massive head rolled away.

  Without thinking, he licked away the blood. It was cool on his face, but past his lips, it burned like a living flame. He tried to spit as searing heat raced along his tongue, down his gullet, boring its way into him. He collapsed, choking, tearing at his throat, hacking desperately to vomit up the demon’s blood.

  But it was in him now.

  He crushed his eyes against the pain as the heat blazed like a straw fire through every sinew. Then it passed out through his hands and his feet, and was gone.

  Slowly he opened his eyes and looked at his hands. They were trembling. And yet, they felt strong. Hardened somehow, as if metal flowed where only blood had flowed before. He stood, and though he felt his wounds, he didn’t feel weak.

  He looked around.

  The light from the brazier seemed warmer. Many of the shadows were somehow not so dim. He looked down at the remains of the Watcher, the head rolled away, upturned like a broken statue. Even the pale skin seemed warmer. Almost golden.

  What have I killed?

  Suddenly curious, he stooped and laid hold of the Watcher’s huge shoulder and hip. He heaved and strained until at last the body rolled onto its side and over, flopping face down.

  Erlan gazed long at the Watcher’s weird appendage. The tail was nearly seven feet long and scaled like a serpent. As he looked, a terrible dread seemed to come over him. He felt his courage wilt, as though the thing itself could suck the mettle from the bravest heart. He hated it. Yet he knew he must take it.

  He raised Wrathling a second time, and down it came, biting through bone and gristle.

  He picked it up.

  The tail was hard and something about the light rippling off its surface made his flesh crawl. But it also felt powerful. He noticed the pain in his left arm had lessened.

  He flicked the thing out in front of him. And, almost without thinking, he raised his fist and whipped the tail down with a resounding crack.

  He grimaced at his trophy, feeling some dark power welling within. He had slain this demon king. And now he would escape this black Hel in the bowels of the earth. He would reach the light.

  And Lilla was coming with him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Einar’s fat belly growled.

  He cursed the day he’d bought that damned cask of rotten wheat-beer off Vanta the brewer. Cursed his damned insatiable thirst. Cursed his damned wife for telling him he’d make himself sick. And double-cursed that, as damned usual, she’d been right.

  His guts gave an ominous gurgle. Einar squeezed his spear-shaft and clenched his arse-cheeks tight as he could. It was one thing to soil your breeches; another to soil them in front of a queen.

  He could feel greasy sweat beading on his face and wished he could loosen his belt another notch. In fact, he wished he were still in bed. That’s where he damn well deserved to be. But as a council guard, he had to stand stiff as a board, unobserved but ever-ready to attend to Lord Sigurd’s merest fart. Anything but the slightest movement would draw attention to himself, and the prince would bawl him out. He wasn’t about to give that axe-faced son of a bitch the satisfaction.

  He’d been listening to Sigurd’s moaning all morning: that his father was an old fool; that he, Sigurd, was the match of the best of Sviggar’s hird-lords; that it was shaming for a son and heir to be left behind when every other Sveär lord rode with their king; that his father meant to provoke him, or make a fool of him; that thanks to his father’s incompetence, they were probably all dead already and some dark horde was swarming towards the Uppland halls this very instant.

  Queen Saldas meanwhile had been prowling around the chamber like a she-wolf, tickling a teasing finger under the chin of a small grey kitten – though the gods only knew where she’d found the thing. From time to time, she smiled and whispered something inaudible into the creature’s ear.

  Watching her was certainly a duty he was happy to endure, and right now he didn’t have to look very far. She’d come to a halt immediately in front of him and was peering at him – as if he were some carving worth an idle moment’s scrutiny. Meanwhile, his stomach was leaping about like a sack of toads. It was most disconcerting. He wished she would look away before some disaster happened from which neither he nor his breeches ever recovered.

  Instead, she drew a little closer, her emerald gaze steady.

  ‘Do you know, my little terror of mice?’ she said, loud enough to stop Sigurd’s complaining. ‘I believe that if I were one day to be a great king, I should be more careful what I said within hearing of your young and tender ears.’

  Sigurd looked over, while Saldas began tickling the kitten’s ears. The little brute closed its eyes and waggled its head in ecstasy. Einar tried to remain expressionless. Not easy for a man so beset from both ends, as it were.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Sigurd.

  The queen released Einar from her gaze and turned back to Sigurd. But she went on speaking to the damned cat. ‘All this railing, my princess of pouncers – it is hardly becoming, is it? An heir to a kingdom should remember he cannot hope to rule without the good opinion of the men under him – do you not think?’

  ‘Well?’ scowled the prince, sunken eyes glowering even darker than usual.

  ‘Oh, little puss, see how angry he gets at a little counsel. It is funny to see him strutting around like a stallion, no? Yet, for all he actually does, the mares need be no more frightened of him than a gelded colt. Is it not amusing?’ She gave the kitten another tickle under its chin and it swished its tail in delight. Then she held the litt
le beast’s nose to her ear. ‘What’s that? You think he should talk a little less, and act a little more?’

  ‘Leave off that cursed animal, won’t you?’

  ‘It seems a pity to,’ replied Saldas, resuming her rich, low voice. ‘It strikes me she has the right of it.’

  ‘What the Hel am I supposed to do? My father would have me remain here like a chained puppy, expected to do nothing but wait on his word.’

  ‘You are here to rule in his place. You have power to act in any way you see fit.’

  ‘What can I do but sit and wait?’

  ‘There are different ways of waiting,’ said Saldas, a trace of mystery in her voice.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You’re angry because you feel impotent. You have no way of influencing the outcome of your father’s. . . adventure. Is that it?’

  Sigurd dropped his eyes sullenly. ‘In part, I suppose.’

  Saldas snorted, a curve of derision in her delicate mouth. ‘You men reason in such straight, unimaginative lines. You think if you were with him you might draw your big sword, stick it in a few other men – or creatures or whatever they are – and you’d win a great victory for your father and folk. You’d be a great hero. Men would raise their cups to you. “All hail, Lord Sigurd – the mighty man of the hour!”’ She shook her head, her mouth twitching with mockery. ‘How terrifyingly dull.’

  ‘Well I can do no better from these halls.’

  ‘Can you not? There are far more powerful ways to influence the sway of things, but they require a will unlike the blunt bludgeoning of you men. Do you not know that a god may be beguiled the same as any man?’ She moved a little closer towards him. From his post, Einar watched her lithe hips stir beneath her shimmering gown. It was, he conceded, as beguiling a sight as a man could hope for to soothe his present woes.

  Nor was the sight lost on Sigurd. Though he turned askance, a little discomforted, Einar noticed his eyes move up and down the queen’s figure. ‘A god?’ was all he said.