by Chris Sharp
He rocked back on his hind legs and raised his snout to the sky. All of his hatred and hunger filled the howl that pierced the valley, and the hearts of those below that still held firm broke at the sound. Thousands of eyes and ears swiveled toward him, searching for the yellow gaze of Luther Ever Hungry in the dark shadows beneath the trees.
The rest of the Pack came at the back of the army while their heads were turned. The deep snow muffled their approach, but did not slow the free wolves of the mountain. Amid a sudden barrage of snarls, seventeen throats were torn out before the Rock Wolves knew what was happening.
As the screams sounded and a horn blew in the rear, the panicked eyes shifted again. That was when Luther and the omega female sprang over the lip of the upper ridge and sprinted through the woods toward the confused flank. The gray bitch surged ahead and tore out a big goblin’s throat while she raked her claw across the eyes of its traitor wolf. In her eagerness to impress, she cracked another goblin neck with a snarl and a shake before Luther arrived.
Mid-leap, his snapping jaws took off the head of the toughest-looking goblin he could find, and it only took a moment for him to swallow the prize before striking out again at the horrified spectators. He tore off a goblin’s arm and tossed it to the snow before crushing the skull of a traitor wolf with his next bite. The wide-eyed goblins hollered and stumbled back as if he burned with the same heat as the demon lizards, and he took the moment to select another big goblin for his departing leap. This one he took with a sideways bite across its broad chest. The iron tang of its blood filled his mouth as he felt its ribs break beneath his pressure. The gray bitch also took a screaming goblin with her, dragging it by its legs back into the mist as a couple arrows tried to follow.
The Wolf King’s ear swiveled as the other group attacked a second spot farther along the line. This time, the shrieks of goblins and mad yelping of traitor wolves was joined by the sharp yip of one of his own. He knew that he should attack again before the goblins could regroup, but instead he savagely tore into the stomach of his catch until he’d found its entrails. The foulness of the smell and the sharp bite of the flavors had become comforting. The omega followed his lead, biting into her goblin’s loin as its desperate yells became shrill screams. Her snout wrinkled at the taste, but she ripped and chewed anyway until the screaming stopped.
Perhaps the troll-hag is right about her. But the duplicitous witch who called herself Agnes could not be trusted. She had yet to appear at the battle as she’d promised, and he could never forget the way she’d made the broken wolves turn on their masters and each other long ago—he could not let this fate befall his pack.
Luther plunged his snout under the rib cage and chewed a path to the still-quivering heart. His teeth gripped the hard ball of muscle and pulled. He swallowed the heart and licked the blood from his nose as his eyes met the gaze of the gray bitch. She held her head high, panting as goblin blood dripped from her lolling tongue. Luther was not one for affection or sentiment, but he stepped forward and licked the mess from her muzzle. Their heads touched, and he gave her a nip at the scruff of her mane. She was the omega no longer.
Together, the new alpha pair circled back toward the army. Witch or no, it was too late to turn back now. They would attack again.
THERE WAS SHOUTING to Fixelcrick’s right, and more from somewhere behind, but he did not look away from the salamander directly before him as the fire in his grip fizzled out in the snow at his feet. Bone Master had taught him the old words for binding flame, and the former apprentice had always had a mind for memorization. The heat of the fire elementals was linked now to the heat of the branch in his grip. As the twig’s light was snuffed out in a last wisp of smoke, so, too, was the source of these creatures’ link to this plane.
The closest salamander let out a sickening croak and lashed its head back and forth before belching up a molten spew onto one of the charred bodies beneath it. Steam billowed from glowing crevices between its scales as it shrank in on itself, losing mass as it lost heat. Fixelcrick knew the other of its kind was equally suffering, but he kept his newfound focus on the one before him, knowing that they were linked by his binding, and that if he let down his guard for even an instant, this one would feed on his warmth and leave behind nothing but ash. It vomited again, this time in a projectile spray that splattered the face and chest of the clan War Boss a few strides away. The big goblin didn’t even make a sound before the lava dropped him with a molten crevice where his chin and upper torso had been.
Fixelcrick stepped closer, the intoxicating power flowing through him, fully at his command for the first time in his life. All of his studies and monastic discipline had been leading to this moment. He repeated the words of binding again, his pronunciation more exact than he’d ever known his tongue capable of producing. He began to shout with confidence as the salamanders backed away and shrank further with every verse. “Nixt flacht, al zu-gahul! Migsen-glut sevdacht! Ginevdna ged-kravtcha höx!”
The two salamanders backed into each other with their fire-red eyes locked on Fixelcrick’s advance. Their tails lashed erratically, and they belched little pools of lava every few jerky steps. The steam that whistled out of their nostrils and poured from their open mouths stank of brimstone.
Fixelcrick remembered, only then, to yank out the syringe that was sticking from his chest. He tossed it aside and took Bone Master’s rattle from his cloak instead. It was a tiny, double-headed drum on a stick with strands of silver hair and little bones tied at the ends. He held the stick between his palms and started spinning back and forth—at first too fast, but then he eased into a steady rhythm. He’d been told that the hair had belonged to a great elf witch, and that the bones had come from her inner ears, plucked from the corpse after she fell in battle a hundred years before. Fixelcrick had always doubted the truth of that story, but when the rattle spun, the salamanders hissed and began to shudder as if a chill had come over them.
They’d been bigger than one of the fighting wolves when Fixelcrick had first landed amid the goblin ranks, but now they were only the size of small dogs and withering more by the moment. He stepped over the last of the blackened goblin corpses and spun the rattle harder as the salamanders retreated through the scorched swath of forest. He was their master now.
He drove them down the slope of the hill, back through the ruined woods where they could claim no fuel for their inner furnace. One tried to break from the backward march, but Fixelcrick’s will and the beat of the little drum kept it at bay, corralling it further as it hissed and withered. With a last stuttering step, they shriveled down to the size of his crickets, and after a final molten belch, they burst into little tufts of ash in unison. Still, Fixelcrick stepped over their remains and continued to spin the drum—too focused on the flow of power to notice the raucous cheer that had risen among the army at his back.
The energy that coursed through him had nowhere to go, cycling without purpose, sapping his own strength. The bone rattle in his hands came to a gradual halt, though the pounding of his heart continued the rhythm. He was lightheaded, and his hands shook as he turned back to face the cheering army above. Spears and blades were held high, and more and more voices joined the ovation until the sound filled the woods. Fixelcrick’s vision was still blurry at the edges, dreamlike, and framed by the burning of trees at the top of the rise. The advance of the forest fire had stopped. He’d saved the clan.
The Khan’s pet killers who led the army emerged from the broken front line and set their unnerving attention on his position. The tall one with the big sword and dead eyes was unreadable as always, but the fat one with the hatchets gave him an appreciative shake of his wide chins.
Fixelcrick had done it. The Khan would hear of this and be sure to make him Chief Doktor now. It was the most coveted position among all the warlocks of all the clans . . . But where was the Witch of the Iron Wood? It was her potion that had made this possible through Dingle’s blood, so much power even when diluted ti
me and again. The witch possessed knowledge that Fixelcrick could barely imagine, things Bone Master had never known. The Nectar of Amrite was the pinnacle of alchemical pursuits. Compared to the possibility she offered, the Rock Wolves meant nothing to him.
As if in answer, a fresh wind blew along the ridge, this time coming from the direction of the clan compound.
BLACK AGNES SHOULD have been focused on Slud’s assault on the walls. Now was when he’d need her guidance more than ever. But the banishment of her summoning could not go unanswered, and the meager remnants of the free wolves would not be enough to slow the return of the Rock Wolf army for long. From the high perch in the tree, her hooked claws were raised to the sky, and the spirits of the air had answered.
The rhythm of the goblin’s spirit drum had tapered off, but Agnes could still hear the pumping of the warlock’s blood from miles off. Even more goading was the cheering of the army, still believing they were the masters of the mountain. She would make an example of this strong-hearted goblin, and then see how loud the cheers got with the jaws of their wolves wrapped around their throats.
FIXELCRICK LIKED THE attention, but the cheers faltered as the whistle of the wind grew louder than their voices. The adoring faces that had looked to him as their savior all turned away as the tops of the trees started to dance. Wolves whimpered with tails tucked low, and a disquieted murmur traveled through the ranks.
Fixelcrick waved his arms in little circles and the wings of his robes caught the current of the air. He landed with an awkward stumble among the charred bodies at the front of the army, but the eyes of the goblins held on the circling mist that crept across both sides of the ridge like two giant serpents. This was the witch’s response; she was coming. Fixelcrick had hoped to get her attention, but he had no idea what to do now that he had.
Goblins yelled from the far side of the loose formation; others shot arrows into the circling mist. Many of the shell-shocked survivors of the front line were still hunched and muttering beside the smoldering remnants of their friends.
“Wha’ the fuck’s all this then?” asked the fat goblin in charge, with his bloody hatchets held at the ready.
“Witch,” said Fixelcrick. He opened his robes and grabbed one of the golden bolts from his quiver. He closed his eyes and tried to settle his breathing, but his blood was still flowing so fast through his veins that he huffed like he’d run the whole way there. In his mind, he pictured the protective ward that Bone Master had taught him, and he immediately started to scratch a circle around himself in the blackened earth.
“Wha’ the fuck’s that fer?” asked Short-Fuse with a little spin of a hatchet.
Fixelcrick ignored him, kneeling with the bolt to carefully scratch the accompanying sigils in their exact spots as the wind grew stronger still. A fell voice clung to the air, just like when Bone Master had been broken. He abandoned perfection and started scribbling the markings as quickly as he could get them down.
“Oi, make me one o’ them, too!” Short-Fuse raised a hatchet over Fixelcrick’s head, but before he could swing or Fixelcrick could answer, an invisible claw of wind lifted the warlock from the earth and launched him through the air to slam into the scorched remains of a tree.
He was pinned twenty feet up with his legs dangling, and somehow, in that moment, he could only think of the damage the still hot wood might be doing to the beautiful feathers at his back. But the witch’s screeching voice entered his head, and all other concerns fled him.
Words he did not know yet somehow understood echoed within his mind. Drive them. Bind them. Cast them aside. The will of the giants will not be defied. All of my memory, all of my pain, the choice is yours, dead or insane? His eyes rolled back, and he shook with seizure. Blood poured from his nose, and a memory not his own washed over him—as if he were there, living it in the moment . . .
He was on fire in a massive hall of burnished wood and gold, cast into the great hearth in the center of the room among logs and flames that rose toward the vaulted ceiling. A host of tall figures circled, shining and powerful, crowding around to watch with disdain. These were the foreign gods who had come from the south to challenge his native people for control. The powerful spirit that looked like an old man with a long white beard was their leader. He stepped forward to jam a broad-headed spear into Fixelcrick’s stomach. The shock of pain almost killed him then and there, but he looked down to see the long, naked, golden body of a woman where his feathered robes should have been, and he was so curious that he forgot to die.
The old man twisted the shaft as Fixelcrick gasped, unable to draw breath while the flames climbed around him. Then his shining form crumpled to the coals when a massive weight came down on the back of his head. From behind the veil of fire and pain, he could see the hulking form of a red-bearded brute step beside the old man with a bloody hammer in his grip and a grin on his smug face. Others laughed and spat flaring spirits to the flames.
But even then, Fixelcrick spoke up from among the logs and embers, using the woman’s defiant voice in place of his own. “Thrice I have come, and thrice you have struck me down! I am Gullveig, the Golden Goddess, and you will know my vengeance!”
Fixelcrick snapped back into himself, but the searing agony of fire and steel lingered as he writhed against the tree. He tried to move his arms, to catch the wind and fly back to the ground, but he could not rebuff the spectral grip. He managed only to hook a finger around the flap of his cloak, fighting to work his hand toward the satchel beneath, but the foreign memories took him away from his body again . . .
Surrounded by high, snow-clad mountains, he crouched behind a rocky ledge, looking down past a winding staircase that traversed the cliffs. A valley opened below: a glacial blue lake with a barren slab of an island in its center. There, a giant black wolf was tied.
The beast was as long as the oldest pines were tall, and as fierce as any creature that had ever lived. Fixelcrick’s heart shriveled at the sight of him, consumed with a terror he’d never experienced before. He was forced to watch rather than run as the same host that had stabbed him and jeered in the great hall gathered around the edges of the island. Most of them were also frozen by the monstrous visage, standing with their heels in the water for fear of getting too close to the snarling jaws. But one, with huge shoulders draped in mail and furs, closed his eyes and held his fist out toward the wolf as if in offering.
The old man who had stuck Fixelcrick with a spear stepped away from the wolf’s tethered ankle as others bound the far end of the thin cord tightly to a protruding rock.
Fixelcrick stood with a rush of alien anger mingling with his fear. He knew he should stay concealed, but knew also that the wolf had been tricked by these wicked folk. He waved his hand, hoping to catch the wolf’s attention, but it wasn’t his hand. Instead he saw the long arm of a woman: pale gray skin mottled with age, and hooked claws at the ends of her knotted fingers. He sensed great power coursing through the bent body he inhabited, but despite that, he could do nothing to help the wolf. He knew, in that moment, that the monster was his own son, and that he loved him as assuredly as he’d loved anything in his long life.
With a nod from their king, the wolf jerked his leg against the tether and found no give. Shattered remnants of thick chains lay scattered about the island, but this thin ribbon held fast against every lunge and kick he made. The host laughed at the wolf’s consternation, and realizing only then that he’d been deceived, the beast bit off the offered hand and swallowed it whole. The broad-shouldered sacrifice leapt away screaming as the host only laughed harder, baiting the helpless wolf that could no longer reach them.
The wolf lunged at the old man and his kin, but they stood proud with hands on their hips just beyond his reach. Some of those who had moments before been petrified by his presence threw stones, while others circled menacingly with a huge sword clutched in their grip. The massive, red-bearded brute had crept behind the wolf and now came upon him with his hammer raised high. Fixelc
rick wanted to cry out in warning, but he held his tongue, helpless, while the rage and sorrow grew within.
The hammer fell against the wolf’s head and was raised again and again. Two others grabbed the stunned beast by his jaws and yanked his mouth wide while a third jammed the sword inside. The hilt wedged beneath the wolf’s great lolling tongue, and the blade pierced the roof of his mouth as he roared out in pain.
Fenrir, Fixelcrick’s oldest and greatest son, was left lashing and snarling at the center of the forsaken island as blood and drool spilled from his mouth in a growing river. Fixelcrick shut his eyes, trying to block out the image of the gods taunting his progeny, but their cruel laughter and the wolf’s agonized growls carried across the valley and shook the mountainside.
His own words rose up, using the cracked voice of the witch from the Iron Wood. “I am Angerboda, Mother of Wolves! Heed my words. One day I will watch my children devour you all!”
Fixelcrick was quivering violently. He could taste blood in his mouth as red foam dribbled onto his precious coat. The fear and grief clung to him like the massive rock tied at the wolf’s ankle, tugging him down, threatening to drag him back into the cascade of alien memories.
His hand fumbled desperately past the feathers to plunge into the satchel at his hip until they wrapped around a second cold cylinder of metal and glass. His heartbeat had slowed to a faint thump as he fought to bring his salvation up to his chest, but then he slipped away once more . . .
He was perched at the crown of a towering pine, looking down into the dell of the clan compound with the first light of day upon it. Snow covered the ground, unmarred by the passage of tracks save for two sets that cut across the long shadows of the upper ridge. The clan was quiet, though plumes of goblin breath rose from the towers and heavily armed groups clustered behind every gate.
