by Alan Early
‘I haven’t a clue.’
They got off the bus at Wood Quay – not far from where Joe was working at the Dublin Metro site at Usher’s Quay – and walked across the bridge to Smithfield. The high-rise apartment buildings made strange companions for the ancient cobblestone pavements, but the Viking Experience fitted right in. Arthur and Ash were very familiar with the plywood wall around the recreated village and the murals of Vikings from times past. They were also very familiar with the fire door on the south-facing wall, also covered in murals. Arthur knocked twice fast, then once, then twice fast again on the emergency exit. Moments later, the door swung open.
The dead Viking who stood on the other side was tall, with blond hair cut uncharacteristically short. Unlike most of the others, his face was fuller and fleshier and, although his skin had turned the same dark brown during death, it hadn’t turned wrinkly like old leather. His name was Eirik. He had been the youngest of the soldiers, only eighteen when he pledged his life to protect the world. Arthur thought that perhaps his age had helped his skin retain some freshness. He was also the Viking who’d learned the most English. While he still couldn’t speak it, he could understand most of what Arthur or Ash said without the assistance of the magical pendant.
‘Hello, Eirik,’ Ash said.
The dead soldier grunted in reply, displaying his blackened teeth in a crooked grin. He stepped aside to let them enter the small dark corridor. The walls were painted black and there were doors along either side: one was labelled Office, another Props, another Costumes.
‘We want to talk to Bjorn,’ Arthur told Eirik as he pulled the emergency exit shut with a clang.
Eirik nodded at them grimly. Arthur read the expression in an instant. He knows something’s up, he thought.
The Viking led them along the corridor. It wound around to the left and they came to another door. He pushed it and they found themselves in the open air again; only this time they emerged into the imitation Viking village.
Bjorn was still seated in his throne in the centre of the market yard. With his high, sharp cheekbones and protruding brow, he was a sight to behold. There wasn’t much hair left in his beard, although he’d recently tied the loose strands into a single braid that fell to his chest. The hair on the top of his head was just as sparse, but right now he was wearing a bronze helmet to hide it. Arthur knew he only wore the helmet for battle.
Usually all the others soldiers would be milling around, talking, singing or even honing their fighting skills. But this time they were all gathered around Bjorn – all ninety-one remaining Viking soldiers standing in front of their leader, watching Arthur and Ash.
‘They’ve been waiting for us,’ Arthur whispered to Ash under his breath.
‘Why?’
‘We’ll soon find out.’ He walked forward through a corridor that formed between the assembled Vikings. As he passed them, they all dropped to one knee, bowing their heads in respect. They had never done this before and it made Arthur feel vaguely uncomfortable. These were men he thought of as his friends. He didn’t want them bowing to him. He stopped in front of Bjorn, who lowered his head.
‘Don’t bow to me, Bjorn,’ he said and then turned. ‘All of you, stand up. There’s no need to bow!’
For a moment, the Vikings looked from one to another. Bjorn grunted a command and they stood.
Arthur turned back to the man he thought of as his second-in-command. ‘Something happened, didn’t it?’
Bjorn nodded and snorted.
‘Loki’s up to something, isn’t he?’
Bjorn dipped his head sombrely.
‘Something really bad?’
Bjorn’s head bobbed affirmatively.
‘Do you know what it is?’
The dead Viking shook his head.
‘But you’re scared? You’re all really scared?’
Bjorn looked at the ground, avoiding Arthur’s gaze.
‘Bjorn?’ he asked again.
Eventually Bjorn raised his head and met Arthur’s eyes. Then he simply nodded.
Chapter Three
The Trickster God never enjoyed being in this four-legged wolf form. He much preferred to stand as a man, tall and broad with a nose that couldn’t smell the stinking earth around him. But being a wolf did have its benefits. He liked to run his coarse tongue along his piercing fangs and he could feel the great strength in his jaws even when his mouth was relaxed. Plus, being a wolf made it easier to follow the grey wolf.
They ran north all through the first night, leaping over hedges, bounding through briars and spooking sheep. They avoided towns and villages and crept past farmhouses only if necessary. The rolling Irish countryside was enduring sub-zero conditions, but they sprinted too fast to feel the cold. The grey wolf had given up any thought of escape. He was resigned to the fact that he had to lead the god to the others. As the sun rose in the east, bringing little warmth with it, the grey wolf idled to a stop. He looked back at Loki, whose golden wolf fur was almost glowing in the morning light, and scratched a paw into the hard earth.
Loki understood the gesture and, though he wasn’t pleased, he saw the sense in the grey wolf’s suggestion. It was time to stop, time to rest. The daytime was not a good time for a wolf to be out.
Too far from any caves, forests or mountainsides, they huddled together in a ditch at the side of a meadow, away from any possible prying eyes. The grey wolf slept through the day, rolling in his sleep and snoring with his great tongue lolling out. Loki didn’t need sleep so simply lay quietly. He was patient. It was something he’d learned in a thousand years of captivity. Good things come to those who wait. Or, in his case, evil things.
As the day came to an end and dusk approached, he took a chance and crawled out of their little ditch. He’d heard something across the meadow and wanted to investigate. Moments later he returned to the grey wolf, carrying a dead hedgehog in his chops, dripping blood. He dropped it at the snout of the wolf, startling him into waking. The grey wolf looked at Loki then back at the hedgehog. It was so temptingly juicy, he couldn’t resist. He devoured it in three bites, belching back up the skull and bones. Loki was pleased. The grey wolf wasn’t like him and he would need the energy for the journey ahead.
They set off once more, heading in a north-easterly direction now. A full moon hovered in the sky, a bright white disc against silky black. Loki liked the moon. He had been present when it was created all those millennia ago. Some liked it because it was the only light in a sea of darkness; truly a gift of the gods to humanity. But Loki liked it because man generally feared it. It was a symbol of cold times, of nightfall, and humans foolishly feared the superstitions they passed on to each other. Although not all the superstitions were untrue, he knew.
The grey wolf seemed even more determined on the second night than he did on the first. He just concentrated on their destination and getting there as quickly as possible.
The flat lands in the centre of the country were easier to pass through than the hilly fields of the night before, although this brought its own problems. While on the previous night they could run for miles through hills without the risk of being spotted, here they had to stop and hide on several occasions. At one stage they had to cross a motorway, a huge man-made road of concrete and tarmac. Traffic was sparse but fast and the two wolves watched from behind a fence as cars and lorries sped by at reckless speeds. Eventually they had their chance to cross. Only one car approached in the distance but was too far away for the driver to see that there were wolves crossing. As soon as the wolves reached the other side of the motorway, they continued on their journey.
The moon was low in the sky and the sun was close to rising when they reached their destination. They’d come to a large forest and the grey wolf stopped by a gnarled oak tree. Its trunk was as thick as a car and twisted. The branches were bare, save for a few dangerous-looking icicles that hung glittering along their length.
Loki-wolf could smell the magic from the tree. The grey wolf g
rinned – as much as a wolf could be said to grin – clearly relishing the moment. Then he barked three times quickly.
Suddenly a large chunk of bark at the base of the tree slid aside, revealing a hollow interior. The grey wolf bounded inside and Loki followed just as the bark slid back into place, shutting them in.
It was completely dark inside and, even with his wolf eyesight, Loki couldn’t see a thing. He could hear the grey wolf perfectly though – the sound of his footsteps padding away, going deeper into the ground. Loki trailed after him, finding himself in a tunnel just large enough for him to fit through. He could feel dry, hard earth below and above him.
The grey wolf dashed further down the tunnel, bounding ahead, eager to get home. Loki could hear his claws digging up dirt as he went.
As Loki loped down the tunnel, he saw a pinpoint of soft yellow light in the distance. The pinpoint grew larger and the light became brighter as he approached the end of the tunnel. After so much darkness, the light was almost blinding. He could hear a cacophony of noises beyond the tunnel: music and talking, laughing and singing, some growling.
Loki sped up towards the sound, towards the light and the warmth, relishing his moment of triumph. As he took the final leap out of the darkness, he transformed back into his man-form with an ooze of green light.
He found himself in a great circular hall. Heavy curtains hung on the walls alongside ancient and shedding tapestries depicting great battles of long ago. Large fireplaces stood every few feet around the hall, with blazing fires in each, giving Loki his first touch of warmth in days. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling, with its candles flickering brightly and the light reflecting off its hundreds of tiny crystals. A wind-up gramophone was placed on a side table, playing an old vinyl record – some crackly recording of a ragtime classic.
The hall was full of people of every age, gender and race. Loki guessed there must be somewhere between two and three hundred individuals in the hall. Most of the men were wearing suits in a variety of colours, although shades of cream and navy appeared the most popular choice. A couple wore stiff straw hats. The women favoured long dresses, layers of silk that flowed when they moved their legs, and wore wide-brimmed hats on their perfect, not-a-strand-out-of-place hairstyles. The few children were mostly in pastel colours: the boys in striped short pants and matching blazers, the girls dressed like miniature versions of the women. Some of the people had been swaying along to the music from the gramophone; others were seated at the long dining tables arranged throughout the room, eating meals of rare steak with no vegetable sides and sipping glasses of wine or tumblers of brandy; still more were lounging on couches and chaise longues, reading, chatting and joking with each other. There were wolves in the hall, too. Not as many as there were people, but still a significant number. Many of these were eating large chunks of uncooked meat on the bone or gnawing at chicken carcasses. Most of the wolves had placed themselves in front of the fireplaces.
As the people became aware of Loki’s presence, the conversation died, until the only sound was the crackling tune coming from the gramophone. One by one the people turned to stare at him. The wolves too stopped their feeding and regarded the new figure warily.
Loki spotted the grey wolf, his travelling companion, now lounging by a fireplace and greedily gobbling down a hunk of meat. His eyes were on the Trickster God too.
The old music that was playing clicked to a stop and the needle lifted off the record. Taking that as his cue, Loki spread his arms as wide as he could, the rustling fabric of his heavy coat the only sound apart from the crackling of the fires.
‘Honey,’ he exclaimed gleefully, ‘I’m home!’
‘How was work?’ Arthur called when he heard Joe arrive in, dropping the car keys on the hallway table.
‘It was all right,’ Joe answered, coming into the living-room to find his son with his feet up in front of the forty-six-inch TV. He collapsed into the adjacent armchair with a sigh. ‘Things are finally running smoothly. A lot better than when we got here first. You never know – we might be able to move back to Kerry sooner than we thought. Maybe by April.’
‘What?!’ The plan had always been to stay in Dublin for less than a year, moving back to Kerry in August so Arthur could start secondary school with his old friends. He’d been hesitant to move to Dublin in the first place, but now he had settled in and made friends.
‘Don’t you want to go home?’ queried Joe.
‘Of course I do. It’s just … so soon? It’s kind of unexpected.’
‘Well, it’s just a possibility. It’s nothing definite. Anyway, I thought you didn’t like Dublin?’
‘I don’t. Well, I do. Never mind.’
Joe took the hint and dropped the subject. They sat in silence, watching a quiz show on the television. Eventually, Joe spoke again.
‘Get up to anything today?’
‘Not much. Just went into town with Ash.’ As usual, he chose not to mention the Vikings.
Following their short discussion about Loki’s return, Bjorn had grunted something and waved some of his soldiers over. Eirik and another warrior called Gunnar approached them, carrying a bow and arrow and a longsword. The iron blade of the sword was as long as one of Eirik’s lanky legs. The hilt was also iron but wrapped in a fragile, age-worn strap of leather that was stained a dark green, with runes and swirls hammered into the large, round pommel. Patches of crumbly rust clung here and there, but overall it was in great condition considering it had been hidden under the city for a thousand years. The tips of the arrows – also iron – hadn’t fared as well, but they still looked sharp enough to do an enemy serious damage. The shafts were long sticks of ash, and the feathers at the end (which Arthur had read once were called the fletching) were pure white, flaked at the top with black. Eirik handed the accompanying bow to Ash – it was almost as tall as her.
‘What do they want us to do?’ Ash asked Arthur as Gunnar offered the longsword to him.
‘I think they want us to take them,’ he replied. He shook his head politely to Gunnar then turned to Bjorn. ‘We can’t use these. They’re dangerous.’
Bjorn rumbled a response. Eirik grunted at Ash, getting her attention. He mimed that he had a bow and arrow in his grip. He pulled back the imaginary elastic string then let the make-believe arrow fly. He nodded urgently to Ash, pushing the real bow into her hands.
‘They want to teach us,’ she realised.
‘No,’ Arthur said to Bjorn, aghast. ‘We can’t do that. You can’t teach us.’
‘Why not?’ Ash asked, slightly annoyed and still holding the bow. ‘Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I can’t–’
‘It’s nothing to do with that, Ash.’
‘What is it then?’ She sounded like she doubted him.
‘I don’t want … I don’t want anything happening to you. Or Max. Not like last time. And if we start messing around with swords and arrows …’
‘Someone could get hurt,’ Ash finished. She thought for a second then handed the bow back to Eirik. ‘You’re right.’
They left shortly after, letting the Vikings know that they were going away for a few days but that they’d visit when they were back in the city.
‘Looking forward to your trip tomorrow?’ Joe’s voice brought Arthur out of his thoughts.
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘it should be fun.’ And it was true. Arthur was looking forward to it. After what had happened the previous night, he was delighted to be going away. Maybe it would take his mind off Loki, the World Serpent and everything else.
‘Now …’ Loki continued. He walked through the hall, looking from one face to the next. Some had fear ingrained deep into their expressions, others appeared more defiant while some, Loki was delighted to see, looked glad to see him. ‘Where is the forgotten middle child? My warrior. Where is Fenrir?’
For a moment, everything was still. Then a voice spoke up.
‘I’m here.’ The man who stepped out of the crowd was taller than all
the rest – over seven foot at least – and Loki was surprised he hadn’t noticed him before. The perfect warrior, thought the god, knows how to hide in the crowd. The man’s beard and hair were black and he wore them both long and wavy. He had broad shoulders and muscled arms that hung low against his slim, athletic waist and he was wearing a navy pin-striped suit. There was a red handkerchief in his breast pocket and a cane in his hand. His eyes were golden and, even from this distance, they were a sight to behold.
‘It’s me,’ the man said, walking towards him. ‘I am Fenrir, Loki Wolf-father.’ He came to a stop right in front of the Trickster God.
The man towered over him but Loki studied his face closely, noting every detail. The once-familiar visage had aged since he’d last seen it, but not as much as might be expected, considering a thousand years had passed since they had last looked on one another. He looked like a mortal man in his sixties, with tough, wrinkled skin. Loki smiled and wrapped his arms around the man in a tight hug.
‘Fenrir, my son!’ he bellowed. ‘So good to see you again!’
‘And you, Wolf-father,’ Fenrir said when Loki let him go. At the embrace, the tension in the hall lessened, although the occupants remained silent. They were still unsure of what would happen. When Loki pulled back from the man, they saw that his face was serious.
‘You weren’t expecting me,’ he said, matter-of-factly.
‘No, we weren’t.’
‘I told you, though. Didn’t I tell you I’d return!’ His lips pulled back in a forced grin but his eyes remained cold.
‘You did, Wolf-father.’
‘It only took a thousand years but I made it.’
‘You did, Wolf-father.’
Loki took a step back from Fenrir, studying his face. He was growing quite sick of the monosyllabic responses.
‘Liven up, boy,’ he goaded. ‘It’s like you’re scared of me or something.’
For a split second, Fenrir looked away and then Loki knew for sure. He was indeed afraid of him. The grin melted from Loki’s face. He walked around Fenrir in a tight circle and continued to talk.
