by John Meaney
Wolf.
He smiled, a rictus appropriately lupine.
‘That’s right,’ he told Rhianna. ‘You understand.’
She turned away, broadcasting regret.
But it’s all right.
He had become the Wolf.
SIXTY-TWO
EARTH, 778 AD
Shingle crunched beneath Ulfr’s feet. Ahead on the shore rose the rotting hulk of a sea-monster, of the kind known as whale. Much meat had been hacked from it. Farther along, around a bonfire upon the beach, men, women and children were feasting. Out on the waves, a sea-going longship was at anchor with sail furled. Only a few men were aboard, as far as Ulfr could see.
Kolr followed, his reins in Ulfr’s left hand. Brandr, most faithful of war-hounds, trotted at Ulfr’s side. They were all he needed. Chief Folkvar and the village were far behind him now.
Ulfr had thought he was setting out to hunt, but that had been many days ago, and he still did not know what manner of prey he was after. There had been rabbits but no deer; nuts and berries but no fruit. The journey had lasted long enough for the two wolf hides to cure: wind-dried and rubbed with bitter earth as the women used back home. The preserved hides were tied in a roll at the back of Kolr’s saddle.
‘Ho, stranger.’ It was a woman, clad in scarlet wool, her apron blue as her eyes. ‘You are welcome to join us.’
‘I will, and thank you.’
He hobbled Kolr and strode on with Brandr.
‘Where are you from?’ asked a bearded man, handing over a chunk of well-cooked whale meat.
‘I am Ulfr Ulfrsson, and I hail from Dark Lake, where Folkvar Grímsson is chief.’
‘Then we are more than well met, for I am named Grímr, though I am not your chief’s father. As far as I know, that is. But a man’s seed spreads far.’
‘Not unless you sired a child,’ said Ulfr, ‘when you were two years old. Is everyone here so manly?’
There were roars of laughter, redoubled when the woman in red said: ‘I’m not.’
‘I still wouldn’t argue with you, Ása,’ said Grímr.
She was beautiful, and there was something in the way she looked at Ulfr; but the crackling of the bonfire reminded him of a funeral pyre, the burning of Eira’s shrouded remains. He continued to eat, splitting his food with Brandr, but only because he knew he should replenish his body at every chance. Enjoyment had dissipated, like rising smoke.
Still he talked, because courtesy demanded it. Some of the group were from the ship’s crew; all were from the same settlement, a considerable walk north. They had used the longship, rowing hard when the wind was against them, to force the whale to beach, frightening it with war-yells and clashing weapons, being careful not to lose the oars.
‘It was well done,’ Ulfr told them.
So even monsters of the sea feared armed warriors. It was a good thing to know.
Afterwards he left them, despite their offers of hospitality – despite the inviting thought of sleeping in a longhall instead of outdoors – and headed upslope on foot, into forest land, Brandr at his side and leading Kolr as before. They saw no people before dusk, at which point he tethered Kolr to a pine-tree, then planted a short, slender branch in the ground and hunkered beside it, stretching his cloak over it to form a tent, while Brandr crawled in next to him.
Woodsmoke woke him before dawn.
When he found the other campsite, it was deserted, the fire still smouldering. Poor discipline: it should have been buried or put out with water. The men – he was sure it was a reaver-band – had left a clear path through the forest: heading towards the sea.
‘No. I will not let this happen.’
Ása and Grímr and the rest … they were good people, tough but not necessarily prepared to fend off a reaver-band’s sneak attack.
There was a limit to how fast he could go, on foot or on Kolr, for the descent was in darkness, even after dawn must have broken, thanks to the multitude of trees all around. At the least the ground was soft, deadening sound, so with luck the rearmost warriors would not hear him.
But tiny, distant screams sounded when he was still deep inside the forest.
No.
They moved faster, Ulfr and his stallion and hound, but when they reached the beach, the scattered bonfire was as dead as the people, with no sign of the longship off shore.
Her red robe was torn, made brown where the blood was beginning to dry.
‘Damn you.’ He looked north. ‘This was ill done.’
But vengeance on a reaver-band? What was he thinking?
Among the other bodies lay bluff Grímr who had made Ulfr welcome. He was weaponless – the reavers had stolen his sword – but his shield lay face-down on the shingle near his hand. Ulfr crouched down and turned it over. The design was a wolf’s head, all in red.
So.
He hated the Norns, the three dread sisters – Fate, Being and Necessity – who played pitiless games with human lives. But sometimes their messages were clear.
From behind Kolr’s saddle, he cut loose the two wolf skins. The male’s head and upper jaw remained attached to one; this, he drew over his head like a helm, fastening the forearms around his throat, outside his cloak. The female’s skin he wrapped around his body but underneath the cloak. Then using the male’s claws, he drew three parallel cuts beneath his left cheekbone, three more beneath the right, and three across his forehead.
Now we’ll see.
Taking up the wolf shield, he vaulted onto Kolr’s back, while Brandr gave a bark. Then they moved off, heading north.
The first people he came to were four in number, on foot. Ulfr slipped down from the saddle, shield still on his left forearm – he had been getting a feel for it as he rode – but with his right hand held clear of his body, palm forward.
‘Are you from the settlement where Grímr and Ása lived?’ he said.
‘We might be. Who are you?’
‘Reavers caught them on the beach. I was—’
One of the men was pointing at him.
‘That’s Grímr’s shield.’
‘Look, I’m a traveller and they offered hospitality. I didn’t—’
‘Wolf skins, war-cuts and a stolen shield. Traveller. You think we’re stupid?’
Ulfr took a step back.
‘Please don’t do this. Just listen.’
Blades scraped free of scabbards.
‘Hear that? Next sound will be you squealing, wolf-man.’
They came for him, and all was blood.
Damn you all.
Shield-edge to throat and clawing for eyes, spinning with a kick to the liver, elbow whipped to jaw, stripping the sword from a weakened grip, left, right, slice the ankle tendon, jump, blast through with heavy blows, knocking everything aside and smashing the bastards down, down into mud, wet mud soaked with blood—
Bastards.
—then stepping back, breath sawing, snarling at the four ripped corpses, staring at the sword in his hand though his own was still sheathed. Then he looked at the shield on his left arm and nodded, for it had served well.
Brandr was spattered with blood, not his own.
Good.
Ulfr tipped back his head and howled.
The next day, far ahead, he saw a man moving amid forest cover. Ulfr dismounted, pointed at Brandr to sit, then placed the ends of Kolr’s reins between the war-hound’s teeth.
‘Come if I whistle, brave Brandr.’
Dark eyes stared at him with love. The only good thing left in the Middle World, when even those you tried to help did nothing but attempt to kill you. He had tried to help the thralls, and he had tried to help the local villagers, and all it brought was blades thrusting at him. And the only time he came to life was in the storm of battle-sea, of spear’s torrent. Of blood.
‘Good boy.’
Ulfr drew his sword – his own blade, rune-inscribed with his name – but left the shield hanging on Kolr’s saddle. He still wore the wolf skins. Then he lope
d after the lone man, hoping this was what he thought.
Silent, his run.
A left-hand punch to the kidneys, hooking in front of the bastard’s shin with the sword blade, and he went down face-first, Ulfr following, dropping his weight down to sit on the bastard’s back; but said bastard was on elbows and knees, still in the fight. Ulfr slammed both feet back, kicking the thighs to straighten the man out. Flattened, there was no way for him to resist as Ulfr sat on his back and pulled his head back, using his left hand, then angled the sword to nick his throat.
‘Are you with the reavers? I swear by Sif’s thighs, I won’t cut your throat if you talk.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Tell me.’ Ulfr hauled back left-handed, cranking the neck. ‘Now.’
‘Reavers, if you want to … call us … that.’
‘And who is your chief? Your leader?’
The man’s face worked, then:
‘Magnús, damn you! Magnús the Carver.’
‘I take it it’s not wood he carves?’
Movement, but not laughter.
‘He carves man-meat. So, I’ve talked.’
‘More. How did this Magnús become your leader?’
‘What?’
‘You heard. How?’
Ulfr pulled back harder.
‘It doesn’t— He fought! Challenged old Arnkell. Killed … him.’
‘Good.’
He let the pressure off a little.
‘You swore you wouldn’t … cut my throat.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Oh. Good. Can you—’
Ulfr dropped the sword, clamped his right hand over his left against the man’s forehead, and bared his teeth as he wrenched back, revelling in the crack of sound.
‘Maybe you were right, Vermundr,’ he said to the big man who was not there. ‘You and Chief Folkvar. Or maybe you were very wrong.’
He stripped the dead man of weapons and food.
It took another day to circle around ahead of the band, work out where they were likely to camp – there was a deep dell, cupped from a hill, with good vantage points for guards at the top, and he knew from observing the previous nights that this Magnús chose the sites well, however poor his reavers’ camp discipline might be – and then he made his preparations.
Alone, with Brandr and Kolr at a distant hiding-place, because their presence would give everything away.
The reavers threw wood onto the remains of someone else’s fire. One began striking flint, trying to get the first dried leaves to light. Finally their leader, Magnús, strode down from where he had been placing look-outs, and examined the struggling flame.
‘Is this what you call a fire? Why don’t you—?’
Something erupted from the pile of wood, spewing charcoal and ash from the previous remains, roaring upwards and throwing its arms wide.
‘Demon!’
Magnús stepped back, pulling free his sword.
‘Wolf,’ said someone.
The figure smiled beneath his wolf skin. His arms were outstretched, his hands empty, though a sheathed sword was at his side.
‘I am what he said.’ Ulfr’s voice was calm. ‘And I challenge you for leadership.’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
There was a conjoined roar as both men closed, Ulfr not drawing his sword, stepping inside the swing of Magnús’s cut, right hand clamping the back of his neck, face heading for the throat like a lover, but Ulfr’s mouth was wide and he clamped his teeth deep, aiming true, wanting the windpipe – not the blood vessels – and crushing it in his bite, then ripping back. Magnús croaked, falling. Left-handed, Ulfr snatched Magnús’s sword, then plunged it into its owner’s heart.
He kept the tableau like this so the reavers could see their leader’s fate; then he thrust with his foot to push the corpse clear of the blade. In the frozen quiet, the wet sucking sound was clear. Then Ulfr drew his own sword, spat, and stood with both blades unsheathed. Around him in the dell were some fifty men, maybe more, all staring this way.
‘Any questions?’ he said.
At least a dozen reavers looked at each other and snarled, turned back to Ulfr and yelled as they ran at him, drawing swords and swinging axes to the ready, in one case a long-handled war-hammer.
Óthinn’s shit.
Time for the blood-rage once more.
Glimpses: chopped fingers, hammer falling from the riven hand as his other blade took out an eye; hilt into face on the backswing, rebound forward into another’s throat, while his other sword chopped down, and someone roared; spinning, using the ground, their headlong sprint working for him as he deflected one man into another, and then again; fingers tingling as he lost a sword but grabbed testicles, howling as he ripped upwards and the man went down, tripping two more; turned another right around, the back of his neck fresh and clear like a girl’s, his scream like an animal’s as blade severed vertebrae; tearing an axe loose from a dead man’s hand; two-handed once more, screaming as he plunged into a group of five, six men and chopped down with strength that could not be deflected; split a face vertically in two.
And clicked it off, the rage.
Soaked with sweat and blood, he took in the twisted wounded and the dead, strewn across the bottom of the dell. Then he looked up at the others, the three dozen who had stood back. They were staring at him, afraid but not of the violence or even the rage, for they were reavers, used to blood and battle. What they had never seen was someone who could enter and exit berserkrgangr at will.
Good. So you understand.
He turned in a circle, checking them all, not ignoring the danger from those he had wounded without killing.
‘Any more questions, anyone?’
Suddenly, someone laughed.
Thank Loki for that.
Others began to laugh, then beat their weapons against their shields, while the wounded looked up at them as though they were insane.
‘Give us your name,’ a reaver called, ‘if it please you, good Chief.’
The new leader put down his axe, then raised his sword. Runes were carved on it, the first six newer and cruder than the final four, but making sense all the same to those reavers who could read.
‘I am Fenrisulfr!’ he cried. ‘And with a hell-wolf at your head, who can stand against you, against us, my brave and bloody reavers?’
There was a pause, then a roar, weapons shaking, not at him but at their prey, all the weak of the Middle World.
‘I promise you blood and gold and death!’
Far away, with Kolr’s reins between his teeth, sitting by the ash-tree where he had been commanded, Brandr whimpered.
SIXTY-THREE
EARTH, 1953 AD
Seven years since the war’s end. Gavriela, with time to spare before the meeting, stood staring at a rubble-strewn bomb site. Boys in short trousers were kicking a football, innocent of the events that created their playground – the deaths and screaming, the flames and collapse – and she could not tell whether it meant hope or despair: moving on from the past, or failing to learn its lessons. They would grow up as individuals; but what of the species?
Some said the end of rationing was only a year away. Food, intact housing, and family safe: that was all that mattered. You had to deal with the rest only because ignoring it placed the fundamentals in jeopardy. Hence, by sequences of faultless logic leading to insane conclusions, the mutual fear between Soviets and the West. They said that not a single Russian family had made it through the war with everyone living; now they reached for the uranium, created missiles in readiness, so that more devastation like this could be brought into being; except there would be no children playing in the ruins.
According to a mole in Washington, plans for something called the Atlas ICBM were being drawn up; the mole’s opinion was that once proposed in final form, the programme would be initiated. But it was the thinking more than the hardware that worried Gavriela; Turing’s transatlantic counterpart, von Neuman
n, was recommending a first-strike all-out nuclear attack against the USSR, on the basis of rigorous mathematical analysis.
Both of these reports had crossed her desk in the context of signals intelligence; the first because the radio relay was a joint Section VIII-GCHQ operation, while the second was a composite analysis arising from a series of intercepts: SIS’s eavesdropping on the Cousins (the new term for American spooks) had expanded to included the RAND corporation, think-tank to White House and Pentagon alike.
One of the boys had fallen over. After some thirty seconds, he got up and continued to play, receiving the ball and dribbling it with aplomb across the broken ground, heedless of the red streak starting at his knee.
Gavriela blew out a breath then walked away.
King’s Cross was close by, and the queue at the taxi rank was short: only six people. She joined it, alert for anyone following, and climbed into the fifth taxi – two had shared – and told the driver Charing Cross. No one struck as her odd when she climbed out at her destination – ‘Thank you, missus,’ said the driver, checking his tip – and from there she went on foot, past Trafalgar Square and along Flea Spotter Alley, tradename for the static counter-surveillance setup where the eponymous fleaspotters would check to see whether she had picked up anything untoward, most likely with Slavic features.
The entry protocol took the usual length of time, not least because there were visitors ahead of her, including a large group with American accents – she gave a tiny nod to an NSA officer who had spent time at Eastcote; he returned the nod but no more – but finally she was through, with an escort to lead her upstairs. His name was Price, and she had met him before but knew nothing about him, except that he looked hard around the edges, meaning he probably got here via SIS’s absorption of SOE. At Rupert’s office he knocked and opened the door for her, then closed it behind her as she went in.
‘Sit down, old thing,’ said Rupert. ‘I’ll be Mum.’
