The Wolf

by Alaric Longward

  I chuckled. “I’ve cursed them, not the other way around. Here. Lok’s greetings to you.” I suddenly pushed the blade into his throat and pushed it up. He gurgled and clawed at the blade, cut his fingers, and I pushed him over. I kicked him around to be spared the sight of his cock. I leaned over the first man I had killed, saw he wasn’t moving, and gazed at the sleeping one. I saw a dagger on his belt, chuckled, and took it. I dipped it in the blood of the first man and smeared the blood on the sleeper’s face and hands, placing the blade on his hand.

  I got up and looked around.

  There was nothing. No sound, not a twitch.

  I hesitated and went to fetch my horse. I led it down the path and stopped at the one Stick-Wolf had taken. I stepped after him and saw a shadowy way leading downhill. I walked forward, felt odd, like a man about to enter a cold stream. I dodged under rotten, wooden figures hanging from a branch, and then many skulls. Some had been sacrificed with a nail into the skull and sported neat holes in the forehead. They were dangling like forgotten spirits before my face, warning me not to go forward, but still, I did.

  I pulled my horse after me, and then, suddenly, I saw a flicker of light. It looked like a ghost that was stalking the woods and was occasionally hidden by some fog. I continued onward and, for some time, stumbled along in the dark.

  Then, I came upon Stick-Wolf’s meadow.

  The opening had a stream and a small waterfall that made its way down the hillside. The meadow was dark, and still well-tended. There were no rocks, no tree-trunks. At the far end of it, there was a roof that stuck above some young saplings.

  I found a man waiting for me in the middle of the meadow.

  Smoke and fog covered him partially, but then, wind cleared the sight, and I saw he was looking directly at me, his eyes gleaming under the hood. He was straightening his beard, and it was black as night.

  I was, for a moment, afraid. Then, I snarled the fear away and stepped to the meadow. I let go of my horse, held my sword to my side, and looked at him defiantly.

  He chuckled. He picked up a small dagger and a piece of carved wood and began working on it while giving me quick glances. He had, I was sure, noticed the sword was bloodied.

  He didn’t seem drunk.

  The dagger was moving swiftly. He was gauging me and smiling softly. “Well,” he said softly. “I’ve not see a man like you in a long while. It almost drips from you.”

  “What?” I asked. “What drips from me? Sweat? Blood? Greed?”

  “Sweat and blood, certainly. But greed?” he said, his hands smoothing the statue he was making. “That is something any man possesses, and most gods. Greed stays inside you and gnaws at you until you die of it. No, I am talking of danger.”

  “Danger drips off me?” I asked him.

  He nodded. “Danger. You change wyrd.”

  “Fate?”

  “Aye, fate. You change fates. You change the fates of men and women. The Three Spinners spin away on their threads, and lives come and go, but when you appear?” He shrugged. “They end up changing their threads and snapping short many who should have gone on for a long, long time. You and war. Both make the Spinners busy.” He chuckled softly. “A word-breaker, a world-shaker, you are indeed of the oldest blood. The very oldest. I smell it on you. It is from the northern shores, where the jotun-gods, the Aesir, and the Vanir carved you from bone, wood, and air. I see and smell it. Aye, you drip danger.”

  I leaned on my sword. “Oh, truly? What possibly can a man called Stick-Wolf, a hermit-priest of the rude Hermanduri, know of such matters of the north? For a moment, I thought you would be wiser than the others, but perhaps you are not. Have you seen the north?”

  He smiled. “Have you seen the south?”

  “I am working on that,” I said.

  He waved his dagger to the north. “Aye. I’ve been there, in the north,” he said. “Before I came to live in the Wolf Field, I traveled a lot.”

  “You don’t seem that old,” I said. “Unusual for a vitka. You drip lies, perhaps?”

  He aimed the dagger at me, and I gave him a warning shake. “Oh, I know no spells to strike a man dead like that. I only know the spells that gnaw them dead, inside out, over a long period of time. I do not lie. I have traveled a lot. I traveled the Midgard before I came to the Wolf Field to guide Badurad, and I traveled after he died, and even if I come back, and did for Red Raven’s various needs, and now for Akkas, I am well-traveled and shall travel more, boy.”

  “I doubt you can even describe the north,” I said with spite. I was looking around the woods, but there was nothing. I was cursing.

  He put away the dagger and the statue and pulled out a wand of old, gnarled ash.

  “I don’t want a part of that,” I said, but he ignored me as he pulled out a swath of green leaves. He caressed the leaves and then used them to caress the wand. He then dropped the leaves to the fire and held the wand still for a long while.

  I said nothing. I tried to, but ended up shutting my mouth and just brooded.

  He suddenly shifted and shook and then breathed hard. He straightened his back and pushed back his hood. Great, dark hair billowed around his shoulders, and his eyes were keen and blue.

  “A sea of cold rocks and barren, fir-cursed beaches,” he said. “Fishermen, and fields, and war. The death of a man, a king, a Goth Thiuda, Friednot started this journey. I see a hall, Bone-Hall, contested. You, unhappy, feeling betrayed, and then I glimpsed at your journey. So many great men dead. So many women. So many tears.” He gave me a sad look. “And what made it worse? The death of a girl. She drowned.”

  I stared at him and felt cold fingers clawing along my back. I shook my head and stood straight. I opened my mouth to call him a liar but didn’t. “She was drowned.”

  “Aye.”

  I looked around.

  “Where is the girl?”

  He chuckled. “You will take mine to replace yours? Nay, you think you deserve someone higher. The Sarmatian woman thinks your blood is high enough for her, but she is like you. You will never love another like you did your Saxa. And there is the matter of her oath to kill the man who killed her—”

  “How do you know her name?” I snarled. “Saxa’s.”

  “Love making is not love,” he said. “You and Tamura are much alike, indeed, both lack their true love and marry the high to live a ghost of a life.”

  “Is she near?”

  He winked. “Tamura? Or my slave? The latter, my new slave will warm my bed this night,” he said. “She is not a danger to you. She is in my small hall, making ready our bed. We do not need for her, after all, to sit here with us. I do not need to read guts and make portents, so she is safe.” He squinted as he looked at me. “You are exactly what I thought you would be. All of you are so much alike. Ravagers and rarely repentant ones.”

  And then, it dawned on me he knew about the family curse. He knew, and he was staring at me with similar intensity as Grandmother and Hulderic had.

  “How do you know of that?” I spat. “How?”

  He shook his head, put the wand away, and picked up the dagger and the statue.

  “Is this about that empty shit of a curse?” I pressed him, dreading the answer. “I am tired of vitka and völva meowing about it. I need no more tales of doom. I’ve heard enough of it to last a lifetime.”

  “Is that why your father travels after you?” he asked casually.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Is that why you tried to kill him?” he went on, eyeing me.

  I opened my mouth and felt like I was a child, being scolded for stealing a cup of mead.

  He nodded and carved the statue. It looked like a wolf.

  “I have… I didn’t want to kill the man,” I said. “I would have given him the choice. To go away or to die. It would have been his choice and not ...”

  “Blood is blood, Goth,” he said. “You don’t spill your own. You don’t threaten your family. Speaks volumes of you and what I mentioned. You
can still step back to the light.”

  I walked back and forth and considered slitting his throat, deciding against it. “I seek the light, but perhaps not the one you offer.”

  He smiled. “I could tell you a tale of your kin. It stretches far beyond time, where Woden made you. He was so proud, he loved the land he had made. Midgard, his best creation, and men, his worst. A god, half-god, I should mention, took offence in his joy and cursed the first blood of Woden’s creation, and made it so that there shall be a Bear.”

  “I am not—”

  “The Bear is a nothing,” he said brusquely.

  “What, a nothing?” I snarled. “What do you mean?”

  He chuckled softly. “So hurt. So proud. Aye, a nothing. The Bear is the just the first step in Lok’s plan to overthrown the gods, the Nine Worlds, Midgard itself. It is a game he and Woden have played forever, since the beginning. He has many such plans to destroy the Nine, and this one is his more patient one. The first family Woden made, is cursed. They are Woden’s best people, and still, every now and then, one shall be rotten to the core, touched by Lok’s kiss. The Bear is the hunger that will consume all. The Bear will be known by the destruction he leaves behind. He is known by his Lok-like tricks, his clever, evil mind. He cares and loves and weeps for his losses, but in the end, he nearly always chooses badly.” He smiled. “The Bear can come around. There have been may Bears in the past, who finally flinched and looked away from their evil. Some killed themselves, others just…changed.”

  “Are you suggesting I kill myself?” I snarled.

  “I am suggesting you should not kill your father,” he answered tartly. “Fool. Don’t waste my time.” He tapped the ground with the dagger to clear some wooden chips off it. “The Bear shall go on, and he shall make a child, the Raven, who is much like him. Together, they shall follow the steps, unless one dies or sees the path for what it is. Lok is clever, and he has cursed both with terrible pride, thirst for power, and resistance to common sense.”

  “And here we are,” I said. “I’ve not made a Raven yet.”

  He grinned. “Tamura will be disappointed.”

  I was about to ask why he thought I had done something of the kind, but decided against it. “All I want,” I said instead, “is peace. A hall, a war or two to make me rich, aye, but peace.”

  He laughed. “No. You always have a plan to rid you of your enemies, a plan that will give you all you want, and following that plan, like a rock falling from the mountain, you unhinge other rocks. You shall never settle for a hall and find peace. You will find, instead, more trouble. It is the tale of the Bear and the Raven, and I tell you this; there is a Wolf as well.”

  “What is this Wolf, then?” I asked, annoyed.

  “You could be the Wolf,” he said simply. “You choose to be less proud and more honorable and be a wolf. Be a wolf amongst other wolves and let others lead. Serve your father. He is nearly the best of men.”

  “Nearly?” I laughed.

  “He has a weakness for girls,” the Stick-Wolf said. “It is a common ailment, no matter the value of the man.”

  “Oh, he does?” I said. “And you suggest I ride to him, prostrate myself before him, and beg for forgiveness. Then, I shall be his sword, and he shall be the just lord, and there shall be no more said of the prophecy?”

  He nodded. “Indeed. Though, of course, Lok’s curse won’t die. It shall never die. Do this and the Raven will be spared ill choices. Forget Bero and Maino.”

  I blinked and shook my head. “How do you know all this? Did you… You spoke to Bero.”

  “No,” he said. “I did not.”

  “Oh, you did! Well. I shall speak with Father one day. But I won’t let him push me into servitude. He would serve Bero, and I’d kiss Maino’s cock for the rest of my life. You babble.”

  He laughed and nodded. “I babble. I do. I always do, but what else is a vitka to do? No man will obey a silent vitka. You should take heed of what I just told you. I should leave now.”

  I snorted. “You are asking me not to tangle in the affairs of the locals.”

  He looked tired and then scratched the statue with the dagger, cursing as he inspected the damage. He waved his hand. “I cannot stop you. Tangle away,” he said darkly. “It will be a bloody summer here, as it has been a bloody winter and spring elsewhere. It is your greed and thirst for glory that drives the blood-letting, and I cannot stop you. All I am asking, Maroboodus, that when your father seeks you out and asks for your choice, let it be a good choice. For all our sakes. Obey him and live in glory, even if life is not exactly as glorious as you would prefer. You will have plenty of it, and enough.”

  “You—“

  He shook his head, finished carving his figurine. He tossed it to me. It was a wolf with a one eye. “I am no charlatan. You work with your father and heed his calls, boy, or you shall find no friend in this land. You will end your days in your Winter Island, old, decrepit, and lonely, if we are lucky.”

  I lifted it and thanked him with a sarcastic smile. “Charlatan or no, Akkas listens to you.”

  He smiled. “Akkas? Oh, come now. You know Akkas is an empty armor. Rome is the one moving this forward.”

  “Why?”

  “You know that as well. Trade, security, Roman interests.” He winked. “What you do not know, is how.”

  “Akkas is led by you, and—”

  “Not by me,” he said, looking sour. “I just keep him happy.”

  “Tyr?”

  “No, he is just a warrior,” he said.

  “Red Raven was a thief,” I said, “and Akkas is too weak. No Roman can command the tribes.”

  He smiled.

  I shifted in my feet and stepped forward. “The last völva who was slow to help me died in my hands. I am not afraid of killing such people.”

  He grasped his wand and scowled. “Be careful, boy, that I don’t snap you on that nose with this thing. You are wading in a deep river. Be polite. This is my place and not—”

  I shook my head. “I came here—”

  “You didn’t come here to ask a single thing of me,” he said simply. “You know it very well, you tricky shit.”

  I walked back and forth before him, and the sword grew heavy in my hand. “You think so?”

  “I know,” he said.

  “Stick-Wolf, is that right. Adalfuns, one said,” I told him, as I stepped closer.

  He got up and looked to the woods, frowning. He put away the dagger and left the wolf on a stump, eyeing me. “They call me the Crafter. I meddle in the affairs of the great, but not even I can force a man to change his ways. I can only build the best possible set of choices for fools to choose from and guide people around him to aid the Bear and the Raven.” He waved his hand to the west. “I am leaving. I’ll meet the Tear of the North soon enough and shall try to play my part well. Gods know, my cock has changed the fate of worlds before. But you have a rough few days ahead of you, Maroboodus, and perhaps a mound of dirt to rest under. You have a friend, your Ingulf. Do not betray him. If you wonder what Rome is up to, and what you should do, if not to ride away to your father, then find the Roman camp, deep in the woods.” He looked me sadly. “I beg to Woden you forget Lok’s ways and, along this path you are following, finally choose well.” He lifted his hand.

  I heard sounds all around me.

  He smiled. “You clever bastard. Now, I will go and make love to my woman. And you? You shall have to flee. They are early and fast, and you are alone. They do not worship our gods. They worship the sky, the Sunna and the Mani, but mainly the gods of fire, of earth, and of rock. They worship the horse and the blade. They don’t fear me or your Lok. They always, always sacrifice when they go to a great war. The higher the sacrifice, the better. Aye, they know what you are, and you made sure they knew, didn’t you? But choose a side, only after you travel to a Roman camp. Unless, of course, you die.” He backed off, and smiled sadly. “I tell you this. Do not feast with your cousin.”

  H
e went off to the waiting arms of the woman.

  I turned and saw Tamura.

  She was leaning on a long spear and wore her tunic, odd boots and had a blackened face. With her, there were four others. Two were her chiefs, and also brothers. One had a bleeding wound on his face. The stiches were holding but it was still seeping blood. They had swords, heavy, wide-bladed weapons, and wicker shields. Two others were women, her other two daughters, beautiful as she was, and one had a bow and arrow nocked and another a rope and a dagger. The men wore pants and boots. The girls as well. Their upper bodies were bare and tattooed with black symbols of fire and horse.

  Tamura smiled. “Finally.”

  “Finally?” I asked them. “We just…met. Are you out hunting?” I asked, looking beyond them to the darkness.

  There was nothing.

  She shook her head. “We are hunting, but not like you think. You killed my girl, man. You killed my sweet, beautiful girl. The manner of her death was a worthy one, in battle. You have repaid me, as you should. As I said, such blood as yours is good for two things.”

  “I was good for one, and now, you seek a sacrifice?” I asked, backing off. “Woden won’t like it. He detests girls who hunt the woods for trouble, instead of doing their duties in the hall,” I said with unwise mockery.

  Tamura grimaced at me. “The truth lives in the flames, Maroboodus.” She lifted her head high. “I am Tamura of Storm, the fire seeker, the flame gazer. I am the exile, whose sweet king died, and now a valued servant of the eagle. Rich I am not, but my blood thrums with that of the flame gods and the horse spirit, and I shall not be called a girl. Serve me well, Maroboodus, this night, once more. Let it be your blood, which blesses my coming marriage and the child you gave me.”

  “There is no way to know I gave you—”

  “So, let us make sure,” she said with a wicked grin. “Let your blood bless the coming war as well. Fight, and do not make a mockery of our ways. You sacrifice your prisoners, while we honor our gods with a hunt. We’ll take you and eat your heart in the shadow of a sword and after it has been kissed by fire.”