The Day of the Wolf

by C. R. May

  Guttorm shared an awkward look with his younger brothers, clearing his throat before replying. ‘There were none worth taking father. We thought it best to keep the hulls empty to take onboard those you took inland. We fired the towns of course and took any ship we found,’ he added lest Erik think he had been wanting in his duty to him, ‘but we felt certain that you would have far better luck on the march than we were having raiding the coastal districts. As I said,’ he offered apologetically, ‘we found none but runts and hag-wives. I doubt they would have survived the journey to the thrall market, let alone fetch a good price if we did manage to keep them alive.’

  Erik nodded, forcing a smile to his face to avoid the risk of revealing his unease. All the evidence was beginning to point to a trap, and he pushed down the urge to fly back south with difficulty. He would call a meeting of his sons and leading men to consider their advice, and act upon it the following morning. ‘You say that I have a hall, freshly aired and provisioned for my use?’

  Guttorm assured him they did.

  ‘In that case,’ Erik replied in a voice laced with a cheerfulness he no longer felt, ‘what better way could I celebrate the reunion of our land and ship armies than feasting my kinsmen and oath sworn. We shall gather at sundown,’ he said, as he raised an arm to acknowledge the cheers and welcoming cries of the men lining the earthen bank, ‘and you can help wash the road dust from my throat, while we discuss what to do next.’

  15

  Skulissons

  The king aimed a kick as the rat scurried past, exchanging a look with Thorstein as the rodent was swallowed by the gloom. He held out the cup for a refill while he had the man’s attention, knuckling his lids and attempting to blink the weariness from his eyes as the ale splashed. Erik shifted again on the stool, rocking from side to side to allow the blood flow to return to one arse cheek after the other before returning his gaze to the palisade. Still nothing. He glanced up at the night sky through a gap in the ill-fitting planking. High above the moon slipped behind a bank of ribboned clouds, riming the edges a steely grey as the wind drove them on. Erik looked away to the East. This far north the summer nights were barely worth the bother of heading to your bed; already the stars were dimming as the wolf light of predawn grew moment by moment.

  Grettir and Gunnar, the brothers from Hordaland who had led the boar head charge at Ceasterford and Corebricg, had been the ones to discover the preparations for the expected attack. Constantly alert to signs of danger, the pair had walked the perimeter of Celurca before daylight had faded the previous evening. In a part of the circuit all but obscured from the rest of the town by the long roof of a byre, the slight signs of a disturbance near the base of the wall had drawn them across, despite the clouds of insects and overwhelming stench from the racks of cow pats left drying in the sun. There they had discovered that one of the big upright posts which ringed the bank had recently been sawn through near the base. Although all traces of sawdust had been carefully removed and the cut itself smeared with mud and shit, the attempt at concealment had only reinforced their fears that an attack on Erik and his leading men was imminent. No one could foresee how long the king would remain in the town, so any assault was likely to take place that night, and although Erik had gone ahead with the feast he had spent the best part of the night sat in the hayloft as he waited for the enemy to make their move. He supped again as he thought, snorting softly in the dark as he closed his eyes momentarily and shifted on the stool: he really was getting a bit long in the tooth for this shit.

  Thorstein’s hand on his shoulder snapped him out of it, and Erik’s gaze flew across to the base of the fence as shadowy figures tensed around him. At first his eyes had difficulty readjusting to the shadows, but a finger of moonlight stabbed out at just that moment and Erik caught the merest movement before the returning glow caused it to stop. A heartbeat later the light blinked out as the clouds moved back to smother the moon, and Erik gripped the hilt of his sword as the point of a dagger appeared at the side of the panel to lever it aside. Fingertips spidered into view, and as the fencing was pulled outward Erik was on his feet, flexing arms and legs to warm muscles ready for the fight. Swords were hissing from scabbards all around as the first face appeared in the gap, and Erik and his leading men looked on from the darkness of the hayloft as a leg and then the torso of a man squeezed through the crack and into the compound. In looks and clothing the intruder was clearly a Norseman like himself, but it took only a moment for the king to realise that that must be how any assassin would dress if he hoped to get close enough to strike. Another man appeared as the first slipped down the bank and into the shadows at the rear of the byre, and Erik was about to order the men outside when he stopped. The second intruder was sliding the fencing back into place, covering up the sawtooth marks as before, and Erik shared a look of glee with those surrounding him as they all came to realise the opportunity which was presenting itself to them. ‘Come on,’ he hissed as the would-be assassins made their way through the drying racks and disappeared from view. ‘Let us make sure the lads take these fools alive.’

  The men stood aside as the king crossed the loft, and within moments Erik was at the ladder. Every creak drew a wince as he made his way down, but the reappearance of men in their midst caused the cattle to stir in their stalls, smothering the sound, and Erik doubled across to the doorway as the rest of his men followed on. He drew back his sword arm, aiming the point of the weapon at the place any head would appear and waited. As Thorstein led the rest of his guard to the king’s side, Erik risked a look outside. Needful of driving cattle through the town the thoroughfare was wider than most, and Erik calmed his breathing as he watched for the first sign of the intruders. Away to the East the sky was lightening by the moment: soon the cocks would crow — the killers would have to move quickly if they were to send him on to Valhöll. The moment stretched as they waited in the shadows, but just as Erik began to doubt that the enemy would appear on the roadway they sauntered into view. Despite their deadly intent, Erik allowed himself a smile at the men’s composure as one acknowledged an early riser with a nod of the head. With the returning light he could see now that the intruders were younger than he had expected, not much more than lads, and he allowed the pair to get a dozen paces closer to the hall of the laird before he stepped through the doorway and hailed them. ‘Would it be me you are looking for boys?’

  The men spun on their heels as Erik’s huskarls bustled to his side, and Erik saw the look of surprise turn to horror and dejection as they recognised who stood before them. The king’s appearance had been the signal for his sons and their bodyguards to emerge from their own hiding places, and within moments the pair were hemmed in on all sides. The heavy silence which had followed Erik’s question stretched as he watched the pair’s indecision, but the sound of bowmen training their weapons on the assassins finally prompted a reaction from the king. ‘Remove your hands from the handle of your swords, and you may yet live to see the dawn.’ For a moment it looked as if the men were about to comply, but the drooped shoulders and downcast looks were overdone and it came as no surprise to any looking on when the pair let out a roar of defiance and charged. Erik planted his feet, standing foursquare as they closed, but the pair had only covered half the distance to the man they wanted dead when arrows flashed to take them in the knees. Despite the determination to keep going written on their faces the darts had done their work, and as their legs buckled beneath them to send the pair sprawling into the dust Erik moved forward to kick their swords aside. ‘That was unnecessary,’ he said as they gritted their teeth in pain and frustration, ‘but entertaining all the same. You are fortunate that my bowmen have the wits to know I want you alive.’ Erik reached down, jiggling the shaft of an arrow as his face creased into a smile. ‘I have a few questions to ask of you.’ Firming his grip, he pushed the head deeper as the youngster whimpered with pain. ‘You can answer me now or a little later, but you will tell me all I need to know.’ He paused to allow
the youth the opportunity to reply, but with the agony subsiding all he received was a snarl of defiance. Erik rose to his feet. ‘You had your chance, but you have cost me a night’s sleep already and I am in no mood for games.’ Erik indicated that his men come forward to disarm the prisoners and lead them away. ‘I am off to break my fast. Other men will take care of you until we speak again.’

  Erik blinked as he came into the full light of day. The few short hours sleep he had managed to snatch while others more skilled in extracting knowledge from reluctant men had done wonders for his state of mind, and he was looking forward to ending their misery; they had, after all, crept into town to take his life. Thorstein spoke again, the incredulity he felt at the identity of the assassins still evident in the tone. ‘Who would have thought a merchant would whelp such brave lads?’

  Erik shrugged. ‘I daresay the family fortune took a tumble when we fed their father to the fish. Their loss was our gain, the silver we made on the trip to Lishbunah and from Gamli and Harald’s attack on the eastern ship paid for our first spell as king in York. Without it,’ he said with a look, ‘it may never have happened, and we would have remained forever holed up in Orkney dreaming of returning home to Norway. But the slaver only had himself to blame — if Skuli had not let his greed get the better of him, his sons would not be about to lose their heads.’ Erik glanced at the southern sky. The sun was midway to its zenith — there was still plenty of time to make his plans and get the army back on the move. While he had slept word had spread throughout the camp of the attempt on the king’s life, and Erik was pleased to see that the faces which greeted him as they walked looked genuinely thankful that it had been thwarted. Despite the lack of an overwhelming victory and the distance he had led them from their farms and halls, it was plain that he still had their loyalty. ‘Run through what we have discovered again,’ he said, ‘it will be too late to ask any more questions of them soon.’

  ‘Mael Colm has been in the North, putting down a rebellion there,’ Thorstein began. ‘It seems that one of his lairds, a man called Cellach of Moray, had grasped the opportunity presented by our invasion to throw in his lot with old king Constantine’s son Indulf, who has been agitating to replace his uncle as the king of Alba. Mael Colm has called out the northern levy and told them to meet him at a place called Fetteresso. When he returns the idea is that he will lead them south through the hilly country inland and link up with the rest of the army, leaving us stranded up here before we can either rejoin earl Oswulf’s Bernicians or return to Northumbria via Strathclyde.’

  Erik nodded. ‘Do we know if the king has returned to this…’ He pulled a face: ‘Feserello?’

  ‘Fetteresso, lord. Our unexpected guests say that he due to arrive back any day now.’ Thorstein pulled a wicked smile. ‘The Highlanders are still coming in, and between you and me I doubt that Mael Colm harboured much hope that our young Skulissons would be successful in bumping you off.’ Thorstein indicated the door of a nondescript hut with the flick of a hand. ‘Here we are.’ He pushed the door open and stepped aside to allow the king entry, lowering his voice as Erik ducked inside. ‘If I were asked my opinion, lord,’ he breathed as he followed on, ‘I don’t think the Scots expected us to march this far north — they have been caught out and are playing for time.’

  Erik only half heard. No stranger to gore and suffering, even he was momentarily taken aback by the sight which met his eyes as they grew accustomed to the gloom. The Skulisson brothers were strapped into high backed seats facing each other across the hearth. What Erik had taken to be wood chips or whittling sticks strewn about the floor revealed themselves to be the fingers and toes of the young lads, and raising his eyes to their faces he saw that the ears and noses had also been pared away. Strips of skin hung like Mayday ribbons from their upper bodies, the raw flesh abuzz as the flies and gnats which swarmed in the short summer months gathered to feast on the unexpected bounty. Their breeks had been pulled down and lay bunched at the ankles, and scorched flesh on their feet and thighs showed where a heated blade had been put to work. To Erik’s surprise a Christian priest knelt at prayer in the space between the boys, unknowing or uncaring as to the identity of the men who had entered the hut. He shot Thorstein a look, and the big huskarl indicated a pair of small silver crosses which had been tossed aside with their shirts. ‘It would seem that your half-brother is having more success converting the folk in Norway to the Christ than we were led to believe.’

  Erik shook his head. ‘I doubt that — these men are merchants. If they want to trade in Christian lands they need to be open minded in their choice of gods.’ Indistinct moans came from the trussed up pair: Erik had seen enough. ‘We will get nowt more of any use from them, cut their bindings and get them on their feet. We will take them down and parade them at the riverside, so that all men can see the price paid by those who wish me harm. Cross bearers or not, I will send them on to whichever god gets their final allegiance.’ He cast a sidelong look at his house man. ‘Moments like this tend to concentrate the mind on what comes next.’

  Erik stepped outside as the men in the hut moved to do his bidding, filling his lungs with fresh sea air before spitting into the dust. The weather was fine and the hearth fire had made the air in the hut insufferably hot, but it was the cloying sweetness of tortured flesh filling the room which had caused the sour tasting liquid to pool in his mouth. The king reflected on the scene as he waited for the pair to be bundled through the doorway. The gods knew he was a hard man, a man who had sent many fine men to their graves; but although he had heard it said that men called him cruel and ravening that was a necessary part of being a king. He had never killed for the pleasure of it; every man who had fallen beneath his sword or axe had been an enemy of one kind or another.

  The sound of scuffling feet brought him back from his thoughts, and Erik looked on as the pathetic bundles which had been young men in the prime of life only a few hours before were dragged out into the light. A weasel faced man, dark eyed under brows of russet-brown, the scrawniest of them all, sidled across and bowed his head before the king. Erik indicated that he speak his piece, eager to be out of his company. ‘King Erik,’ the man purred. ‘I trust that my men have done you a service this morning?’

  Erik said that they had, reaching down to untie a pouch of coins from his belt. Tossing them across, he watched in disgust as the eyes of his henchmen traced the passage of the bag through the air and into the hands their weaselly leader. Glancing back he was just in time to see the dark pools of the torturer’s eyes widen at the weight of coin within, and Erik only suppressed the urge to kill him there and then with difficulty. But it was a truism of kingship that he was forced to suppress his own feelings for the greater good — he could, after all, have need of their skills again before he sat once more upon his frith-stool in York — and Erik forced what must pass for a smile to his face as he commended them once again on their morning’s work.

  The first of Skuli’s sons was through the doorway now, the youth raising his head despite the pain to fix Erik with a stare, and as the king looked into his eyes he saw not only the hatred they harboured but the cause of their wild-eyed glare. The boys’ lids had been sliced away as part of the torture, no doubt so that they were unable to close them to the pain or the glowing steel as it approached naked skin. But it was the realisation why the young Skulissons had been sat facing each other across the hearth which really caused the king to catch his breath. Unable to blink or turn away both lads had been forced to look on as his brother underwent the ordeal, and Erik knew then that they had already suffered enough. The cross of Christ had been retrieved from the floor where they had been discarded by the heathen torturers and both were now back where they belonged, at the neck of their owners. Erik watched as a shaky hand raised the pendant to blood encrusted lips, and he called the priest across as he came to accept their conversion was genuine. ‘Father,’ he asked when the man reached him. ‘Are they shriven?’

  The pri
est nodded, careful to avert his eyes lest they reveal his own disgust at the goings on that morning and risk joining the boys on their journey to Heaven.

  ‘Then we shall have them bend their heads here in the town. They have acted with honour, seeking out their father’s killer across the sea despite the near certainty that it would end in their own deaths.’

  They were not so far from the cattle byre where he had spent the night in discomfort, and an idea came to him as he recalled a Christian tale. ‘Take them to the cowshed,’ he said, pointing the building out. ‘I shall dispatch them there.’ Erik drew Jomal as she walked, and with the haft of the axe resting on his shoulder he turned to Thorstein at his side. ‘Once this is over with,’ he said, ‘reassemble my sons and leading men in the laird’s hall.’

  Thorstein’s eyes shone. ‘We are attacking then, lord?’

  Erik shook his head, driving the joy from his old friend’s expression. ‘No, we are not.’

  The huskarl protested. ‘But we may be only twenty miles or so away from the man we have hunted all summer.’

  The Skulissons had reached the cattle byre now, and Erik indicated that they be led inside with a jerk of his head. He plucked at Thorstein’s sleeve. ‘Let us dispatch these boys to their God, and then we will tap a barrel or two and I will explain my thinking to you all. If, after I have said my piece, you still think we should continue our march north I will welcome your rede along with the others.’

  Erik entered the byre, passing the bloodstained patches marking the place where his would-be killers had been laid low by arrows in the dawn. As bovine heads looked on he interrupted the low chanting of the priest to point out a wooden feeding trough. ‘That is a manger; did I have the right of it when I understood it was where your Saviour was lain as a newborn?’