THE WOLF MILE
Book One of The Pantheon
C F Barrington
An Aries book
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aries, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © C. F. Barrington, 2021
The moral right of C. F. Barrington to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN PB 9781800246416
ISBN E 9781800244368
Aries
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Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
The Pantheon Orbat (Order of Battle)
Map
Dedication
Prologue
Part One: The Armatura
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Part Two: The Raiding Season
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Author’s Note
The Blood Isles
Prologue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
THE PANTHEON ORBAT (Order of Battle)
THE CAELESTIA (THE SEVEN)
Lord High Jupiter
Zeus
Odin
Kyzaghan
Xian
Tengri
Ördög
THE CURIATE
Europe Chapter
Russia Chapter
China Chapter
Far East Chapter
US Chapter
THE PALATINATES
The Legion ~ Caesar Imperator ~ HQ: Rome
The Sultanate ~ Mehmed The Conqueror ~ HQ: Istanbul
The Warring States ~ Zheng, Lord of Qin ~ HQ: Beijing
The Kheshig ~ Genghis, Great Khan ~ HQ: Khan Khenti
The Titans ~ Alexander of Macedon ~ HQ: Edinburgh
The Horde ~ Sveinn The Red ~ HQ: Edinburgh
The Huns ~ Attila, Scourge of God ~ HQ: Pannonian Plain
Map
Mark Clay (markclay.co.uk)
To Jackie and Oscar, for all the cakes and the walks.
Prologue
Pantheon Year – Eighteen
Season – Blood
A thin rain stole from the Forth, sullying the city, smearing its bright lights.
It was the third week of the Blood Season and Timanthes, Colonel of Companion Light Infantry in Edinburgh’s Titan Palatinate – one of seven rival forces in the great game known as The Pantheon – waited on a terrace three storeys above Lawnmarket, his back straight against the wind and water seeping through his hair. He was a tall, lean, stoic figure and he made no outward movement to betray the tension in his gut. Only his eyes shifted constantly to the clock on the Balmoral hotel above Waverley station. It read one fifty-six in the morning, but Timanthes knew it was customary to keep this clock running three minutes fast to ensure travellers did not miss their trains. So there were still seven minutes until the appointed hour. He held his face to the rain and cursed softly.
Despite the inclement weather, he wore a short-sleeved tunic under a bronze corselet. On his hip was a sword sheathed in horn and from his shoulders hung a cloak of fine wool held in place by a Star of Macedon clasp. Behind him his troops squatted in silence and steeled themselves with skins of wine, their cloaks wrapped around them and their circular hoplon shields strapped to their backs.
It had been a typically hard Scottish winter and so – when the previous afternoon’s sunshine brought a promise of spring – the city had cautiously unfurled. But then a fresh deluge arrived at dusk, sluicing the pavements clean of shoppers and stalling rush-hour traffic along the arteries of Leith Walk, Corstorphine and Queensferry until headlights trailed through the dark like diamond rosaries. Now the traffic was gone. The residents of New Town were sealed into their grandeur. The last bars in Leith had detached themselves from their more tenacious customers. The estates of Craigmillar, Niddrie and Muirhouse harboured only a handful of youths loitering over their phones. And among the snaking alleys either side of the Royal Mile, just a few itinerant souls scurried on their way.
No one looked up into the darkness. No one saw the figures on the roofs above Brodie’s Close or spied the gleam of streetlight on bronze and iron.
‘My lord, we must go.’ Olena, Captain of Companion Bodyguard, stepped to Timanthes’ shoulder. ‘The doorway will be open for no more than fifteen minutes.’
‘Are the Rope-Runts ready?’
‘The whelps are all at their stations and briefed for our return.’
Timanthes nodded his approval and cast a final look along the High Street. A lone taxi turned down Cockburn, but otherwise the pavements were clear. ‘Rouse the troops.’
Olena handed him his helmet and Timanthes watched as she summoned the Companions to attention with a quiet order. As one, they donned helmets and straightened into two ranks, fifteen in each. The rain streamed through their horsehair plumes and their eyes glittered in the dark behind their bronze nasal protectors.
It was a critical moment in the Blood Season. A traitor had spoken of a secret Gate leading into tunnels that ran to the heart of the underground refuge of the Titan’s main rivals, the Valhalla Horde. Kill the King. If the Titans could gain access to Sveinn’s throne room and take him unawares, it would be a crucial victory before the Season’s finale and a night when the fortunes of the Titan Palatinate might finally turn. But Timanthes was an old trooper, made shrewd by hardship and the loss of many friends, and he was uneasy about this opportunity thrown their way so readily.
He tugged on his helmet, signalled to Olena and the two ranks swivelled into columns and followed him between slanting roofs. The Titan Hoplites were sure-footed through the puddles. These rooftop balustrades were their aerial territory, their wind-scoured stronghold. They were the Sky-Gods, or the Sky-Rats as the media referred to them. They knew every foot of negotiable ground above the streets of Edinburgh’s Old Town: where to assemble; where to drop; where to defend; where to disappear. They could move swiftly and silently, s
o that people below were lucky if they caught the movement of a cloak or the hint of a weapon and even the CCTV cameras rarely captured anything better. Those cameras which proved persistent irritants were simply dismantled and then dismantled again as soon as the engineers had righted them.
The columns reached the junction above Lawnmarket. Spread below, Edinburgh was a city of contrasts. Medieval, Georgian and Sixties, all shoved together, stirred and flung out, then scrawled over by alleyways, bridges, cycle paths and tramlines. In places the buildings had fallen in tightknit clumps, fighting for room, and in others great seams of green kept them at bay.
The Rope-Runts dropped their coils over the side. Without a word, Timanthes caught one and swung gracefully over the parapet. The Runts had done well for the twine was still dry. He curled his legs and let himself drop to the pavement. When all were down, the Runts heaved the ropes up and the Hoplites clustered into their two columns again. At the rear of the group, a new figure emerged. He was a broad man, wearing a leather tunic and wide linen trousers tied at the knees above boots. He bore the distinguishing red sash, pointed helmet and iron mask of a Vigilis – a Keeper of the Rules. Attached to his helmet was a tiny camera, so forthcoming events could be viewed in real time by those who really mattered.
Timanthes ignored the newcomer and instead stole another look down the High Street. Two pedestrians were working their way up, their stride lent a lilt by alcohol. He contemplated waiting to lose them, but time was disappearing. He glanced at Olena, then grunted an order and struck out at a fast jog.
As soon as they emerged, the rain embraced them, misting their faces and sluicing off their helmets. Timanthes hated being at street level and he could sense the tension in his troops. They were high, straining, just a whisper from breaking. But that was good. It meant they were primed for a fight. The two pedestrians hurled themselves into a doorway and he spied the glow of their phones as they filmed the progress of this Titan troop. On a less urgent night, he would have harried them into surrendering the devices, but this time it would have to be tolerated. Let them post their footage and the online masses have their moments of hysteria.
The Titans swept across the empty junction at George IV Bridge, skirted around St Giles’ and crossed the street to Advocate’s Close. He halted them with a hand and peered down steps, but nothing moved. With another gesture, they bounded forward. Two doors on their right were locked, but it was the third he was seeking. It had a metal grill which stood ajar and the door beyond was open.
He glanced at his Captain and there was a soft hum as thirty blades emerged from oiled scabbards.
‘Use this opportunity, Companions. Take them by surprise and bleed them. Tonight we even the odds.’
He opened the grill and shouldered through the door. For a moment he could see nothing. The fresh air was replaced by a stale odour of damp stone and the acrid scent of piss. Steps dropped into darkness and he cocked his head to listen. Somewhere a vehicle hooted, but the shadows below yielded only yawning silence. He edged forward and began to descend. Within such confined space, the noise of their advance felt like a din. Men swore softly. Swords knocked corselets. Shields bumped on the wall. For the love of Zeus, Sveinn will hear us coming from a league away!
He could feel the fear of his Hoplites. They were Sky-Gods, born to bound across the rooftops, but now they were fumbling like moles, hemmed in by stone. And worse, they were in the terrain of the foe. This was the Horde’s stronghold and its troops knew every inch of the tunnels and crypts and vaults that ran beneath Edinburgh. They were masters of its secrets. They had spent years burrowing and building, reinforcing, widening. It was said that a warrior could run the mile from the Castle to Holyrood Palace in ten minutes without once seeing the stars.
Inching down, Timanthes saw the flicker of flame. Olena had noticed it too and the whole company rounded a corner and emerged into a cellar, about forty yards in length, low-ceilinged, musty, frigid, with torches burning from sconces on each wall. There was a closed door on either side and another at the far end. He stepped forward and behind him the Hoplites fanned out.
‘This doesn’t feel right,’ Olena whispered, because the room seemed to be awaiting their arrival.
‘Aye,’ Timanthes nodded as he eyed the doors. ‘Titans, shields.’
In practised movements, the Hoplites swung their circular, leather-and-bronze-faced hoplons from their shoulders and locked their left forearms into the straps. Even as the movement died away, the returning silence was broken by a single howl, like that of a wolf. On its final note, it was joined by the rest of the pack.
‘Titans to me!’ Timanthes yelled and each figure stepped together, interlocked their shields and braced.
The cry died away and then the doors opened and the warriors of Valhalla stepped wordlessly into the room. In that closed space, they were a multitude. Booted, helmeted, mailed, some with heavy bearskins, many with silver arm-rings which shone in the torchlight. They carried war axes and broadswords. There were women among them too, their faces hidden behind the iron eyepieces worn by every player in the Pantheon to conceal their identity, but their figures betraying their gender. The Horde kept coming. Forty, fifty, sixty. They filled the room, arraying themselves in front of the Hoplites with just ten yards between the two lines and Timanthes knew this would be the killing ground.
At the fore was a huge man carrying an axe, his blond beard braided into forks and a tattoo creeping across his throat. He locked eyes on the Hoplite officer and Timanthes expected him to speak because this was the Viking Jarl – the pack leader – and it was custom to begin confrontations with ritual challenges to ignite the troops and give the watching Curiate something to salivate over. But not this time. This time the slaughter would be swift. The Jarl raised his battle-axe in one hand and hurled himself across the gap.
There was no space for tactics. The Titans were masters of battle formations – of line and phalanx, of feint and manoeuvre, of speed and leverage. Given the freedom of a field of conflict, their commanders could outthink far greater numbers. But now, here, stuck in this cellar, it was only kill or be killed.
The Horde rammed into the wall of hoplon shields. A warrior beat at Timanthes’ shield, smashing his arm back against his corselet, and the man’s thigh pressed intimately against his own, closer than lovers. A head appeared, a young face beneath a helm, mouth gritted in a teenage snarl. Timanthes shifted his weight and slipped his sword across the top of his shield in a short, precise thrust. The blade shattered the lad’s teeth, sliced through his tongue and buried itself in the base of his skull. Blood erupted and his face froze in choked surprise. Timanthes yanked his weapon back and watched the boy sink from view.
The shortswords of the Titans were their one advantage, for the dreadful press of a battleline needed the kiss of a short blade and there was no room for the Horde’s great broadswords. The Hoplite training kicked in. Absorb the impact on your shield, then push, step forward and stab low and fast. It was the way of the battleline. Time and again. Absorb, press, thrust, retract.
Timanthes jabbed once more, just as an axe arced towards his head, but his stab had taken him forward and the axe cleaved through his horse-hair plume where an instant before his neck had been. He knew it was the Jarl and he barely had time to react before the axe came again, buckling his hoplon. The Hoplite next to him was forced back by the impact and a gap opened, but the Jarl’s attack had bent him forward and Timanthes caught sight of the tattoo where his opponent’s neckline was revealed between mail and helmet. Keeping his shield low, he struck. It should have been a kill. The sword point drove towards the soft throat and the arteries beneath, but even as it prepared to embed itself, Timanthes was hit by a new blow from his unprotected right. It skewed his aim and his blade bit into bone and sinew on the giant’s shoulder. The Jarl yelled and stumbled away from the fray.
Timanthes became mindful of the broader battle around him. His Titans were being forced back into a circle around t
he steps and already he could see Hoplite bodies down. The air was heavy with the tang of blood and hot as hell. Sweat was streaking his face and his left arm was still clinging to the remnants of his shield. He became conscious that his new assailant was standing back and waiting for his attention. He also realised that a gap was growing between him and his troops. Olena and another Hoplite were still wedged beside him, parrying and thrusting, but around them the Horde was massing.
‘This is a trap!’ he yelled at Olena. ‘We’re betrayed. Get as many out and send word to Alexander.’
She was gasping for breath and bleeding. She had a dent across her helmet’s cheek protection and the right shoulder piece on her corselet had been cut open. ‘With respect, lord, Companions don’t run.’
‘Olena, you fool! See them safely out. You must.’ He pushed his Captain backwards and was startled to glimpse tears smearing her cheeks. She stared at him from behind her helm, her face creased and her eyes great pools of sorrow.
‘I’m sorry, my lord. It was never meant to be like this.’
Oddly chosen words. What the hell did she mean? But there was no time to say more and he knocked her gruffly. ‘Go.’
She seemed on the verge of reaching out to him, but then relented and began driving the troops up the stairs as he turned his attention back to the waiting warrior. This woman had long braided hair, almond eyes beneath her mask and lips that might even have seen balm within the hour. The incongruity struck him and he felt suddenly bereft. She was dressed in black leather, with high boots and a short coat of mail. She had dropped her shield and now held a sword and the thin seax knife favoured by the Vikings.
It was over in seconds. His eyes followed the sword and he moved to block, but she was so fast that even as he parried he felt the seax sneak beneath his breastplate, through his tunic, under his ribcage and up to his organs. Her braids whipped across his face as she swung away and they smelt of something too sweet for this place of death beneath the earth. He knew he was crumpling and he was angry because it had been a good life – a life of thrills and raw emotions and entitlement – and it should not be ending in a piss-smelling cellar. Vaguely he was conscious of another figure – the Vigilis – standing apart from the carnage and filming his demise.
The Wolf Mile Page 1
