Olena fought a rear-guard action up the steps. The tight stairwell was a huge advantage because it meant the Horde could follow only one at a time. She retreated slowly, giving the Hoplites opportunity to reach the surface and disperse to preordained rope points. At the top she slammed the gate on the lead Valhalla pursuer and dashed back up Advocate’s Close. The rain had stopped, but she didn’t notice. On the High Street the Titans split, racing apart, thankful to be out of the stone confines. A taxi was stationary at lights and the driver watched them fly around him, cloaked and helmeted figures, speeding like Sky-Gods. The Horde was on their tails now, but slower. They yelled in confused elation at their victory, but lost the momentum of organised pursuit. In dark alleys up and down the Royal Mile, the Titans swooped onto ropes and flew skywards. Behind them, they left almost a third of their number.
The lights changed, but the taxi driver was too shocked to move. He stared through his windscreen as the Horde searched up and down the street, hooting and calling, swearing and laughing. Then gradually, in twos and fours, they too disappeared. Shaking, the driver put his car into gear and turned onto South Bridge. Edinburgh’s Royal Mile once more resumed its night-time hush.
Part One
The Armatura
I
Pantheon Year – Nineteen
Season – Interregnum
Despite the gentility of their Comely Bank neighbourhood, Oliver Muir’s parents brawled like baited beasts every chance they got. He could read the signs of an impending fight – a snap about condensation on the windowsills or brittle towels removed too early from their drying cycle – then the defensive response. He knew his father’s homecomings were perversely late and his mother’s Chardonnay indulgences indecently early. And, at thirteen years old, he was better versed in the aftermath grunts of reconciliation than he should be.
So, as offspring do in domains as tight as a bowstring, he took to retreating to his bedroom window on the corner of Learmonth Place, sitting cross-legged with his iPad, looking out at sloping communal gardens. He knew all the regular dog-walkers and could set his watch by the passing of old Calum on his way to Dean Bowling Club. He would shake his head at fat Mrs Hendrie jogging around the perimeter of the gardens each morning when she always looked so red and miserable. Even at night, after his parents had retired to bed and the flat was silent, Oliver would sit at the window, lit by an eerie glow from the hard-drives stacked above his desk, and tap his fingers lightly over his tablet screen like a maestro pianist, while other teenagers climbed the locked gates of the gardens and laughed among the shrubs.
So when one August evening an enigmatic new neighbour arrived to claim the empty flat across the hall, it was only natural that Oliver became rapidly and almost unconditionally besotted.
It was five-thirty when a wheezing battered van chugged down the street, braked hard and pulled into the parking space reserved for the Connaughts on the ground floor. The driver killed the engine and sat for several minutes smoking a cigarette. Then he emerged and limped across to the garden gates, where he turned on the spot and looked up and down the road. He was thin, in his early twenties, with long hair falling below a brimmed hat. He dragged on his cigarette, stamped it out, then retrieved a kit-bag from his van and entered the front door of Oliver’s building. The boy listened to the irregular footsteps as they climbed the stairs to the third floor and heard the door slam opposite.
And that was that until next morning – a Saturday – when Oliver pulled back his curtains and was surprised to see the man smoking on one of the benches in the gardens, still wearing the hat, which nodded in response to curious good mornings from the dog-walkers. Oliver pulled on his clothes and watched as the man finally eased himself upright and limped back inside.
This time the door opposite didn’t bang shut, so Oliver crept to his own front entrance – careful not to disturb his slumbering parents – and peered out. There were several boxes scattered down his neighbour’s hallway and a big sack that looked heavy. The man stepped from a room and lifted one of the boxes. Oliver watched the way he leaned awkwardly to take his weight on his right side and held his left arm crooked at the elbow. He wore a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his arms looked thin and pale, as though they had seen none of the summer sun.
‘Morning to you, laddie,’ the stranger said without looking up. His accent was from southern England, but had an Edinburgh inflection. He raised his head and for a moment his gaze was interrogative. ‘You’re quite the watcher. Seen you at that window almost every moment I’ve been here.’ He disappeared with the box. ‘The school holidays boring you or something?’
‘I suppose.’
The man harrumphed from somewhere inside his flat. ‘Well, there must be better things to do than watch me.’ Oliver said nothing and the stranger returned. ‘What’s your name, neighbour?’
‘Oliver, sir.’
‘Sir?’ There was a hollow laugh as he lit a fresh cigarette and leaned against the door. ‘I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that.’
He had the palest blue eyes, like winter sky. Beneath his dark hair, he wore an earring in his left lobe. The trace of a moustache followed the contours of his upper lip and reached down to a shadow beard on the end of his chin. Beads of sweat hung on his forehead. Oliver decided he was an ill-looking musketeer – a D’Artagnan with malaria.
‘I bet not much happens around here without you knowing about it, eh?’
‘Not much happens around here to know about. Full stop.’
The man studied him for a few seconds, then stepped onto the landing with a smile and his hand extended. ‘That’s the way I like it. I’m Tyler.’
Oliver shook the hand awkwardly. Despite the cigarettes, the man smelt of soap and washing powder.
And that was the start of Oliver’s fascination. Over the next few weeks, Tyler caused quite a stir in the community. His van remained unmoved in the Connaughts’ parking space. Every morning, regardless of weather, he was to be found either sitting in the gardens or practising a series of slow stretching movements on the damp grass, and sometimes he would glance up at the window and nod his hat to the observer. Oliver’s mother invented reasons to catch Tyler on the stairs and it turned out – disappointingly – that he was employed on the late-shift at the university library on George Square.
Then, in the second week of August, Oliver’s perseverance elicited two discoveries. Firstly, Tyler spent whole nights in his van. Oliver would force himself awake in the small hours to study the vehicle and sometimes see a pinprick of light as its occupant smoked. The other discovery was that on certain evenings, while his parents watched television from their separate chairs, strange thumps emanated from Tyler’s flat. Oliver would sit tense and listen. The thumps came in heavy bursts, followed by silence. Whack, whack, whack. Something hard on to something soft, as though Tyler were smashing the dust mites from his mattress.
II
Tyler Maitland made his way up Blair Street and into Hunter Square, his usual return route from his evening shift. The library had been hot and stuffy, so it did him good to wend his way back through the alleys of the medieval quarter, taking in the air and stretching his weak leg. It was nine-fifteen and the September light was fast disappearing.
He pulled a stick of gum from his pocket as he crossed the High Street, dropped into Cockburn and turned down the steps of Fleshmarket Close. There was graffiti scrawled on the walls, one big message advising, ‘Chin up, you might see a Sky-Rat’.
The Close was empty except for three men ascending from the bottom and he took no notice until he realised they had stopped and were looking up at him. He glanced behind and saw two more figures coming down. All were dressed in black hooded sweatshirts, lightweight trousers and stout boots. Christ, how have they caught up with me already? He toyed with rushing the three below, but two of them looked hard bastards. The central man was shorter, wiry and older. His cropped hair was the same length as the stubble coating his chin and
his eyes were coals beneath a deep-set frown. He climbed up and brought himself close.
‘Tyler Maitland?’ he asked in a clipped voice.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Do you recognise this?’ The man was holding something in the palm of his hand and Tyler bent to make it out in the gloom. It was a silver amulet shaped to represent three interlocking curved blades. What the hell? He had assumed these men were from one of the coke gangs on the estate he had fled, but why would they be showing him this?
He tried to sound dismissive. ‘Those things are two a penny if you know where to look.’
The man’s jaw tightened and he pocketed the piece. Now he pulled out a phone, retrieved a thin pair of reading spectacles and tapped the screen. ‘Are you Tyler Maitland of Flat 6, 18 Learmonth Place? Information Assistant (Probationary) at Edinburgh University Library since last month. National Insurance number QN 345863 B. Driving licence number MAITD722398CS7TY. One Vauxhall Vivaro van, licence plate PL02 XSN. Bank account number 38577239. Funds in aforementioned account as of the end of yesterday: £4360.82. Favoured online password…’ He raised his eyebrows in mock approval. ‘Niflheim99.’
Tyler felt prickles across his back. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘My colleagues and I are a Venarii party tasked with the annual replenishment of troops. I have been given your name. Do you understand?’
Tyler stared, speechless for many moments. ‘I think so,’ he stuttered.
The man studied Tyler. He took in his pale features, his crooked arm, the fragility of his frame and the way he favoured one leg. The man was obviously unimpressed and his frown deepened. ‘I require you to demonstrate a firmer acknowledgement. I repeat, do you understand what I have just said to you?’
‘Yes. Yes I do.’
‘You will find a token of our interest at your flat. Look at it. Consider it. Think about the implications. And if you want no more of this, ensure you deposit the item beneath the old yew tree at the west end of Greyfriars Kirk before midnight next Monday. No one but I knows your personal details, and so you will hear nothing more from us.’ He paused, as if expecting Tyler to plead non-involvement there and then. ‘If, however, you wish to continue, be on Lady Stair’s Close at 10 p.m. next Wednesday evening. Your password is runestone.’
He waited for some late shoppers to pass, then nodded sharply and climbed up to Cockburn. The four men followed and Tyler was left alone, standing in the shadows, his gum forgotten.
Tyler’s weaker limb was burning by the time he got back to Learmonth Place. He glanced up and saw Oliver at his darkened bedroom window, but this time the lad was tapping on the pane and stabbing his finger down towards the front door. Something – or someone – had alarmed him. Tyler waved assurance and entered the building. The stairway was empty. Mud-spattered boots sat outside the Connaughts’ front door and their Miniature Schnauzer yapped at him from beyond. On the third floor everything looked normal. He could hear the television in the Muirs’ and hoped the boy wouldn’t come out.
His own door looked untouched. He had left a wilted pot plant outside that morning, intending to bin it, and he had spilled some of the soil across the mat. Yet even that looked just as he had left it, none of it flattened by a stranger’s boot. He unlocked and flipped the light switch in the hall.
Reaching the open-plan living room, he stood in the doorway scanning the scene. His lunchtime pasta bowl sat unwashed on the coffee table and there was whisky as always, discarded in a glass by the sink. With the lights all on and each room checked, his tread grew in confidence, but something felt different. It was in the air. The faintest smell of a different body, different clothing, like when you sit with a companion in a small place, then leave for a moment, only to return and realise how much it smells of their leather jacket or onion breath or cheap deodorant. He stepped into the bedroom and sat on the bed.
And that’s when he felt something beneath the sheets and before he had even thrown back the bedclothes, he knew what it was. There, in the centre of his mattress, beneath sheets that had been diligently remade, was a second amulet on a thin chain. He cradled it in his palm. It was silver, each arm locked into the other in a never-ending cycle. The Triple Horn of Odin. The talisman of the Valhalla Horde. It was said the Viking warriors who roamed subterranean Edinburgh carried the Triple Horn around their throats and to lose it foretold of death.
Everyone knew about the emblem. Kids scrawled it on walls and in their exercise books. Tattoo parlours specialised in it. Local jewellers sold cheap and not so cheap versions. But this one was different. Its workmanship was beautiful. The horns had faint whorls etched into them. On the underside there was a ruby embedded in the centre and the Roman numerals VI engraved.
Tyler unbuttoned his shirt and reached inside to retrieve a cord around his neck. On the end was a smaller, but identical symbol, this one carved from ivory. He had worn it every day for the past six months since she had left it for him in their Craigmillar flat on the last occasion he had ever seen her. On the reverse, instead of a ruby, was a tiny Star of Macedon – symbol of the foe – embedded expertly into the ivory. Reverently, he removed it from his neck and took it into the living room, where he hung it over a photograph on the dresser. Then he slipped the new amulet over his head, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
III
Lady Stair’s Close was a small square with views north over New Town and beyond to the Forth. Every stone reeked of history. In the western corner was the turreted and balconied Writers’ Museum. On the eastern side ancient steps led to original tenements and in the centre was an oil lamp, now electrified, but still casting a limp yellow light that only encouraged the darkness.
There was a breeze from the Forth and it was cold, but this wasn’t the only reason Tyler shivered as he leaned smoking against the railings on the upper south side. He was dressed in jeans and a long coat, with his hat pulled low over his face. His left arm was feeling stronger and could almost straighten, but at night it still protested deep in the bone. People were drifting through the square towards the Royal Mile, but he had no interest in them. Instead he covertly studied the other figures around the edges of the Close. He counted ten, maybe more. They shuffled or leaned motionless, but each was careful to avoid the glow of the lamp.
Tyler checked his watch: 9.58 p.m. From beyond the tight alley which led onto the Mile, a woman laughed and several pairs of high heels clicked past. Ten o’clock. Come on. A figure appeared up the steps on the northern side, silhouetted against the distant lights of New Town. Despite a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, Tyler could see by the gait that it was a man. The figure walked without pausing to the first of the waiting bystanders and there was a brief exchange. Then the man moved to the next one and the next. As he went, the figures detached themselves from the walls and shuffled after him. Eventually he came to Tyler.
‘Your password?’ he demanded from beneath his hood.
‘Runestone.’
‘And your number?’
Tyler had to think and suddenly remembered the Roman numerals on the back of the amulet. ‘Six.’
The man grunted. ‘Follow me.’
Tyler stamped out his cigarette and joined the silent group as they walked up the alley towards the Mile. He looked at the woman in front. She had a strong build, dark red hair cut short and plimsolls on her feet. For some reason he had an image of her as the captain of a racing yacht, hauling on the ropes and shouting orders through the spray.
They stepped onto the more brightly lit Mile and their host peered down the street. Three large cars pulled up and Tyler found himself crammed on the backseat of the second, between the short-haired sailing captain and a very tall man who smelt of tobacco. Another man got into the front passenger seat, smaller but wider, with cropped hair and a chubby band of flesh above the back of his collar. The hooded driver moved off, following the car in front, then turned in his seat and dropped a piece of material into each of their laps.
‘Put these on.’
Tyler toyed with the length and glanced at the others. The chubby chap in the front had a cocky confidence and with a shrug he bound the material around his eyes. Tyler followed suit and he heard the others doing the same. Despite the moving vehicle, he felt the driver reach back and check his blindfold. Then they picked up speed and were jolted against each other’s shoulders as the car was taken around tight corners. They drove for fifteen minutes, but Tyler had a good sense of direction and he had a suspicion that they kept cutting back on themselves and weren’t travelling far.
The car came to a halt and a door was flung open. ‘Final stop,’ said a new voice, this time female. ‘All out, but leave your blindfolds in place.’ They struggled onto the pavement and felt themselves herded through an entrance. ‘Steps down ahead. Feel the person in front of you and go slowly.’
Tyler pushed up against the tobacco-smelling man and counted fifteen steps until they levelled out. Hands placed him on one spot and there was movement as the others were sorted. Light flickered at the edges of his blindfold and he smelt burning wax and used matches. Eventually there was silence except for nervous breathing. He found himself wondering if the whole of the Valhalla Horde was standing before him, inspecting his hunched form.
‘You may remove your blindfolds,’ said a staccato voice Tyler recognised.
He found himself in the second row and the tall tobacco man obscured most of his view, but he could see there were twelve of them in three rows of four. They were in a basement with a window high up on the wall, through which he could hear buses. A table on a raised platform was covered in a white cloth, with two candles burning at either end and a large Triple Horn of Odin embroidered on the cloth in the centre.
The Wolf Mile Page 2
