And then the plague roared through them without prejudice or mercy and they deserted. But Edinburgh was too crowded for them to remain unused for long and they filled again with the dregs of society. No one knew what went on in the disease-ridden darkness after that. There were stories of new tunnels being dug and tales of ancient ways giving access to other parts of the city, but eventually the squalor forced the authorities to build over the vaults, brick them up, leave them to the ghosts of the past.
The twelve initiates remained. No one had returned their amulet. Once more they were lined up in three rows of four and Tyler found himself at the back. The arrival procedure had been the same. Collection from Bull’s Close at ten, passwords, numbers, lurching sightless journeys, then herding down steps. This time he was next to another tall man, but not Mr Tobacco. This man had at least four inches on Tyler’s six feet. He was about Tyler’s age, with a shaven head and chin, which exaggerated the luxuriance of his eyebrows in the half-light. He had glanced across when the blindfolds were removed and Tyler was surprised to register warmth and even humour in his expression. In the row in front, Tyler could see the bulky red-haired girl with her plimsolls and at the end of the front row he could just see Miss Pearl Earrings, looking pensive and meagre compared to the rest of the burly figures.
This time there was no Radspakr and no Vigiles. Instead there were two newcomers, who had informed them solemnly that they were Housecarls in the Valhalla Palatinate and were here to instruct them. The woman had introduced herself as Freyja and added without pausing that she was so-named after the goddess of beauty, love, war and death in Norse mythology. She was of Indian origin, slim, ochre-skinned, with braided hair and wearing a T-shirt, leather leggings and knee-length boots. Her fine features combined with an expression of such intensity that every person in the room found her at once striking and intimidating. Her partner was Halvar – defender of the rock – a man-mountain. His face looked as though it had been punched relentlessly for more than a decade and a scar ran from his left eye to his upper lip. His hair was cropped short and matted, and his chin hadn’t seen a razor for a week. He too was dressed in a black T-shirt which flaunted his huge arms and on his right bicep three triangles, separate and yet all interconnected, had been tattooed.
He walked through the rows, repeating Freyja’s words in a slow Lowland Scots accent. ‘Speed. Strength. Violence.’ He glanced at Tyler and for a heartbeat his eyes held and his fierce expression faltered. Puzzlement flickered across his features and his lips tightened, but then he controlled himself and his gaze swung away.
Freyja spoke again from her place in front of the candles. ‘Over the next weeks of the Armatura, we’ll equip you with the skills you’ll need to enter the ranks of the Valhalla Horde. Only some of you will make it. Those who succeed will then come up against our foe – Alexander’s Titans – in the Raiding Season. The Sky-Rats are many things, but they’re not poor warriors. If you fail to possess the necessary skills when the Season begins, they’ll destroy you.’
‘Aye, and it’s not simply a matter of skill,’ Halvar interjected. ‘It’s also about resolve, the bloody will to win whatever it takes, you wet-arsed mares.’ He halted and spun around glaring at them all. ‘Will you do whatever it takes?’ No one answered and he swore loudly, but let his question drop.
‘Along the wall behind you there are boxes each marked with a number,’ Freyja continued. ‘Find yours and change into the contents. Go!’ Everyone looked at each other uncertainly. ‘Now!’ she commanded.
The twelve strangers found themselves stripping to their underwear. White bodies, fumbling and trembling as though they were primary children getting ready for gym class. They found sleeveless black T-shirts, soft leggings and sports shoes, all correctly sized. Each of them wore their numbered amulet around their neck. They returned to their original places and Halvar walked between them with a large marker pen and wrote their respective number in Roman numerals on each arm.
‘Your names in the real world are irrelevant and never to be used,’ said Freyja. ‘For the present, you are all Thralls – those who occupy the lowest rank in Viking society – and we will know you by your numbers. Thrall I, Thrall II, etc. I trust that I’m understood. Those of you who can take the pace will meet with us three times a week, always from ten until midnight.’
‘That’s late for a weeknight,’ said a brave voice further along Tyler’s row.
Halvar glared in the direction of the speaker. ‘Do you have something more important to attend?’
‘No,’ conceded the speaker weakly.
‘In the first weeks we’ll alternate between speed and strength, for you are nothing if you’re not agile and overpowering. And then, if you get that far, we’ll combine these and hone them into combat skills. Let me be plain – you’ll not succeed if you limit your efforts to these sessions alone. Learn what we teach you, then take away the knowledge and train every minute the gods provide until you cannot fail.’
‘Now hear me,’ Halvar bellowed. ‘Even-numbered Thralls to my left, odd to my right.’
The room burst into disorder. Tyler looked at the numbers of those around him and found himself with his bald-headed neighbour (II), Miss Pearl Earrings (VIII) and the big sailing woman (X), along with two others, both men. One (XII), he thought, looked like the thick-set man who had sat in the front of the vehicle on the first night.
Halvar strode over to them and directed them out of the vault, while Freyja remained with the others. They found themselves in a passage with doors along one side. He led them to the last one and they entered another torchlit room with an arched ceiling.
‘Line up there.’ He pointed to the back wall and advanced to the other end where he picked up a drum and looped the strap over his head. ‘We’ll begin slowly. Start by walking in a line towards me. When you reach me, I’ll beat the drum and you’ll turn and walk back and I’ll beat the drum once more. You’ll repeat this again and again, but – be warned – you must reach the end wall each time before I beat the drum. When you fail to reach the wall before you hear the drum, drop out. Do you understand?’ The six of them nodded. ‘Wordless whelps.’
He struck the drum and they began walking. Tyler had Thrall VIII beside him, her ponytail bouncing and her face strained. He noticed that tonight she wore no make-up and it struck him how vulnerable she looked. They reached Halvar and he hit the drum. They turned and walked back. The tall bald man, Thrall II, strode ahead, forcing the pace. His shoulders were thrown back and his posture was ramrod-straight. The others copied this new speed and the drum echoed around the stones when they reached the far end. Back again, this time a very fast walk. Tyler’s weak leg began to complain. By the time they turned, they had shifted into a steady jog following the lead of Thrall II and Tyler had to grit his teeth against the pain licking up his thigh. He could hear the breathing of the stocky man on his other side, Thrall XII.
The beats came ever more speedily. They were running now and Tyler stumbled, trying to take the impact on his stronger side. Number XII began wheezing and he could hear Thrall VIII panting as well, although she was moving smoothly. Thrall II was out in front and reaching the walls well before Halvar hit the drum. Another length and turn and accelerate. The girl next to him had lost a yard and, for some strange reason, he felt bad about it.
‘Drop out,’ Halvar shouted and Tyler knew the stocky man had failed to reach the end of the room.
Faster. Tyler’s knee was starting to scream and his breathing was making ragged piping sounds. He hit the wall full-on and had to push himself away with raw willpower.
‘Drop out,’ Halvar pointed to Tyler’s left. ‘And you as well.’ There was just three of them now. The girl had rallied and was overtaking him with every step. Tyler wanted to heave but even as the wall came within touching distance the inevitable crash of the drum broke through his agony.
‘Thrall VI, drop out!’
He hit the cold stone and stood with his face pressed against
it, sucking in the air and holding his weak leg bent forwards. Behind him the race continued until the girl finally had to yield and only number II sprinted back and forth, his bald head flung back and his long legs thrown out. Halvar accelerated the beat to an impossible speed and the Thrall crashed out, leaning hands on knees and dragging in the air.
‘By the end of this period,’ Halvar spoke as he deposited the drum, ‘you’ll all achieve that or leave the process.’ He let the statement hang and walked into the centre of the room. ‘Now, star jumps.’
For the next ninety minutes he kept at them and it was torture for Tyler. They jogged holding heavy stone balls. They dodged around sandbags. They even tried to shadow box. And then they did it all again. There was no chance to converse, so instead they just caught each other’s expressions and asked the same silent questions. Then, when their bodies longed for respite, they were told to retrieve their personal items and were escorted blindfolded back to the cars.
When Tyler returned to Learmonth Place in the small hours, his leg was agony. He poured a slug of whisky, flung himself on the sofa and tried to marshal what he already knew about the Pantheon. He started with the basics.
There were seven Palatinates. Everyone knew that. The Horde and the Titans in Edinburgh. The Sultanate in Istanbul led by Mehmed The Conqueror. Caesar’s mighty Legion in Rome. The Kheshig troops of Genghis Khan with training camps somewhere on the Mongolian grasslands. And Zheng, King of the Qin, who ruled the Warring States Palatinate from his powerhouse within Beijing’s Forbidden City. Tyler counted on his fingers. Horde, Titans, Sultanate, Legion, Kheshig, Warring States. That made six. He tapped his forehead in frustration. Of course – the Huns. Who could forget them? The wild kids of the Pantheon. The bad seeds. Attila led his lines from the flatlands east of Budapest and their reputation attracted huge fan bases around the world. Never trust the Huns, it was said, and never ever get captured alive by them.
Although each Palatinate was led by a King, true power lay with the Caelestia, a body made up of seven gods. It was said that these gods were the real owners of their respective Palatinates and perhaps also they were the seven original founders of the Pantheon. Rumours of their true identities blazed like wildfires. A common theory was that they had all been friends and contemporaries in their younger days as they began to build their legendary wealth. Perhaps colleagues in the same firm. Perhaps students at the same institution. Oxford had the audacity to claim them. Harvard too. But no one was any the wiser.
Okay, what else? Tyler knew the Pantheon was nineteen years old and there were two Conflict Seasons each year – Raiding and Blood – but Radspakr’s reference to a third Season – the Armatura – was the first Tyler had heard of this. Each Palatinate seemed to have a regular adversary. The Kheshig battled the Warring States. The Sultanate took on the Huns. And, of course, the Horde faced off against the Titans in the streets of Edinburgh. Though now he thought about it, Tyler was uncertain where that left the Legion. He scowled and tried to think. Who the hell opposed the Legion?
No one seemed to know why Edinburgh hosted two Palatinates. Theories abounded. Blood feuds. Broken hearts. Unpaid debts. Passionate affairs. Whatever the true reason, the Titans had upped sticks from Athens years ago and settled across the rooftops of the Old Town, glaring down at the Horde in its subterranean lairs.
Tyler swallowed his whisky and rose to pour another. What else did he know? Well, there was something called the Curiate. This was a secondary body, nowhere near as important as the Caelestia, and supposedly comprising wealthy friends and associates who loved to bet on the outcomes of each Pantheon contest. They were sometimes referred to as the Watchers, because it was believed they paid vast sums to enjoy the action on live feeds and to place their bets in real time. People said the Curiate numbered hundreds, others even suggested thousands, and this led to a minefield of rumours. Every millionaire, every billionaire, every CEO, every national leader, every significant figure in public life had been linked to the Curiate at one time or another by online gossipmongers. Accusations of membership were hurled across the internet, often resulting in more than one legal proceeding. But no one really knew. If the Curiate did exist, it was something of which the politicians, the police and the official media never spoke. The Pantheon guarded its secrets jealously.
Tyler opened his laptop and began to trawl the internet for ‘Pantheon’ and ‘Valhalla Horde’ and ‘Sky-God’. He had done this countless times in the months since she had disappeared from his life, but tonight, after the remonstrations of the Housecarls in the cellars, he probed with renewed conviction. Pages of finds were returned – but none of them amounted to more than the usual conjecture. Most of the sites were constructed by fan boys and girls with nothing better to do than salivate over battle tactics or argue about the routes taken by the rooftop Titans or the subterranean Horde. Idiots debating every detail of worlds they could never know. There were Facebook fan sites too: Star of Macedon. Valhalla Hordettes. And interminable YouTube footage. But all of it was just crap. Sensationalised nonsense. No one caught anything of substance on camera. People claiming to be ‘ex-Titans’ or ‘ex-Vikings’ sometimes gave interviews about life in the Palatinates, but they were invariably exposed as frauds or simply disappeared.
Tyler found plenty of naysayers too. The Pantheon is legitimised violence – The tribal aggression of football fans taken to a different extreme – This is evidence that beneath the fabric of our twenty-first-century social order lies a primordial heart where blood for money is the only mantra – How do we protect our children from this brutality? – Where are the forces of law and order? – Where is the democratic government of this country?
Questions indeed, Tyler thought. Where were the government and the police? No one disputed that the warriors existed in the cities, nor that at certain defined points in the year they fought each other. So, in a world of constant surveillance, why had no unequivocal footage been captured? Why no multiple arrests? Why no Palatinate strongholds raided by Special Forces?
The answer according to the online forums – and corroborated by Radspakr when he had first gathered the year’s new intake – was money. Real money. Riches of a magnitude beyond anyone’s dreams. The kind of wealth that bought governments, smothered security forces and made the courts impotent. Of course, Holyrood and Westminster talked the talk whenever necessary. There were discussions at First Minister’s Question Time. Senior ministers and police commissioners ensured they chose the right career-enhancing moments to describe how much they were doing to crush the Palatinates. There were occasional much-hyped raids that showed everyone busy achieving nothing. Even the odd arrest with some poor individual paraded before the cameras. But the conspiracy theorists were adamant such actions were pre-agreed with the Pantheon.
He pushed the laptop aside and let his gaze drift across the room to his framed photographs on the sideboard. The central one was his dearest possession and around it he had hung his special ivory Odin amulet. The picture showed him in close-up, a shockingly clear-skinned fifteen-year-old wearing his school tie, and on either side of him were his mother and sister, both as beautiful as he had ever seen them. It was his sister’s graduation from Leith College of Art and they stood on the lawns with a crowd of families. He knew he romanticised the image. In reality, the tension between his mother and sister by that point was almost unbearable and the shouting was only made worse by the endless silences. That was why he clung to the photo. It represented a shining moment, a smiling happy family.
When Tyler and his sister were younger, they used to gossip together about the Pantheon. They would return from school armed with the latest rumours and would gawp at snippets of videos online. He remembered one infamous piece of footage that caused a sensation. Angels of Mercy? the papers had asked in the subsequent furore. The video had shown a group of posturing short-sleeved youths on the southern end of North Bridge. It was late, after closing time, and they were obviously inebriated. A fight broke ou
t. One man was punched to the ground by the others, then repeatedly kicked. He was dragged semi-conscious to the side of the bridge and hauled onto the parapet high above Waverley station. In moments, he would have been pushed into oblivion, but in those same moments cloaked figures swung into the video. They came from above and at such graceful speed it was almost impossible to capture the detail in the footage. Three took the attackers and sent them sprawling backwards. Another disappeared over the edge of the parapet and then returned to the pavement with the victim in his arms. The drunken aggressors ran for their lives and the cloaked figures trotted into the street, forced a car to stop and placed the victim onto the backseat. With that, they were gone.
‘Titans. That is so cool,’ said Tyler’s sister in a husky voice as she watched.
And she wasn’t alone in that sentiment. In houses across the land other children gossiped about their favourite characters, while their parents hosted Palatinate dressing-up parties or wine and warrior appreciation evenings. So politicians had to tread a thin line. Make the people think their leaders were in charge. Make them feel safe in their beds, secure in the knowledge that their leaders could maintain all appropriate levels of law and order. But never destroy the people’s fantasies, their belief in something amazing beyond the norms of society.
The Wolf Mile Page 4
