‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing. Eventually he moved. One moment he was there and the next he was gone. But that was a turning point for me. I went back to that damn school and I devoted what private time I had to finding out more about the Pantheon. The internet was more limited back then, but it was enough to have me hooked. I borrowed books from the school library about history’s ancient warrior societies. The three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae; that was the ultimate classic. Three hundred, shoulder-to-shoulder against the hordes of Persia. It reignited something in me, some of the early teachings of my father about the unity of military comradeship. I loved the underdogs the most. Always the great warrior units that defeated the odds. Because that was me in that bloody school. The underdog.’
He stopped, chewing his lip. ‘So now this opportunity has come along and I guess I’m running with it even if I don’t know where it’s leading.’ He looked at Tyler. ‘And I like what I see of our group. There’s unity there too. Common purpose.’
He trailed off into silence. For a long moment Tyler could find no words and then he ventured, flippantly, ‘If that’s your medium reason, I sure don’t need the long one tonight.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m doing this?’
Thrall II shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because your reasons are strong enough without needing explanation.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You might think you’re failing, but that’s not the way the rest of us see it. We see a man pushing himself through the pain barrier every session. A man fighting each screaming muscle to make that one final pull-up. A man who won’t stop until he literally drops the weights. A man who – perhaps – wants this more than all the rest of us.’
Tyler stared at his companion, but before he could find a response Thrall II moved and spoke again.
‘I think we’ve said enough.’ He began to walk back to the gate, but then stopped and spoke over his shoulder. ‘Don’t give up now. Let it play out a little more. And stop beating yourself up about being good enough. Instead, ask yourself this – if I’m such a bad selection, such a weak recruit – what can have happened in my life, what have I got, who am I – that made the Pantheon select me? Think about it, Thrall VI. Goodnight.’
Tyler left his flat in the near silence of a Sunday morning twilight and jogged gingerly through the cobbled streets of New Town, feeling his weaker leg respond. His objective was the summit of Arthur’s Seat. A few early morning starters poked around on Princes Street, while the rough sleepers still lay wrapped in shop doorways. The great buildings of Old Town presented a solid wall along the spine of the hill with no discernible routes through and the castle squatted on its rock outcrop, rinsed of colour in the morning light. He thought, why shouldn’t there be men of sword and shield in this place?
It was cold and he was wearing gloves despite the exertion. When the November sun finally broke over Whinny Hill and lit his face, he was already well above St Margaret’s Loch and the ruins of St Anthony’s Chapel. He crested a rise and could at last see his goal of the summit. At any other time there would be a smattering of figures on it, busy taking selfies, but now it was deserted. It could have been a forgotten eagle’s eyrie above an empty glen, but instead the vagaries of history had determined it should become surrounded by a capital city of over half a million sleeping souls. Adrenaline drove him up the final few steps and he hauled himself to the white summit cairn, where he stood heaving in the cold air and spitting. What a view. The sea hung to his right, lit by the rising sun. The Forth estuary ran lazily across the northern horizon, with the Fife coastline and Ochil Hills beyond. Spots of snow lay across the far peaks, as though god had been carelessly white-washing the ceiling. Below him the city was just waking, propping up its pillows, having a first sip of tea and thinking about the day ahead. The Palace, the castle, Morningside to his left, it all lay there before him.
There was a cold breeze that sought out the sweat on the back of his neck, but he barely noticed. He was thinking about the past few weeks and what Thrall II had said. He had needed those words. Someone assuring him he wasn’t failing; that they could see the pain he was forcing himself through and his will to succeed.
Because he really did want to succeed. Underneath the aloofness, the injuries, the nicotine and the liquor, he remembered all those times he and his sister had chattered about the Pantheon. They had loved the idea that the Palatinates existed somewhere beyond the law, exotic and god-like. The Pantheon was something to dream about on the housing estate, something to follow. Together they had bonded over it.
IX
The punch stunned him. It came from nowhere, hammer blowing into the side of his head. If the knuckles hadn’t been so heavily bound, they would surely have cracked through his skull and pulped the soft tissue of his brain. He was as defenceless as a toddler when the next strike caught him in the midriff and doubled him over. If cocky young Thrall VII had chosen to follow up the attack with a knee to his lowered face, it would have felled Tyler and he would not have been getting up again. Instead, Thrall VII stepped in beside him, threw an arm about his neck and clamped him in a headlock. But then he seemed uncertain of his next move and the two of them stood clasped together for a few seconds, panting and sweating. The pause gave Tyler a chance to take a few lungfuls of air and consider his options.
The other initiates were spread around the perimeter of the hexagon. Freyja was stationed as ever at the head of the room, while Halvar prowled within touching distance, studying their every move as though he were a referee made redundant by a fight with no rules. It was mid-November, three weeks since their first attempts at the hexagon challenge, and Edinburgh had succumbed to the dark of winter. The far corners of the vault seemed colder and damper than before, so that while the antagonists sweated, the onlookers froze.
During the three weeks, they had learned the dark arts of hand-to-hand combat. Halvar and Freyja had demonstrated complex new techniques, then got the group to practise in slow motion or against the hanging corn sacks. They had mastered the straight punch, the side swipe, the upper cut. They had worked at hip throws, leg takedowns, shin kicks, knee hits and elbow strikes. They had spent hours struggling on the stone floor in grapples and they had been taught the techniques that would bring opponents to their knees – straight-fingered throat strikes and eye gouging. At the end of each week, they took the hexagon challenge and Tyler had become acclimatised to the sudden serious violence with which each of them approached this test.
Thrall II demonstrated a particular skill for boxing and shared his techniques and tips with the group. Bulky Thrall XII became expert in holds and lifts and showed a special fondness for smashing his opponent down onto the floor. Little Thrall VIII was encouraged to use more of her Muay Thai kickboxing moves and they clumsily copied her. The two Housecarls cast satisfied looks between each other as they saw an esprit de corps maturing. Tyler too had improved and grown stronger. His arm hurt less and he no longer moved with such an awkward gait. Every muscle on him had hardened.
One night, he found himself paired with Thrall VIII for the first time and she seemed so delicate in his arms. There was nothing to her. A tiny waist and stick-thin arms. Up close, he could see the remnants of make-up around her eyes and he wondered what she did during the days, how she made her living, whom she spoke to, what she wore. As she turned in a hold, her ponytail brushed across his face and he inhaled rosemary and juniper, and as she tugged at his neck her bare arms smelt of coconut. It felt wrong to knock her down and he found himself gripping her in a strange irresolute manner. But when she kicked at his calves and threw him across her hip, there was power enough in her movements, and it took him four tumbles onto the cold floor before he realised he needed to fight back.
Now Tyler tried to clear his eyes, caught in Thrall VII’s headlock. He found himself being dragged by the neck towards the hexago
n’s perimeter and he knew he had to resist or he would be defeated yet again. They had already been trading punches for some minutes and both men were hurting and tiring. Tyler forced his thumped brain to think. What had Halvar said?
‘When you find yourself caught in a headlock, you think your attacker has got you good and proper. Wrong. Listen to me when I say that you are actually in the position of dominance.’
Tyler grasped at the half-forgotten advice. The natural desire would be to pull away, but this would put his neck under unacceptable pressure. So instead he hunkered in close to the other man and burst into action. With his free right fist, he struck onto Thrall VII’s knee, pounding three times at it in quick succession. His left arm was already behind his opponent, and now he brought it up and over Thrall VII’s near shoulder, so that he could grab his face. The skinny youngster was responding by using his own free left arm to punch up into Tyler’s abdomen, but Tyler was beyond feeling it. With a roar, he rammed his left leg against the back of his attacker’s knees and simultaneously pushed the man’s face rearwards with his left hand. The speed and power of both actions swept Thrall VII’s torso back and his legs up into the air. With a thump he hit the floor belly up and lost his grip on Tyler’s head.
Tyler threw himself on the man. He grabbed both of the outstretched arms and brought his shin across his opponent’s throat in an attempt to lock him down into a choke hold. But Thrall VII was fast. His legs came up in a graceful rolling motion and caught Tyler’s head pincer-like between his calves. Tyler was forced back and had to break the hold. Both men escaped and struggled to their feet. They were breathing raggedly and bleeding. Tyler could feel a cut beneath his eye and Thrall VII had blood running from the corner of his mouth. They could hear the voices of the onlookers in the corner of their minds, but none of the words.
They went in again. Direct, tight punches. Thrall VII got him twice on the right side of his head and then Tyler landed a full hit on his opponent’s cheek, sending him sprawling backwards a few steps. There were shouted words of encouragement. They circled each other, searching for openings. Tyler struck again, but this time Thrall VII dodged the blow and a two-step jig took him to Tyler’s undefended shoulder. They closed into a grapple and Tyler fought to keep his footing, but the man’s fingers were around his face and his body was inching behind Tyler’s until he could wrap his arms around the other’s torso in a bear hug. Tyler found his arms trapped in the embrace and he could feel himself being lifted onto his toes. He knew what was coming. His opponent would shove him forward and charge him over the hexagon perimeter. He had only moments. He worked at his arms, struggling to break them out of the grip.
Then, with cold clarity, he knew his next move. He could feel number VII’s ragged breath on the back of his neck and could hear him grunting as he began to drive them both forward. Tyler steadied himself and then threw his head back full into the other man’s face. He felt the nose implode and heard a sharp crack as it broke. With a cry, Thrall VII released his hold and stumbled away gripping his face. There was blood pouring through his fingers and his stare was wild and amazed. Tyler didn’t even pause to consider the injury, but grabbed the other man by the neck and threw him from the hexagon. He landed in a sobbing heap, still clinging to his nose, and Thrall X dropped to her knees beside him.
The only other movement was from Halvar who began a slow handclap. ‘We have a victor.’ He stepped over to Thrall VII to examine him. ‘Hmm… your mother won’t be pleased, laddie. We’ll call it a night, everyone. Thor here and I have a date at A&E.’
Tyler realised the others were staring at him and there was a new look in their eyes. The bout had lasted ten exhausting minutes, during which time neither man had given an inch. Tyler’s face was beaten, scratched and bloodied. His elbows were raw from hitting the floor and the sleeve of his T-shirt was torn. Nevertheless, he stood victorious at the centre of the hexagon and his glare dared anyone to set foot in it.
X
Within moments of climbing into the cars, they knew they were being taken somewhere new. It was Wednesday evening and the six Thralls had gathered as usual at Bull’s Close on the lower end of the Mile. The cars had arrived just before ten. There were only two vehicles now, with space for three Thralls in each. The silent drivers no longer bothered with passwords, but the blindfolds were still a requirement before the cars moved off. By now each of the Thralls knew the route by feel alone. Up the Mile, left, then right, then straight on, then another left and another. So when they didn’t turn right as expected, a new tension grew behind the cloth over each set of eyes.
The vehicles purred into higher gears. Tyler had a sense of longer roads and space, of moving away from the jumble of the Old Town. His face still felt raw from his combat bout. His lower lip was split in several places. He had a swollen right eye and a cut under the other one which he had bathed and plastered. His supervisor at the library had looked at him aghast and summoned him into his office. Although Tyler had concocted a story about an attempted mugging and found himself wading deeper and deeper into the fiction, the man could see his bruised knuckles and offered little sympathy.
Eventually Tyler had been excused with a veiled warning about taking more care. He slunk back to the information desk and attempted to ghost through his shift. At the best of times he had no inkling that he was quite a celebrity among the regular students. The girls loved his flickering blue eyes and the sadness that hung around his shoulders. A man who had experienced tragedy, they whispered to each other. But over those next few nights, his beaten and broken face sent them into fascinated palpitations and he was inundated with enquiries to look up obscure reference numbers on the database so that they could peer at him more closely.
It was twenty minutes before the cars pulled up and they were ordered out but told to maintain their blindfolds. A wind whipped at them as they were herded over tarmac and then onto rougher ground with stones and gravel underfoot. They must have passed through an entrance because the wind died and the fresh air gave way to something colder and staler. They were on concrete now, but there was still loose gravel and the crunch of glass fragments under their boots. They were positioned together and left motionless for a few moments.
‘Welcome, Thralls. You may remove your bindings.’
It was Radspakr. They found themselves standing in a large derelict warehouse. It would have been an impressive building in its heyday. The walls were split on all sides by great arched windows on the lower level, then rows of round windows above like portholes. Columns ran down the length of the building, holding up a roof of metal and glass. Moonlight was pouring through, bringing a lunar glow to the interior. Graffiti was plastered on every available surface and the windows along the sides were broken. The floor was strewn with wooden spars, stones, grass and wild plants. Outside, Tyler could just make out other buildings, but they were distant.
Radspakr was standing on a raised platform at one end of the building, in front of a door leaning off its hinges. There were candles around him once again, but they did little more than cast a light on his legs. Without the moon they would have been in pitch dark. He wore a long, well-cut coat with the collar up to guard against the cold and his hands shoved deep into the pockets. Halvar and Freyja were beside him.
‘My apologies for the choice of venue. It’s hardly luxurious, but it serves our purposes from time to time.’ He stepped off the platform and walked over to them and they could see his eyes above his coat collar, luminous in the twilight like those of a cat. ‘From the eighteen who were called, six remain. You are the last ones standing and you should congratulate yourselves. This Armatura is nigh complete. We are but weeks from the commencement of the Nineteenth Raiding Season and the cycle of the Pantheon begins again. Succeed at the final challenges and you shall be deemed Weapons Worthy and welcomed into the Horde of Valhalla as Thegns.’
Radspakr paused. It was ten weeks since he had last spoken with them and he could see they had changed. They exuded
strength, even confidence. No longer did they fidget with unease and stare at the walls. Now they returned his look openly and waited for their next orders. He liked what he saw.
‘The Housecarls tell me you show promise. You have each passed the tests for Speed, Strength and Violence. You have each overcome obstacles both physical and emotional. You have absented yourselves from none of the instruction sessions. I have been informed of no transgression of the rules. You have spoken to no one of your experiences and you have not attempted to interact beyond the confines of the group sessions.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘You please me, Thralls.’
He signalled to Freyja and she strode across to him, her braided hair resplendent in the moonlight. She handed him a small leather-bound notebook and he fidgeted in his inner pocket for a pair of reading spectacles. As he attempted to angle the notebook to catch the moon’s rays, with the glasses perched on the end of his nose, he resembled more a tutor in mathematics than Lord Adjutant to Sveinn the Red. He tutted and muttered something to Freyja, who scuttled back to the platform and retrieved one of the candles to help him read. It was a tiny, endearing glitch in the otherwise carefully scripted theatre.
‘It is time for you to receive your first Palatinate identities. Step forward, Thrall II.’
Tyler watched the Thrall take a pace in front of the group and stand to attention. He held his arms straight with hands clenched and thumbs pointed down, his back ramrod and his chin raised, and it struck Tyler that this was a military stance. Perhaps his father would be proud of him.
‘You shall be Brante,’ said Radspakr. ‘It means sword.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
Radspakr waved him back. ‘Thrall VI, step forward.’
Tyler came out of the group and found himself mimicking Brante. He threw his shoulders back and stared over Radspakr’s bald head.
The Wolf Mile Page 7
