The Wolf Mile

by C. F. Barrington

  She was shivering and Punnr thought he should look for something to put around her, but he didn’t dare move.

  ‘Today, all that anger came to a critical point and instead of trying to save a life, instead of doing everything to preserve it – I took one. And now… now the anger’s gone and there’s just emptiness.’

  ‘Are you going to leave?’ Punnr asked quietly.

  She looked at him, startled by the question. ‘Leave?’ She shook her head. ‘No. Of course not. How can I leave now? I can’t go back, I can’t undo what’s been done. If you’d handed me a crystal ball on the first night in the cellar and shown me where this journey would lead, then yes, I would have walked out that place and never returned. But now? Punnr, I’ve already abandoned the person I was. Whether I want to fight it or not, the Pantheon has me.’

  They sat in silence.

  ‘You’re cold,’ Punnr said eventually and she smiled thinly.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I must leave you to dress.’

  He rose and walked to the door. She followed him and she was very close when he turned with the door half open.

  ‘I’m glad you’re staying,’ he said.

  ‘You are?’

  ‘I think – probably – if you or Brante left now, I wouldn’t be able to go through with it myself.’

  She sighed. ‘I know. Go get dressed, Punnr.’

  The boy was waiting when he returned to his room. He had brought new garments. First he produced a corselet of chainmail from a roll of sheepskin, oiled to prevent rusting.

  ‘You must put this on without my help,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ asked Punnr, shocked at its weight when he took it from the boy.

  ‘No warrior can wear a brynjar if they can’t put it on alone. It is the Viking way.’

  Punnr grunted, holding the corselet up by the shoulders and then began to pull it over his head. The rings were so heavy and seemed to snag on everything. He dropped the garment with an oath and felt the boy’s eyes on him. ‘How is anyone supposed to move in this?’

  He tried again and this time he got his head through and his arms came out flailing above his head. The boy stepped forward then and strapped the brynjar to him with a wide belt. Then he helped Punnr pull on knee-length boots. The leather was soft and the fitting perfect. Finally, a new russet-red cloak was draped over his shoulders and fastened with a Triple Horn of Odin clasp. Punnr stepped awkwardly to the mirror and looked at this unrecognisable man before him. It was a Viking warrior. Armoured, hardened and inscrutable.

  XX

  They gathered on the stairway, dressed in their Valhalla finery. Brante looked glorious in his mail and there was an imperial calm about his expression, like someone who had wrestled in private with every emotion and found a resolution. Likewise, it wasn’t Calder’s clothing that took Punnr’s breath away – although her silver mail sparkled – it was the rigid ethereal set of her face. The three of them stood together, keeping their distance from the other four. The Horde might be receiving them as a group of seven, but there was little on earth that could bridge the divide between these two parties.

  Halvar came up the stairs. He too was dressed as they had never seen him. He wore a full knee-length ring-mail brynjar under his cloak, edged with fine silver thread. A broadsword clung to his hip, sheathed in a scabbard of wood, lined with sheepskin and covered in purple velvet, and under one arm he held an iron helmet, polished until it shone. He looked at them grimly, then led them downstairs and out into the dark of the rear lawn. There he paused and pointed to one of the helicopters. ‘That will fly you to Inverness right now if you choose.’ Then he pointed in the opposite direction to the far outer corner of the hall, just visible in the night, where they could see shadowed figures waiting. ‘And that way will take you to Valhalla.’

  Punnr glanced at Calder, but she was looking away into the night.

  ‘So be it,’ Halvar said.

  Radspakr awaited them, along with two Vigiles. He was dressed in a simple grey woollen robe that dropped to his feet. It was buttoned diagonally across his chest from his left shoulder and belted by a black sash. A plain gold band circled his brow and a large Odin amulet hung from a sturdy silver chain around his neck. The Vigiles were once again helmeted to hide their identities, moustaches oiled and combed, and great curved swords hung from their belts. In addition to their baggy pantaloons and boots, they too wore chainmail.

  The group was illuminated by three burning braziers, and more of these stretched in pairs down the slope to the shore of the loch. Halvar left them and strode away through the braziers until they lost him from view.

  Radspakr looked angry and wasted no time on preliminaries. ‘These are your last moments as Thralls and Perpetuals. Soon you will be recognised as Thegns of the Horde of Valhalla, junior officers, assigned to one of the regiments. Do not hold grudges for the deeds that have been done. Do not look back at those no longer with us. Look only forward and dedicate yourselves to the Horde.’

  The group said nothing. Eyes were drifting from Radspakr down the slope where they could see more figures by the shore and something else which was looming out of the darkness of the water.

  ‘You are about to take the Oath. This is your oath of fidelity to the Pantheon itself, not to the Horde. Thus, as with all official Pantheon rites, it is a Greco-Roman ceremony and will be led by the Praetor of the Pantheon himself. Do as he commands. You will then be addressed by our own High King Sveinn, who will assign you to your regiments.’ He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small sack. ‘Hold out your hands.’ Into each he placed a single silver coin. ‘These are denarii. You will need them to pay your passage. Be warned, the point you give these up marks the moment of no return. Now follow me.’

  They trooped after him down the slope between the braziers. The sky held no stars and the air threatened rain, but they were warm in their cloaks. Brante led the way with Calder alongside him. Punnr walked behind, heavy under his mail. Then came Ulf and Signe, Havaldr, and Erland, who refused to look at anyone. As they approached the shore, they could see the waiting figures more clearly. It was the same little beach which the three Thralls had clustered on before the Sine Missione, where they had thrown stones into the calm waters of the loch. Now braziers burned on it, flames licking up towards the cloud, crackling and sending shadows bounding across the surrounding slope. There were more Vigiles positioned in a semi-circle around the edge of the beach and two figures standing together between a pair of smaller braziers. Beside these two was yet another camera mounted on a tripod. But the eyes of the group were drawn inescapably to the shoreline of the loch, where a vast figure loomed silhouetted in front of a final fire, and behind him, magnificent in the glow of the flames, waited a Viking longship. Its square sail was furled, but the mast disappeared into the black sky and a beaten gold dragon’s head roared from the prow. Shields lined the sides, oars sat to attention in the water and seated bodies waited in silence on the benches.

  Radspakr led them onto the pebbly beach and ordered them into a row facing the two figures beside the smaller fires. Then he stepped away and joined the watching Vigiles. One of the men came forward so that he was more clearly illuminated and they realised he was the chubby, grey-haired man they had seen before, still wearing his purple robe and still with his soft eyes. He too wore a circlet of gold around his brow and a gold sash.

  ‘Welcome, I am Atilius, Praetor of the Pantheon, High Keeper of the Rules, Praefectus of the Vigiles, answerable only to the Caelestia. You are to be congratulated. Thirty-one began this process, a mixture of newly identified Thralls and the strongest Perpetual graduates from our Schola. Now only seven remain.’ He rubbed his fleshy, clean-shaven chin and smiled. His voice was high, strangely out of place among the huge warriors. ‘At the end of the last Blood Season, Valhalla was awarded Blood Funds amounting to fifty-four credits to spend on additional troops. High King Sveinn and his Council of War decided to use twenty-six of these credits on t
wenty-six new Drengrs, the backbone of the Valhalla Grand Heathen Army, chosen from our Schola. However, they decided to expend the remaining twenty-eight credits on recruiting just seven new Thegns. I am sure you can do the arithmetic. Each of you has cost the Horde four Blood Fund credits. They could instead have chosen a further twenty-eight Drengr, but they chose to gamble, judging the worth of you seven to be greater. So you are indeed to be congratulated, the new cream of the Valhalla intake.’

  Atilius looked over towards Radspakr and his smile thinned. ‘Only time and the Titan Palatinate will determine whether the Horde has gambled correctly.’

  He held out a hand and one of the Vigiles came forward with a scroll. Opening it, he peered at the contents for several seconds, then spoke again to Radspakr. ‘Shall we do this alphabetically?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’ Radspakr cleared his throat from the sidelines. ‘Brante, step forward.’

  Brante looked sidelong at Punnr, then set his jaw and walked to stand in front of Atilius. The Praetor inspected him. ‘A fine-looking man. Review this, then read it aloud.’ He handed the open scroll to Brante.

  For a few seconds there was quiet as Brante scanned the contents. In the night sky above, the clouds hung low, drawing down a black ceiling on proceedings. Perhaps in some corner of his brain, Brante was thinking about his lonely, bitter schooldays, lying on his dormitory bed dreaming about the three hundred Spartans and about his military father, so enslaved by the chains of his ancestry.

  Clearing his throat, Brante spoke with resolution. ‘I – that am known as Brante – swear by the great gods of the Pantheon – Jupiter, Zeus, Odin, Xian, Tengri, Kyzaghan and Ördög – that I will be forever loyal to the Pantheon in thought and word and deed, until such time as I am released from this bond. I will hold as friends those that they hold as friends and consider those as enemies whom they judge to be such, and I will not be sparing of my body or my soul, but will face every peril which they deem to cast at me. I will not speak of the Pantheon, nor any of its Palatinates, strongholds, activities or plans, to anyone who has not also given this oath. If I should hear of anything spoken, plotted or done contrary to this, I will report this and be an enemy of the person speaking, plotting or doing. If I should do anything contrary to this oath, I impose a curse upon myself encompassing the destruction and total extinction of my body, soul and life. May neither earth nor sea receive my body, nor bear fruit from it.’

  He stopped. The words hung in the air for the other six initiates to grasp. It was as though Brante had taken a vast step across a ravine and waited beyond it, far from them.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Atilius, with another of his odd smiles. ‘Well recited. You have just read the words of the Sacramentum. You are now one of the Oathsworn, Thegn Brante. Stand over there.’ He retrieved the scroll, waved Brante aside and peered at Radspakr. ‘Next please, my dear Thane.’

  ‘Calder, step forward.’

  Punnr felt her depart from his side. Her hair was golden in the firelight and her chin raised in defiance. It seemed an age before she began to speak the words in an empty voice, imposing the curse upon herself that could lead to the destruction and total extinction of her body, soul and life.

  After Erland and Havaldr, it was Punnr’s turn. By then the words had settled in his brain and he was thankful he hadn’t been first. He wondered, did my sister give this same pledge? Afterwards he stood to one side as Signe and then Ulf completed the process. Ulf was earnest, embracing the words enthusiastically in front of Atilius, but Punnr wished the snake would curl up and die.

  Atilius looked once more at the combined group. ‘New members of the Pantheon – Thegns of Valhalla – I give you your High King, Sveinn the Red.’

  The second figure stepped around the braziers and into the light. Sveinn. The gathered Thegns gawped at him. This was the man who would now be their High King, whom they were expected to serve with devotion. He approached with slow, purposeful movements and stood in front of them. He wasn’t a man who needed words to command an audience. He was probably in his early fifties and his shoulder-length hair, parted at his temple and falling loosely, was streaked with silver, like comet trails. His beard too was silver, except on his chin and upper lip, where it retained its lustrous black. He had hazelnut eyes, oddly peaceful, and wore a silken black undershirt, silver mail trimmed with gold, and a wolfskin across his shoulders, held by a chain with the Triple Horn of Odin at its centre. Earrings made from what appeared to be predator teeth hung from leather cords below his lobes and in his belt was a hunting knife and a broadsword, the scabbard of which was a pale blue and decorated with rune snakes. He wore nothing on his head. No crown or other symbol of his office. It was unneeded.

  When he eventually spoke, his voice was soft, but unlike Atilius’ high pitch, Sveinn’s was gravelly and drawn out. This wasn’t a man who hurried his speech for he was unused to interruptions. ‘Welcome, my troops. My new Thegns. I am told you have endured a great deal to be here and news of your deeds has already spread through my Horde. They are gathered in your honour and tonight we shall feast. The season of the Armatura is so called because each Palatinate devotes it to training their new warriors in the use of arms. This night you become Weapons Worthy and you will be furnished with the arms of Valhalla.’

  He stopped speaking and made no outward motion, but the circling Vigiles understood the signal. They positioned themselves behind him and the Thegns saw they carried between them a host of weapons and shields. They followed Sveinn as he stopped before Brante, and the first Vigilis passed him a broadsword.

  ‘Thegn Brante, this is your sword of Valhalla. Honour it.’ He held out the weapon. It was exquisite. The scabbard was deep crimson velvet and wreathed in silver. The hilt was curved with delicate runes etched upon it. The grip was leather, bound with gold thread, and the large round pommel was made of polished bone. Brante took it speechlessly in both hands and gripped it before him.

  Sveinn reached an arm out again and the Vigilis placed another weapon in his glove. ‘And this is your seax, your Viking dagger. Use it to seek out the hearts of our enemies.’ The seax was a foot long, thin, encased in a black and silver scabbard, and whereas the sword had been magnificent, this looked deadly.

  Next came a shield with an iron boss polished until the brazier flames danced upon it. On the reverse were three iron bands which came together to form a handgrip bound in leather. The shield was painted crimson like his scabbard and emblazoned across the front was a wolf’s head in black.

  Sveinn looked him up and down and nodded. ‘Good,’ he said, then turned his gaze upon Calder and the hazelnut eyes lit. ‘Thegn Calder, you are a goddess this night.’

  She wouldn’t touch the proffered weapons for several moments and tried to return his piercing look. Then she relented and took the broadsword and seax. Her crimson shield had a raven’s head on it.

  Sveinn dragged himself from her and made his way down the line. When it was Punnr’s turn, the High King studied his face. ‘Thegn Punnr, Radspakr named you the Weakling.’ He handed him the sword. ‘I think not. You are made of sterner mettle. I believe you will prove my Thane wrong.’

  When the weapons had all been distributed, Sveinn returned to the space between the small braziers. ‘I have assigned you to the regiments as follows. Thegn Brante, litter number three, Wolf Company House Troop under Housecarl Halvar. Thegn Calder, litter number one, Raven Company House Troop, under Housecarl Freyja. Thegn Erland, litter number twelve, Hammer Regiment, under the Jarl Bjarke. Thegn Havaldr, litter number seven, Hammer Regiment, under the Jarl Bjarke. Thegn Punnr, litter number four, Wolf Company House Troop, under the Housecarl Halvar. Thegn Signe, litter number three, Arrow Company, Storm Regiment under the Jarl Asmund. Thegn Ulf, litter number five, Hammer Regiment under the Jarl Bjarke.’

  ‘Thank you High King,’ said Atilius. ‘I note your selections with great interest and sense we will have some fun during this Raiding Season.’ He walked in front of the group. ‘Thegns of Val
halla! The time is upon you. Every new initiate to the Pantheon must symbolically cross the great River Styx that divides the world we know from the underworld. Charon, Ferryman of the Dead, awaits his payment. Go now. Cross to the Pantheon.’

  A vast figure stood by the water’s edge. He wore faded breeches and boots, but was naked from the waist up despite the Scottish winter. His enormous belly broke across his belt and hair matted his chest, shoulders and arms. His head was encased in a rimmed iron helmet, and the air holes punched through the visor were the only indication that something living could be found within. Over one shoulder he carried a hammer. He waited motionless as the group shuffled towards him.

  ‘If you should ever turn back from the Pantheon now,’ Atilius said with an offhand tone, ‘you will answer to Charon.’

  Brante took a position in front of the monster. Even at his full height, Brante’s eyes barely reached Charon’s shoulders. ‘Payment,’ a voice growled beneath the helmet.

  Brante reached inside his tunic for the denarius and offered it to the Ferryman, who flung it into the burning brazier beside him. ‘Pass.’

  Brante walked around the giant and out into the water towards the longship. Hands beckoned him and helped him over the side. One by one, the Thegns each proffered their denarii and followed. Punnr flapped and struggled as he tried to get purchase on the straked sides of the ship with the water sucking at his mail, but hands hauled him aboard. Ahead of him Havaldr was working his way over the benches and down the central length of the vessel, and so Punnr followed, feeling his way past the shadowed rowers. The keel curved up beneath his boots as he approached the far end. He pushed past Havaldr and circled the silent Erland, until he reached his companions. They clustered together and looked back to the shore. An ornate wooden chair was being manhandled into place on a platform at the prow of the ship. Although the dragonhead was the front of the vessel, it seemed on this occasion that it had been hauled onto the beach headfirst for effect and they would be crossing to the underworld in reverse. Sveinn climbed on board and seated himself in the chair and Radspakr came beside him. Atilius, Charon and the Vigiles stayed on the shore.