‘Well theoretically – probably Valhalla.’
‘I like the Titans. They’re Sky-Gods. They can appear on any rooftop and drop on their enemy. The Sacred Band are their best fighters. Look.’ Within seconds he had pulled up lists of saved videos. ‘Here they are coming into Hunter Square.’ The jolting film showed distant shadowy figures flying down ropes from the roofs above the Square and turning towards the camera before the film ended. ‘And here’s them crossing Castle Esplanade.’
Something caught Tyler’s eye among Oliver’s list of files. ‘What’s that one?’
Oliver clicked on it. ‘They’re the Caelestia. Which is Latin for of the sky, heavenly.’
An image opened. It was an illustration showing the head and shoulders of a man whose head was encased in a mask of gold. Features had been painstakingly engraved into the gold, along with small holes for the mouth and eyes. Curling hair had been designed to flow around the head of the mask and four sun rays broke from its top. ‘That’s Zeus, the Caelestis of the Titan Palatinate,’ continued Oliver. ‘And this one’s Odin, the Valhalla Caelestis.’ He flicked a new image onto the screen. Again it was an illustration of a masked man. This time the mask was silver and had horns, but it was also beautifully made to depict the strong, lined face of a bearded warrior, complete with ear-piercings, an eye patch and scars on the glittering cheeks.
‘Who’s drawn these?’
‘I don’t know. Just someone online. Aren’t they great?’
‘And what do the experts say about the Caelestia?’
‘To the Ancient Romans, the Caelestia were lesser gods who fell from heaven. Today, they’re the true rulers of each Palatinate. No ordinary person has ever seen them and it’s rumoured they never reveal themselves from behind their masks.’ Oliver swiped the images away, then pulled up another. ‘Now check this out.’
The next picture was obviously taken using a telephoto from a great distance and was too blurry to decipher individual features, but it showed a large group of people – a hundred or more – dressed in formal evening wear and ranged on the lawns in front of a grand house.
‘What’s this?’ asked Tyler, scrunching his eyes as though that would make the photo clearer.
‘This,’ said Oliver with a dramatic pause, ‘is one of the few known images of the Curiate. Or, at least, some of the Curiate, snapped at a gathering in Bordeaux.’
‘Jesus, are you serious? Where did you get this?’
‘It’s easy to find if you’re on the right forums. The picture’s old now anyway and everyone’s seen it.’
Tyler brought his fingers to the screen. ‘Can you zoom in?’
‘It makes no difference. You can’t see any faces.’ Oliver demonstrated, then pondered the image. ‘Such a pity.’
Tyler was fascinated. ‘I wonder who they are.’
Oliver shrugged. ‘Billionaires. Trillionaires.’
‘I don’t think anyone’s actually a trillionaire.’
‘Whatever. You name the top ten multinationals and try telling me their majority owners aren’t neck-deep in the Pantheon.’
‘I think you need to treat what you read online with caution.’
Oliver jabbed a finger at the photo. ‘Oh come on. Google, Apple, Facebook, Gazprom, Exxon, all those Chinese banks. You can’t tell me they’re not in that picture. It’s all about money. That’s all it takes to be in the Curiate. Odin and Zeus and the other Caelestes may be the rulers, but these people are the elite gamblers whose money oils the whole enterprise. If the Pantheon was a sport, they’d be the punters.’
‘Someone else once likened the Pantheon to a sport,’ Tyler said reflectively, then caught himself. He stood with as much nonchalance as he could muster and rubbed the boy’s head. ‘Well, don’t get cold out here, lad. And wish your parents a merry Christmas from me. Have a good one.’
It was on Christmas afternoon, as Tyler digested a festive meal of steak pie, mash, ice cream and half a bottle of Glenfiddich, when he reached for his laptop, logged into his bank account and discovered a deposit, dated 22nd December, for £4,338. He stared at the transaction. It must be a mistake. My god, could it be from Morgan? Is this her way of telling me she’s okay? The only information provided was a six-digit reference number which refused to yield up any further clues no matter how often he tried clicking on it. Gradually a new realisation seeped into his stuffed and tipsy body. This wasn’t Morgan. This was the Pantheon. They own me now.
He wondered if it was a monthly sum. Fifty grand a year, if so. And that’s just for being a new Thegn. He had done none of it for the money, yet remembered Brante’s facetious comments all those weeks ago about the Armatura being an extended job interview and he felt oddly gratified to see the sum in his account. It was evidence of his success. Payment. Weregild. Blood Funds for the winning candidate.
XXIII
It was two nights before Hogmanay and the old year was seeing itself out on a wave of blustery, bitter drizzle. Punnr hunched against the wet and made his way along Victoria Terrace, an elegant walkway that curved along the southern slope of the Old Town below the Royal Mile, with views extending over Grassmarket. It was almost midnight and the restaurants along the Terrace were quietening. In warmer months crowded tables would span the walkway, but now it was empty and the puddles lay deep.
At the far western end, where the Terrace turned a corner into a quieter non-descript stretch, Punnr could see Calder sheltering against the tall frame of Brante, and a few yards away Erland stood with his nose buried in the collar of his coat and hands thrust into pockets. Brante gave Punnr a small wave as he approached and Calder turned to look at him. It felt good to see them both again and he pulled himself in close to them in an attempt to hide from the rain, but no one spoke.
A hooded figure materialised further along the Terrace and a second one appeared from the shadows at the other end. They loitered for a few moments and looked around, spoke quietly into phones and then pointed to a small metal door near to where Erland stood. It was grubby, rusted and covered in graffiti, but there was a high-spec camera fixed to the wall above. The door opened into darkness and no one emerged, so the foursome pushed cautiously inside.
‘Hurry up and close it,’ said a thin, nasal voice which they recognised. Brante pushed it shut.
There was a click and a spotlight illuminated them. They blinked and looked about. They were in a stone tunnel, blocked ten yards further in by a full height iron grille. In front of this stood Ulf, dressed in an emerald tunic that dropped to his knees, with black leggings and boots. A fine leather belt was fixed around his waist, but no weapons hung from it. He looked pale and he eyed them coldly as they dripped in a huddle under the spotlight.
‘This is the South West Gate. You’ll learn that each Gate has an outer and an inner door. The outer one is always basic and absent of anything that would draw a casual eye.’ He indicated the iron grille behind him. ‘This one’s a bit more sophisticated. It has a fingerprint scanner for access.’ He reached to the side and pressed his thumb onto a small unit in the wall. They saw the light on the top change from red to green. He pulled the barrier open and stepped back to beckon them through. As they passed him, Calder pulled away involuntarily. Ulf noticed and smiled at her coolly. ‘A pleasure to see you, too.’
‘Why are you here?’ Punnr demanded.
‘They needed someone to welcome you to the stronghold of Valhalla and I very kindly volunteered.’
‘But you’re a new Thegn just like us.’
‘I was also a Perpetual. Schola trainees provide a variety of support tasks for the warriors, so over the years I’ve spent a lot of time here. Who better to show you around? It’s so nice to get reacquainted. I trust you all enjoyed your Christmas breaks with your loved ones.’
‘Just shut up,’ Brante snarled. ‘And get on with what you’ve been tasked.’
Ulf’s sneer faded. ‘The outer door is open day and night, although you should take great care to enter unobserved. The s
econd barrier is locked throughout the Interregnum and the Armatura and you can only access it via the scanner. During the two Conflict Seasons – Raiding and Blood – this second barrier will be open every night between the hours of one and four as per the Pantheon Rules, and won’t require thumb scans.’
‘Why?’ asked Punnr.
‘Those are the Conflict Hours and each Palatinate stronghold must – in principle – be accessible to the foe. You’ll be told more when it’s deemed necessary.’ He began to walk down the tunnel at a pace. ‘Follow me.’
They filed away from the spotlight and passed a small room in which two figures sat. One of them watched a screen showing alternating camera images of Victoria Terrace. They both stared at the new arrivals.
‘Gate Keepers,’ Ulf said as he led them along the tunnel in the dark.
‘How many Gates are there?’ asked Brante.
‘Five. Each with an outer and inner, and each with the same hours of accessibility. You will be fingerprinted later tonight.’
The tunnel turned a corner and they found another door blocking their way, which Ulf pushed through. Light burst upon them and they stood in the entrance open-mouthed. The tunnel continued ahead, but now it was spot-lit all the way and the air was no longer musty; instead there was an air-conditioned warmth. Along one side, for as far as the eye could see, the wall had been covered with sheet silver and on it were engraved detailed scenes showing ancient Viking villages nestled on the banks of fjords, longships cresting Atlantic waves, and victorious armies sweeping all before them. The scenes continued as they followed Ulf and the silver was dazzling in the lights.
‘The South West Tunnel,’ Ulf called over his shoulder. ‘There’s a North West Tunnel which mirrors this and exits behind the Divinity School, at a door below Milne’s Court. Both tunnels lead into the rock beneath the Royal Mile. They are hundreds of years old, although the Horde has spent fortunes enhancing and widening during the last twenty.’
He had reached a point where doorways led off from the left-hand wall. The first one opened onto a large room bathed in blue light. There were benches and more doors in the far wall.
‘The Reception Area. Washing and changing facilities. After tonight, you won’t progress beyond this point until you’ve discarded your phones, watches and the clothes you arrived in, and then dressed appropriately for the Halls of Valhalla.’ He pointed to the next door, which was closed. ‘The Western Armouries. Unless specified by a superior officer, you’ll not carry weapons in the Halls.’ He strode onwards and the others followed, Erland bringing up the rear. They reached steps leading down and Ulf stood back to let them pass. ‘Welcome to the Western Hall.’
They walked into a great flagstoned space. The walls to left and right were dominated by fireplaces, alight and crackling. Banners of Raven, Wolf, Storm and Hammer Regiments hung from the ceiling and inlaid into the floor in the centre was a sandstone Horn of Odin. There were more silver panels on the walls covered in ancient Norse text, and tables scattered around the perimeter. Groups of warriors were seated, talking, drinking and playing a game that looked similar to chess but had unusual figures carved in ebony and ivory. To the left the North West tunnel led back towards the Divinity School. Punnr glanced at the fires and wondered where the smoke went in this deep place.
They followed Ulf along a new and wider tunnel exiting the hall on the far side. Punnr guessed they were heading due east and estimated they must be somewhere under Lawnmarket at the top of the Royal Mile. Rooms tumbled from the corridor on both sides and they could see troops training with wooden swords, punch bags and staves of varying length.
‘The Practice Rooms. You’ll be required to maintain and improve your fighting skills at all times.’ Ulf gave Punnr a sly sidelong look, but said nothing further. He strode onwards. To their left another tunnel disappeared. ‘The North Tunnel to North Gate on Warriston’s Close. The South Gate lies on Blair Street, under South Bridge. The East Gate takes you into the rear of one of the vaults on Market Street. You can enter and exit by any of these. Indeed, it’s encouraged to alter your routine so that you’re not spotted.’
Brante spoke up. ‘Are we expected to believe that in nineteen Seasons the Titans haven’t discovered these gates?’
‘You can believe what you like. The fact is that the Sky-Rats know full well about them. But they can only raid during the Conflict Hours when the second barrier is open, and taking the decision to attack through small doorways and into tight tunnels, at times when we’re armed and ready, is something they dare not do for risk of too many casualties. Instead they watch and wait for us to emerge.’ Ulf stopped and turned back to Brante. ‘It’s the secret passages that are the real prize.’
‘So where are those?’
‘They wouldn’t be secret if every new halfwit got to know of them, would they?’
‘In other words, you don’t know either.’
‘Only senior officers and a few trusted warriors are privy to their location. It’s said that one runs to the Castle and one even to the Palace, but they’re never used and you would be wise to forget about them. Now, here we are. The Throne Room of Sveinn. The heart of the stronghold.’
The tunnel opened into an even grander hall, with colonnades supporting a vaulted stone ceiling. Two more great fireplaces warmed the air and thick rugs lay over the floor. Braziers burned alongside ancient faded tapestries. On the right, the tunnel to South Gate led away and other doorways opened onto vaults from which could be heard the voices of troopers drinking and conversing. At the far end was an intricately carved wooden throne, behind which, rearing together to form a high arch, were two longboat prows with golden dragon heads similar to the one on the vessel that had borne the new Oathsworn across the loch.
‘The prows of the High King of Valhalla,’ said Ulf, following their eyes. ‘The symbol of his office, as they were once the symbol of every Viking lord’s Hall.’ He walked on. ‘Come. We’ll go to the Reception Area at East Gate where you’ll be fingerprinted and your clothing is waiting. Once changed, you are free to explore. Don’t go beyond the Gate Keeper posts in any of the tunnels. The Council Chamber up there,’ Ulf pointed to steps leading above the Throne Room, ‘is off limits at all times. Follow me.’
As he led them into the East Tunnel, Punnr glanced into an open door and spied Radspakr seated behind a mahogany desk, surrounded by computer screens. Impulsively he dropped behind the group and stepped into the room. ‘My lord Thane, may I speak?’
Radspakr looked up from a file he was consulting. He had his reading glasses perched on the end of his hawk nose. For a moment he stared at Punnr, then he exploded. ‘No one enters the Quartermaster’s Office without my express permission!’
‘I apologise, lord, I didn’t know.’
Radspakr came around the desk and marched across the floor until he blocked Punnr’s path by the door. ‘What do you want?’
‘To ask you again about my sister because I’m sure there’s been a mistake. Whether or not the Pantheon forbids siblings to join, I know she was a member of this Horde. Her name is Morgan Maitland.’ He sought something in his pocket. ‘And look, I’ve brought a photo of her in the hope someone must know of her.’
Punnr held out a small image of Morgan at the kitchen table in their old flat, drinking from a mug and smiling for the camera. Radspakr refused to glance at the photo. ‘As I have told you, I don’t know your sister and she has never been a member of this Palatinate.’
‘Please look at it. I won’t leave until you do.’
With a slow sigh, Radspakr took the photo and squinted down at it. He didn’t move. Long seconds passed and still he did not respond.
‘Do you recognise her, lord?’
With an effort the Thane pulled himself from the image and levelled steely eyes on the young Wolf. ‘Never seen her before in my life,’ he said rigidly. ‘But I will keep this and show it to a few colleagues, if that will stop your yapping.’
‘I’d be grateful. Tha
nk you, lord.’
XXIV
It was the third hour of New Year and the streets far above were still alive with people struggling home from a raucous Hogmanay. Punnr had been happy to spend the celebratory hours deep in the womb of Valhalla and had shared a toast of ale with Brante, Leiv and other members of Wolf Company in one of the vaults off Sveinn’s Throne Room. The Wolves never tired of remembering their battles and he was enjoying sipping his drink and listening to them when Freyja appeared in the doorway.
‘Thegn Punnr, your presence is required.’
He followed her up the spiralled stairs and entered a room that sat atop most of the other vaults. It was higher-ceilinged and at one end, in the apex of the arch, there was a small barred window, which during daytime perhaps provided a relief of natural light. Braziers burned on the walls and coals glowed in an ornate hearth. The flagstone floor was dominated by a great rectangular table, around which stood Sveinn, Radspakr, Bjarke, Asmund and Halvar, the Horde’s Council of War.
Freyja pointed Punnr to a place opposite Sveinn and took up station alongside him. Spotlights set the tabletop ablaze and across the entire surface had been painted an intricate map of Edinburgh’s city centre. It was exquisite. The parks were redolent in green, each road given its name in careful black oil. The key buildings were marked in purple and gold, and some of the most important even illustrated to show their architectural splendour. It stretched from the Meadows in the south, up to the Botanic Gardens in the north, and ran from Haymarket in the west to the rugged contours of Arthur’s Seat in the east. But this was no tourist map. This was a map of war. Shaded in red were the Gates to Valhalla’s underground kingdom and shaded in blue were the primary rooftop strongholds of the Titans.
‘Welcome Punnr to this War Council,’ Sveinn said in his slow gravel voice. ‘Thane Radspakr recommended that you should join us.’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘The Nineteenth Raiding Season – this year known as the Season of the White – will begin with the annual assembling of the Palatinates for the Agonium Martiale. As the Council knows – but I will elaborate for Punnr’s benefit – from April through December each year, during the Interregnum and the Armatura, no blood is spilt in the Pantheon. The Agonium Martiale symbolises the point of change, the formal start of the two Conflict Seasons – Raiding and Blood. From tomorrow night, for a period of six weeks, the normal laws of the first of these – the Raiding Season – will come into force.’
The Wolf Mile Page 20
