The Wolf Mile

by C. F. Barrington

She looked left and right. Companions lined the roof and others were already progressing along the north and south wings above the quadrangle. She spied Menes and he strode towards her. He was a warrior hardened by many Seasons, but had only been promoted to Captain of the Companion Bodyguard when Olena had disappeared. He would readily lead a Titan charge against a limitless foe, but she was less certain of his aptitude for strategic leadership. She wished Olena were still with them. Agape and Olena, what a pair. We could have carried the night single-handed.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ said Menes. ‘But my arsehole’s not relaxing until Nicanor’s secured the front gate, and there’s no sign of his mob yet.’

  Agape stared at the main entrance. The lights had been shattered under the archways and nothing could be seen in the shadows. ‘Anything could be happening under there.’

  ‘And if Nicanor’s made it along South Bridge without incident, then I’m a shrivelled goat’s prick.’

  Agape glanced back at Lenore, crouched in the angle of an elegant chimney and shivering with the damp. ‘We can’t wait. Have we identified the drinking fountain?’

  Menes pointed. ‘There, dead centre along the northern terrace of the quadrangle.’

  ‘Show me to the ropes.’

  As she spoke they both watched transfixed as a Companion fell from the northern rooftop, his hands together in front of him as though praying, but both knew he clung to an arrow shaft. He hit the terrace with a thud.

  ‘Bastards must be under the arches,’ Menes said and he was already swinging his arms to bring the Titan archers into place to return fire.

  ‘And they know we’ve come from the rear, so there’ll be a pack of them waiting for us down there soon. Get me to the ropes.’

  ‘No need.’ Menes pointed to where the building curved onto the northern arm of the quadrangle and Agape saw there was scaffolding clinging to the sides like a plank and steel creeper. ‘They’ve got the builders in.’

  Menes seemed pleased, but Agape knew while it provided them with a rapid descent, it also presented the Horde with the perfect apparatus to follow them if a fighting retreat ensued. ‘Get your troops down there as well, Menes. We’ll need support. Lenore, follow!’

  They swung like armoured gibbons down the poles and along the wooden platforms and were at ground level in moments. The Companion Bodyguard followed and fanned out along the rear terrace. Agape could see the water fountain along the north side. You will find me where the lion’s mouth drips.

  Menes came up beside her. ‘Where the fuck are Nicanor and the heavy boys? We need them blocking the entrance three ranks deep.’

  ‘I’ll wager they’re entertaining Valhalla’s Hammers even as we speak.’

  ‘It’ll be a full-on battle if so. There’ll be carnage in the streets tonight.’

  Agape ignored him. ‘Lenore, come.’

  The Sacred Band streamed in two lines across the terrace and down onto the grass. Menes gestured to his Companions to advance along the terraces either side. The Band was within metres of the fountain and Agape was signalling for Lenore to approach, when there was a roar and the Wolves were upon them. The Viking killers poured from the darkness beneath the entrance arches and came at Agape’s party in a diamond shape with its iron point aimed directly at Lenore. A shower of arrows accompanied them from the gloom.

  ‘Form up!’ yelled Agape and instantly her fourteen Titans broke from columns into line of attack in one fluid motion. They just had time to plant themselves and lock shields and then the Horde hit them with a crunch that rippled down the line and echoed off the ancient buildings. The Titan elite soaked up the impact by taking a regimented step back and bending the knees, then shoved forward in a single movement. It brought the Wolves’ momentum to a halt, but their greater numbers meant they could round the flanks of the short Titan line. Menes exhorted his Companions to shore up the wings and the line held.

  Agape faced a bearded heathen snarling at her from beyond her shield. He shouldered into her shield and she snapped back, making him stumble. A lightning strike of her shortsword into his exposed neck between helm and brynjar and he turned into a dying mass at her feet, but before she could advance again to seal the line, a taller man jumped over him. He held himself upright and she could just see his small manicured goatee beneath his helm. In the corner of her eye she was aware of Lenore huddled by the fountain, reading the clue in the light of her UV beam. The tall man attacked with a grace that surprised her and she had to parry his broadsword swipe. Iron clashed with iron. She rose onto her toes and began her dance of death and watched him do the same. He’s good, this one, she thought. Their blades licked at each other as each attack was parried. He thrust high at her shoulder and she had to block faster than she could remember in many Seasons. She dropped her shield arm and hit hard against his own shield, unbalancing him and forcing him a step to the side. In the same moment, she stabbed him in the shoulder and felt her blade hit bone. He stumbled backwards with a gasp and she checked around her.

  The Titan line was just holding. Where in Zeus’ name was Nicanor? Lenore was rising and signalling that she had the clue, but even as she did a Wolf broke clear and surged towards her. Agape recognised the armour, knew the sword. Halvar. She ran to intercept.

  Punnr made his way up Robertson’s Close with his Shieldmen Bodyguard around him. There were eight of them, but all he could think about were Ulf and Erland just over his shoulder. He could sense them watching him behind their eyeholes, he could feel their iron spear points hovering close. Ahead was Havaldr, a blond man who spoke little and had an honest face, but always stayed close to Ulf and was swayed by his every word.

  Valhalla scouts ushered the White Warrior group onto Infirmary Street and ran them west towards the junction beside Old College entrance. As they neared the agreed point, Punnr became aware of a commotion ahead and slowed. The junction with South Bridge was a battlefield. Bjarke’s Hammer regiment had formed a writhing shieldwall, blocking the path of the Titan Heavy Hoplite Infantry. A hundred and eighty warriors surged against one another. Their war cries and the thunder of their pummelling shields cascaded around the streets. Arrows and spears rained from the rooftops and bodies lay trampled on the tarmac.

  Freyja appeared in his face. ‘Move. Get into the College!’ She swung back and a row of scouts covered them with an arrow wall as they ran forward.

  There was no traffic and Punnr could only assume the Vigiles had stopped everything, but there were people in windows on some of the higher floors, braving the missiles to film and photograph. He could feel the Bodyguard behind him and knew Ulf would be calculating, observing and employing all his cunning to seize the right moment. If Radspakr had indeed put him under orders to ensure Punnr was felled, he would have to do it soon. He wouldn’t strike if the Titans could do the job for him, but he couldn’t afford to wait until the seething mass of battle had ebbed away.

  Punnr reached the iron gates of Old College and slipped into the cover of the giant arches, but any sense of shelter was transitory because another struggle was taking place ahead on the inner quadrangle. Arrows lanced from the roofs surrounding the quadrangle, but the Titan line on the ground was retreating. He thought he could see their White Warrior rising from a crouch beside a central drinking fountain and running for scaffolding in the far corner as the Wolf Kill Squads bayed at her heels. The fighting was rolling away across the lawn and the fountain was briefly left unattended. Oliver had been unable to pinpoint where the lion’s mouth dripped, but Punnr knew it had to be there.

  He waited behind a column and the Bodyguard grouped around him. Ulf and Erland were to the fore. They were looking up into the gloom of the arches and Punnr suddenly realised why. They were checking for Pantheon cameras. Without doubt Atilius would have set cameras above the quadrangle to ensure the Curiate could salivate over the bloody struggle from all angles. There would be individual Vigiles hovering in the corners as well, observing and recording. But in here, under the arches, it might just
be the one place they couldn’t see.

  So his Bodyguard would murder him here.

  Ulf’s helmet ceased its examination of the arches and dropped to look at him. The others curled serpent-like around him, most looking outwards, but three staring in at him. An eerie silence fell and Punnr saw Ulf’s elbow extend backwards to strike with his spear. But the man couldn’t resist a final taunt. ‘This is how a Perpetual says goodbye, Weakling. You won’t be missed and you were never…’

  Punnr smashed his shield boss into Ulf’s helmet and threw a mailed arm into Erland’s chest. In the same movement, he pushed himself around the column and ran out into the open.

  Agape swung onto the higher platforms of the scaffolding and glanced back. The Horde were slower on the climb and she could pause for a few breaths. She was the last Titan to retreat, but they had left comrades slaughtered below and the wet grass had become slick with gore, the rain acrid with the metallic scent of blood.

  Lenore was away safely onto the western roof, escorted by Companions. They would rappel back to street level and hope it was still guarded from a further Valhalla assault. The Band waited in a defensive line on the roof just above the scaffolding, along with the remaining archers who would cover the retreat. Menes came beside her, running his forearm across his nose where it bled profusely. Then he pointed with his sword and Agape saw the Valhalla White Warrior emerge from the entrance arches and tear towards the fountain.

  ‘We can take him,’ Menes stated flatly and without waiting for a response, he signalled to the archers. Agape watched the white figure, remembered him from the summit of Calton Hill and waited for the arrows to fly.

  Punnr was ten yards from the drinking fountain and could just make out the bronze lion’s head from which water would pour into the marble bowl below. He should be thinking of retrieving his UV torch from the bag on his belt, but he already knew he wouldn’t be needing it. The battle had transformed into a hunt up the scaffolding and so the Wolves were too far from him. His treacherous Bodyguard were pouring from the arches and above him the Titans would be wondering how he could be alone and so exposed.

  He heard a shout and thought he saw Halvar running back across the grass. He turned towards him and was about to respond when something smashed into his breastplate with such force that he staggered backwards. He tried to focus. There was an arrow shaft protruding from the centre of his chest and he let out a cry as pain shot through him. He could see Halvar bellowing at him. Then another blow smashed into his breastplate just to the left of the first and it lifted him backwards.

  For a moment he saw nothing but the night sky, roiling black clouds above the high walls of the College. Then he was on his back and rain was sluicing into his helmet. His jaw hung slack and his vision was clouding like the heavens above. Halvar came beside him, and cradled his head, snarling at the Bodyguard to keep away and then shouting to him. ‘Don’t you die! Don’t you dare die! Punnr, stay with me.’

  But he could not. His mind was going somewhere, fleeing from the pain. The last thing he felt was the rain beating on him, relentless and cold.

  XXXVI

  The Valhalla tunnels were filled with confusion. Troops teemed back and forth, shouting for news, helping wounded comrades, stripping off armour and shoving each other to reach the water jugs. The air reeked of blood and sweat. Men cursed, others argued, some simply sank against walls and let it all flow over them. It had been a far more major encounter than any had expected. The heavy infantry brigades of both Palatinates had struggled shield to shield for almost an hour and neither had yielded a backwards step until news reached the Hoplites that their White Warrior had safely gathered the Asset and an orderly retreat could begin. Both sides had lost troops. Both had left corpses on the streets and the libitinarii were even now rushing to clear up in the last hours of night.

  The wounded would go to the secret hospital where they would be afforded the best treatment money could buy. No one knew the location of this, but the healed who returned told how they were given every comfort, but kept under close watch and their private rooms locked. They were only permitted out at strictly enforced times and couldn’t enter the opposite wing which housed Titan casualties. Within a stone’s throw of one another, the wounded of each Palatinate would be restored and returned to fight another day.

  Sveinn sat alone in the Council Chamber. He had been informed that his gamble had failed. His Hammer Regiment had been scythed, his White Warrior was dead, and now there was no value to the ace that Radspakr had been so keen to hold secret. The King listened to the tumult below and knew he should face his troops and rally them. But just at that moment he needed solitude. His bones ached and he was weary even though he had played no part in the conflict. What burden it was to carry the mantle of King. How he sometimes longed to be released.

  In the East Tunnel, Radspakr stood in the doorway of his rooms and watched the swarming mass. He was shocked by the ferocity of the battle. Never had the Palatinates met with such force in the city during a Raiding Season and there would be bumpy times ahead. The media would descend into a frenzy of speculation, discussion and soul-searching. The internet would explode with images, soap-box opinions and gallows humour. Holyrood and Westminster would be forced to appear decisive and the security forces required to demonstrate success. Atilius would be obliged to offer them some placatory sacrificial lambs from both Palatinates and the Pantheon would have to ride out the storm with its usual diplomacy.

  But ride it out, it would. These things always ebbed and flowed. People would shout and bicker about the horrors of a society in which the Pantheon could be allowed to prosper, but then they would subside into the same shared need to feed on the gory details and to gossip about the thrilling violence around them. In truth, they didn’t want to live without it.

  Radspakr picked at his lip. He should be looking on the bright side. The Horde would recover from its losses and this year it still held a significant numerical advantage over the Sky-Rats which should bode well when they entered the field of the Grand Battle in a few weeks. And the Valhalla White Warrior was gone without even the need for Bjarke’s Shieldmen to carry out the deed. Three cheers for the Titan archers. Now just a little further mopping up was required, a cleaning out of the deadwood, then Radspakr could relax and the world could return to normal.

  In South Tunnel, Calder let the tides of humanity ebb and flow around her. The Ravens had been corralled back to the stronghold at a run, shouted orders whipping around them. Stay ahead of the Titans. Get to the Gate. Once through, she had dropped her weapons and helmet and walked listlessly along the tunnel. She had witnessed the mass conflict on South Bridge. She had watched troops murder each other. She had smelt the blood and the fear. They were saying the White Warrior was dead, that much she understood. Men shouted the news and cursed the foe. Despite all their efforts, the loss of the White Warrior could only be interpreted as a defeat for Valhalla.

  ‘Calder.’ A voice called her, but she could barely recognise it among the commotion. ‘Calder! Over here.’

  It was Brante, being helped down the tunnel by Leiv. He was cradling his left arm. She ran to him. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘Sword thrust in the shoulder.’

  ‘Oh my god, let me help.’ She took the other side of him.

  ‘It’s only a scratch, I’ll live. I guess I shouldn’t be taking on the Sacred Band in my first Season.’

  Leiv peered over at her. ‘It’s more than a scratch, but he’s right that he’ll live. We’ll get him to the transport and then it’ll be a few weeks in a hospital bed for our Wolf pup.’ They eased him over to a bench by one of the vaults. ‘I’ll go for the medics, if you’ll look after him?’

  ‘Of course.’ Calder sat next to Brante as Leiv disappeared down the tunnel. She looked up into his pained face. ‘Is it true about Punnr?’

  He grimaced and nodded. ‘I saw it with my own eyes. Hit by Titan archers.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  �
��Halvar confirmed it. It would have been over quickly, at least there’s no doubt about that.’

  ‘It’s not possible. I can’t believe it.’

  Brante found her hand and squeezed. ‘I can’t either. But it was always the risk once he took on the White Warrior role and he knew it. He played the part with courage right to the end.’

  ‘He’s not meant to be gone, it wasn’t in the script. It was always the three of us, even from the start.’

  ‘But now it’s just the two of us and he’d want us to stay strong. He’d want us to honour his memory.’

  She nodded weakly, but could feel the tears brimming in her eyes.

  Brante squeezed her hand again. ‘You’re going to have to be strong on your own, Calder. I’m not going to be fit for the final Raid. Will you be okay?’

  ‘Of course.’ She wiped her eyes angrily and forced a smile back up to him. ‘You just get better, Thrall II. I need you back here soon.’

  ‘I will, I promise.’ He examined her face with concern. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Go home,’ she shrugged. ‘Go to bed. What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Hang in there, Calder, and stay strong. He’d have wanted you to.’

  ‘Would he? Do we really know what he’d have wanted? Did any of us know him enough to guess? I suspect he didn’t do any of this for the glory of Valhalla. I think he had his own private reasons for putting himself at such risk and when he needed us most, we weren’t there for him.’

  A moorhen called from the reeds. Koi ghosted beneath the surface. After the wet night, the winter foliage hung heavy beneath a grey sky, but the air itself had a depth that clung in her throat. The silence was emphatic, just the timeless dripping of the plants and the sonant moorhen.

  This was her special place. The place she had come in the weeks and months after she lost Amelia. She was glad it was deserted today and she sat staring into the depths of the ornamental pond. The Chinese Hillside was what the authorities at the Botanic Gardens called it and she sat within an oriental waterside pavilion, with koi before her and rhododendrons up the slope, but now it looked like any other bedraggled Scottish pond. She had been there hours and the afternoon light was already growing sombre. They would be closing the garden gates soon, but she barely cared. The pavilion kept the rain from her and she was long since numb from the cold. Her mind had taken her on long rambling journeys. Amelia always felt within touching distance when she was in this place and she had thought about her daughter for a while, remembering the sharp beautiful pinnacles within a fraying landscape of grief. She thought of her mother too and there were moments when she wanted nothing more than to be safe in her arms.