But her mind kept returning to Tyler. Ever since she had first seen him in the basement all those months ago, there had been something about him. Not good. Not bad. Just something. During the long hours of training with the other Thralls, she was always conscious of where he was, had always noticed him. It had bothered her and made her keep her distance. She wanted men to be an irrelevance because it was so much easier that way.
But somehow Tyler – Punnr – had worked his way under her guard. He had never been confident and generous like Brante, yet he contained a hidden drive that drew the other Thralls around him and she had found herself acting upon his word. Then the two of them had met over coffee in the real world and before her eyes he had become a real, sentient human being and she had told him about Amelia, something she had said to no one before. Dimly she realised she had been persisting in the Pantheon because of him and his loss meant she no longer knew what to do. He had been killed for some ridiculous token called an Asset, of no greater value than the paper money exchanged in Monopoly. So what was the Pantheon other than a stupid relentless overblown game?
At least Tyler had cherished a true reason for being in it, a true task to find his sister. Lana, on the other hand, had no credible excuse for being a part of this game, other than to keep running away from her life. Escaping, always escaping. No job, no relationship, in fact now she had no life outside the Horde.
She watched the moorhen bob across the pond and slowly, like the coming of the evening gloom, a conviction germinated within her. Perhaps his death had presented her with a new and unexpected reason to prosper in the Pantheon. She must continue his quest. She owed it to him.
Radspakr felt munificent. It was five days since the battle and the immediate crisis had passed, and he had become increasingly satisfied with the outcome. Now he sat with Bjarke at a table in his Quartermaster rooms and they ate slow-roasted lamb, the juices running from their mouths and greasing their fingers.
There was a knock at the door and he bid them enter, for he had invited them. Ulf stepped cautiously into the Thane’s domain, Erland trailing behind him.
‘Come,’ Radspakr ordered. ‘Join us.’
The two Thegns were dressed in linen tunics which made them look soft and young. They advanced obediently and sat on two chairs which Bjarke pulled to the opposite side of the table. Radspakr clicked his fingers and a serving girl brought two portions of steaming meat, already served into bowls. The scent made the Thegns drool. Bjarke poured them wine into beakers and Radspakr pushed a platter of bread towards them.
‘Relax, eat. You deserve it. You did well.’
They bit into the succulent meat and gulped at the wine, and gradually it soothed them and they loosened and ate more ravenously. Bjarke tore at the bread and mopped up the lamb juices, belching contentedly, and Radspakr sipped at his wine. He watched the boys, so young, but also so pliable. He had no doubt they would have killed Punnr on his orders without compunction if it had been necessary and that was useful to know. He might have need of them going forward.
But he also knew excitable youngsters like these could rarely be relied on to keep quiet. They could be too easily needled into bragging. A few drinks, a few hot words in the wrong company, and they might start talking about their mission to kill the White Warrior. He knew of only one way to ensure against such loosening of tongues. He must subject their impressionable young minds to an act of such abhorrence that they would forever dread him.
They were nearing the end of the meal and their chins glistened. Their cheeks had grown red with the wine and they were grinning, pleased with themselves for they were dining at the Thane’s table and Bjarke was joking with them. They felt like warriors of merit.
‘Have you read Herodotus?’ Radspakr asked, twirling the stem of his beaker between his fingers. The Thegns looked at him blankly, still half grinning. ‘He gives an account from the life of Astyages, King of the Medes, which always affects me. One night Astyages had a dream that his newly born grandson would soon take over his entire empire. Worried, the king tasked a kinsman called Harpagus to take the baby away and kill him. But Harpagus could not bring himself to do such a thing, so he left the baby with a lowly herdsman and thought no more of it.
‘Years later, Astyages was travelling in the country when he came across the boy and, recognising his likeness, he guessed it was his grandson. He confronted Harpagus with the revelation and Harpagus broke down and admitted that he never killed the baby. Astyages feigned relief and said he was joyous that his grandson still lived after all.’
Ulf and Erland listened to the Thane, uncertain why they were being told this story. Bjarke drank slowly from his wine beaker.
‘Now Harpagus had a son himself of the same age, so Astyages commanded that this son should visit the returned royal child. Harpagus readily agreed and went home mightily relieved, but when his son arrived at the palace, he was not welcomed into the presence of the royal child, instead he was taken to the kitchens where he was butchered and jointed and roasted and prepared for the table. That night his meat was given to Harpagus at a banquet. All the other guests had lamb.’
Radspakr drained his wine and then clicked his fingers again. The serving girl brought in a large platter covered with a lid and placed it in the centre of the table. Ulf and Erland stared at it as they started to piece together what Radspakr was saying. Erland had been chewing on a bone and now he stopped and placed it back onto his plate. Radspakr affected not to notice.
‘Harpagus enjoyed his meal. Positively devoured it. Then, after he had complimented the King on the meat, Astyages called for the platter containing the feet, hands and head of Harpagus’ son to be brought to the table. Then Astyages ordered him to raise the lid.’
For once, Bjarke was utterly silent, unmoving, not even looking at the Thegns. Radspakr, however, now watched them like a hawk. Ulf’s greasy face was pale. Erland was reddening and looking to his companion.
‘So raise it,’ Radspakr said quietly.
No one moved. Ulf stared at the platter as though willing it to disappear, then looked up into Radspakr’s merciless eyes and knew there was no choice. Slowly he reached out, took hold of the lid’s handle and lifted.
Erland exploded from his chair as if a charge had shot through it. His hands came to his mouth and he doubled over with a cry. Ulf didn’t move, but every drop of blood drained from his face. Even Bjarke grunted in consternation. Just as Herodotus had described, the platter contained the neatly arranged feet, hands and head of Havaldr, glazed with their own steaming bloody gravy. Erland stumbled to the wall and retched, falling to his knees and sobbing. Ulf was shaking uncontrollably, but stayed locked to his chair.
Finally, when Erland’s noises had subsided, Radspakr spoke again, calmly and quietly, as though he hadn’t been interrupted. ‘Harpagus did not break down. Instead he left the palace and accepted his punishment. He understood that any man – king or otherwise – who could countenance such an act, was a man to be truly feared. And absolutely obeyed. Jarl Bjarke, bring our friend back to the table if you will.’
When Erland was settled again, Radspakr continued. ‘I’m sure you understand that I wished to illustrate my point this evening and your companion will not be missed amidst all the carnage of last night.’ He fixed them with a cold glare. ‘You are to be congratulated on your willingness to carry out my orders during the Raid. You have shown merit and I may yet call upon your assistance again. But let us tonight – around this table – be absolutely clear about my one message to you. Word of my orders to kill the White Warrior will never ever be spoken of again to anyone.’
He didn’t prompt them for a response. He knew he had no need. He let the silence hang for a few moments and then waved them away. ‘You may go.’
XXXVII
As Lana had hoped, Oliver was in his window seat, his face bathed in the glow of his iPad. It was eight in the evening and the drizzle had returned. She stood under the nearest streetlight and waved until he s
pied her. He peered at her in surprise for several moments, then disappeared and she sent a silent word of thanks when he opened the front door.
‘Hi Oliver, remember me? Lana.’
‘Sure. Where’s Tyler?’
‘He’s had to go away for a while again and he asked me to collect a couple of things for him. Can I come in?’ Oliver stood back and she got into the dry. The schnauzer was quiet for once. ‘Do you know if he still has the key in his Wellingtons?’
‘Think so.’
Once she had retrieved it and let herself in, Oliver followed and stood watching her at the entrance to the lounge. She looked around the room and had to clench her insides to retain her composure. His jeans were flung on the sofa. The laptop was discarded on the carpet beside the heater and a book was open where he had finished reading. She picked it up and scanned the page, wondering which word had been the last he saw.
‘How long’s he gone for?’ Oliver asked.
She wished he would leave her alone. ‘I’m not certain, probably a few weeks.’
‘Is he fighting Titans like on the news earlier in the week?’
‘Not this time.’
The boy sidled further into the room. ‘So what does he want you to collect?’
She dropped the book and tried to think. ‘Um… some clothes…’
‘Does he need my notes about the clues?’
‘Yes! That’s exactly what he needs. Can you get them, is that okay?’
‘I’ll load them onto a USB.’
Oliver disappeared back across the hall and Lana moved to the sideboard for what she really needed – the photograph of Tyler with his sister and mother. She had observed it when she was last there and if she was ever to find Morgan in the Pantheon she would need a picture of her. It was larger than she had remembered and an Odin amulet was hung over it. This was wrought from ivory and, when she turned it over, she found a tiny Star of Macedon painstakingly carved into the underside. Taking both the photo and the amulet, she checked around for something to use as cover before Oliver returned. She hovered in the doorway of his bedroom and felt as though she was trespassing on his private space. There were more scattered books, as well as a punchbag fixed to the wall and a set of dumbbells. His bed was unmade and she thought she could see the indentation where he had lain. Emotion bubbled in her, but she could hear Oliver coming back and so she steadied herself, yanked open a couple of drawers and retrieved a jumper, a pair of jeans and T-shirt. There was a sports bag tucked up behind the cupboard, so she placed all the items into it and returned just in time to bump into the boy.
‘Everything’s on this USB. I think you’ll understand them, but do you want me to explain them to you?’
‘No, no, that won’t be necessary. Thank you, Oliver, you’ve been such a help and Tyler will be grateful.’
‘He’d better come back soon. He was going to tell me all about the Horde’s stronghold.’
She hugged him, which embarrassed him into silence, then she trotted back down the stairs and let herself out into the rain. As she opened her umbrella and began to stride towards Stockbridge, she didn’t notice the figure watching her from the darkened gardens, nor see the glow of a phone as he made a call.
Radspakr listened intently on the other end of the line. Placing a trusted watcher on Tyler’s flat had been his final precaution after the Raid to ensure everything was safely closed down. So often it proved to be the overlooked details that sunk great men. And it would seem he had been justified. So the girl knew where Tyler used to live. A quick night-time visit and a bag over her arm when she departed.
He left the caller waiting and stared ruminatively at the coals glowing in his hearth. He had hoped the dust would now settle, but such a discovery could not be ignored. What more did she know about Tyler Maitland? How often had she been in his flat? What had he shared with her?
With a sigh, he returned to the caller and gave his instructions.
Lana opened her eyes. There had been a noise and her heart was beating hard, but she told herself it was because she had come out of a dream so unexpectedly. She lay still and listened. She could hear the Leith flowing beyond the shared lawns and her radiators clicked, but otherwise her little house was silent. She squinted at her watch. 2.37 a.m. She sighed, rolled onto her side and tried to force herself to relax again. On the pillow next to her was the teddy which had been Amelia’s.
But something felt different. Just a sensation. As though someone else breathed within her house.
She sat up, pulled on plimsolls, threw a gown over her nightdress and padded into the living room. The light switch was further along by the front door, so she just stood still and peered around. Everything seemed as it should. She took in the outlines of the television, the bookcase, the coffee table.
And then her heart froze. Beside her armchair, there was another shape. A figure.
In that moment it came for her. Two bounds and it was on her. She was flung against the wall and the breath forced from her, leaving her scream silent. A man’s hand caught at her throat and his bulk thumped into her. All she could sense was hair and musk and raw power. He was breathing in her ear and she realised he wore a mask. She started to scream, but he threw her across the back of the sofa and she thudded onto the floor. She crawled to her knees, but he was already upon her. She felt him wrap his hand in her hair and tug her backwards onto the sofa. She struggled and he slapped her face so hard that fireworks exploded somewhere behind her eyes, but she continued to fight, rolling her legs up to kick and punching his chest as hard as she could.
Then she felt the point of a knife against her throat and froze, staring helplessly at his mask. He was breathing raggedly and she thought she caught the whites of his eyes. His grip on her hair was like iron and the knife played across her throat. For a moment everything was quiet and the river could once more be heard beyond the window.
Gradually the tempo of his breathing changed as his eyes moved up and down her, and she understood why. Her bare legs were exposed and her gown was open enough for her cleavage to be visible. He had been sent as a cold-blooded killer, but now something different pulsed through him. The knife travelled down her body and he lowered his head to sniff the skin between her breasts, but the mask prevented him from getting close enough to her, so he sat back and released his hold of her hair to yank the woollen mask from his mouth and nose.
It was the only chance she had. She had watched Punnr and Brante during the streetfight sessions in the vaults and remembered Halvar’s teachings. With every last ounce of her strength, she brought her head up from the sofa just as he was once more lowering his and her forehead cracked into his nose. With a surprised curse, he fell back from her and brought his hand up to his face. With the other, he slashed at her with the knife, but she had already rolled her legs over her shoulders and dropped from the end of the sofa.
He staggered upright and she could see blood running on his hand and chin. As he came around the sofa at her, knife extended, she let her training take over. A tornado kick. In one seamless movement, she spun on the spot, her left leg raised tight at the knee. Then she pushed off with her right leg mid-spin, extended it, brought her left down for balance and smashed her right instep into her assailant’s head. He fell sideways, stumbling against the coffee table, and she thought she heard the knife clatter across the table as he tried to arrest his fall, but she was already running for the door and out into the night air. The rain had stopped and her plimsolls splashed through puddles as she tore along the house fronts towards Glenogle. She dared not look behind. She just ran, a small terror-stricken sound bubbling in her throat. She reached St Bernard’s and knew she was only moments from the main Stockbridge high street, where there would be lights and maybe taxis.
She burst onto it and stared wildly around her. He wasn’t following her. She was alone. Tears were salting her lips as she sucked in air. Slowly she backed away along the street and then started running raggedly up into New Town, not knowi
ng where she went, just letting her terrified legs carry her.
XXXVIII
Lana walked the wet streets for hours, keeping to the brighter lit areas. People stared at her, this pale, shivering, unkempt woman in her nightclothes and plimsolls. At least twice, night taxis pulled alongside and the drivers called to her to ask if she was okay. Did she need a ride somewhere? But she kept her eyes averted and wouldn’t break stride, so they pulled away. Rough voices called sometimes from doorsteps and she hurried on. A man followed her along Broughton Street and she ran blindly into Hart Street until her breath rattled in her ribs and she was sure he was gone.
The rain came again and she huddled under shrubs near Union Street. She knew she needed to get somewhere dry, but her mind refused to focus. She couldn’t return to her house, that was the only thing clear to her. Her assailant had been no random intruder. She knew he had come only to kill her and he would be back.
There was movement in the undergrowth behind her and she shot back out onto the pavement and stumbled away in the drizzle. Her legs took her south to Waverley and then up the hill to the towering claustrophobia of the Old Town. She was numbed with cold and her body was close to shutting down. Before she even realised, she found herself heading to the Market Street Gate.
The Wolf Mile Page 31
