Alastor leaps atop it, and it rakes the claws of its good limb across his side, tearing the flesh to tatters. He grabs the paw with a free hand, the other grasping the matted fur on the creature’s chest for purchase. He twists and pulls, and the bear’s paw separates from the arm, spraying his naked body with blood. The she-bear mewls and lies back on the ground, exposing her neck, surrendering. He reaches forward with both hands to tear out her windpipe.
It is a ruse. A desperate attempt at survival. The bear’s head snaps forward with alarming speed and clamps down on Alastor’s left arm. But he brings his right fist around and slams it into the beast’s eyesocket, finishing the job he began with the sword Edulf gave him, crushing bone and smashing the creature’s brain.
The child of Tar-sun falls limp on the floor of the cave.
Alastor stands, surveying his victory. He traces parallel lines with his fingers through the blood spattered across his chest. Then he clears away some of the blood on his forehead in the shape of a circle, revealing the pale skin beneath.
With a mighty twist he removes the bear’s head and tosses it aside. He sinks his hands into the ragged flesh that once was a neck, and begins to tear the beast’s hide from its back. When he is done, he stands and wraps the gory hide around his shoulders.
Satisfied with his raiment, Alastor picks up the bear’s head and begins to make his way to the entrance of the cave.
****
Alastor is surprised to see that those who accompanied him up the mountain have deserted him. How long has he been inside the mountain? He hears the soft susurration of branches in the wind and the gentle percussion of water dripping from thawing ice. Could it already be spring? Smiling, he begins to trudge down the mountain. He finds the trip down to be much easier than the climb up as he plows through the snow, sending it flying in all directions with the furious pumping of his legs.
Before long he reaches the outskirts of his village, and his spectacular descent down the mountain has drawn a crowd. Members of his tribe have gathered in the center of the small clutch of sod-brick buildings, just outside the largest. It is the home of Edulf, his former lord. Alastor walks toward the crowd, reveling in the fear and confusion he sees. The smell of it is intoxicating, but he resists the urge to reveal the serpents that live in his belly, to feed on anyone foolish enough to draw near him. He can still hear Abraxas’s voice in his mind, barely a whisper at this distance, telling him that it is not yet time.
“Edulf. Come forth.” Alastor’s voice is dark and rich in the crisp night air.
Hide curtains hanging in the doorway fly open, and three men spring out, swords winking at him in the moonlight.
“Who are you?” Edulf asks. The two men—one of them Hrogar, the other Edulf’s oldest son, Edun—position themselves in front of their Sundin.
“Don’t you recognize me, old man?”
“Alaric?” he says, eyes flicking up and down, taking in the strange figure before him. “This cannot be. What trickery is this?”
“No trickery,” Alastor says. With a theatrical flourish he brings forth the cave bear’s head, and the crowd gasps. “Behold, I bring you a gift. A token of my master’s good will.”
He tosses the bear’s head onto the muddy earth between them, where it lands with a meaty thud. Its one remaining eye stares back at Alastor.
“You are not Alaric. He is not so tall!” says Edun.
“You are right. I am not Alaric, for he has perished inside the mountain. My name is Alastor.”
“Speak to him no more, father. He reeks of draga. His words are poison.” Edun speaks through clenched teeth.
Edulf surveys the creature before him. “What are you? Man or draga?” he asks.
“Neither. I serve a being greater than any you have ever known. Greater than all of the pitiful gods the holy man speaks of. I come in the name of Abraxas, the old one who lives atop this mountain.”
“We have no need of this Abraxas,” Edulf says. The old man’s diseased lungs rumble, and he hocks and spits on the ground at Alastor’s feet.
“Ahhh, Edulf. We do not have to make this difficult. The transition can be painless if you allow it.”
Alastor can tell from the dim expressions on the people’s faces that they can’t quite grasp what he is saying.
“Enough of this!” Edun shouts.
Edulf’s son raises his sword and lets forth a battle cry meant to melt Alastor’s resolve. But instead of fear, Alastor is filled with pity for the man, that this is the best display that he can muster. Alastor knows what comes next, though the fool trudging through the mud does not. Until this moment, everything that has ever stood before Edun has fallen, cleaved asunder by the kiss of his mighty blade. Alastor sees arrogance glimmering in Edun’s eyes, and he almost comes unhinged at the sight of it.
Edun lunges and swings his sword. Alastor catches it with his left hand; it cleaves his flesh and lodges in the bones of his palm. He closes his hand around the blade and snaps it in two.
The tip of the blade flies high, but Alastor plucks it from the sky and plunges it into Edun’s head. It pierces Edun’s skull as though it is an egg and continues downward through the tender flesh of his chin. Alastor kicks Edun’s limp body aside and examines his own hand. The flesh is already knitting itself back together. There is no pain. Just a tingling sensation.
Alastor hears Edulf’s hoarse cries. He looks up to see that his Sundin, the man who protected his people from night-beasts and raiders alike, has fallen to his knees. The man Alastor’s father served with great loyalty until the day he died.
No, not Alastor’s father. Alaric’s.
From his star boat atop the mountain, Abraxas feeds Alastor a series of images. They are all of Edulf. He sees the old man take women to his bed that don’t belong to him. Some of them against their will. Some of them are mere children. He sees Edulf arguing with Alaric’s father, their faces growing bright red, their eyes wild. Then he sees Edulf make a small gesture with his hand, and a man steps from the shadows and runs a blade across Alaric’s father’s neck, and the vision fades in a spray of lifeblood.
He killed my father! says a voice in Alastor’s head.
No, not my father. Alaric’s.
At some point Alastor closed the distance between himself and Edulf. He now stands over his Sundin, who looks up at him with swollen red eyes. Hrogar twitches in Alastor’s direction, but Alastor shakes his head.
“Don’t, Hrogar. Please.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I know it because Alaric knew it,” he answers. But he doesn’t look at Hrogar. He continues to peer down at the old man before him. He has never before realized how frail the old one has become. The way his back has taken on a crooked shape, the way his axe hand shakes. Surely if he does not die now by Alastor’s hand, it will happen sooner rather than later. Someone stronger will claim the throne. It is the way of things.
“Alaric, it is you, isn’t it? Why are you doing this?” Hrogar pleads.
“I am doing what must be done. This old man is no longer fit to lead us. Look at him. See how he cries like a washerwoman. Look how he yellows the snow in front of you.”
“Alaric, don’t.”
“I told you, Alaric is dead. As you will be if you don’t stand back.”
Alastor feels his last human emotions. He feels remorse as he looks upon the face of his childhood friend, Hrogar. He thinks for a moment of the things he has done this night, the terrible choice he has made. He feels shame, that Hrogar should see him this way. But it does not last, for Alaric and Alastor cannot both occupy his flesh, and Alastor is stronger.
“What are you waiting for, draga? Do your worst,” Edulf says.