The horse puffed and blew, tossing its head up and down. Its ears flickered, flattening against its skull. It was spooked by something only it could see or smell. Ælrik patted its neck and made soothing, cooing noises. “Settle, shush, settle.” He watched as Jurgen reined in his own horse and fell into step. His beast was just as nervous as Ælrik’s, if not more so. The damn things scuttled and danced stiff-legged, rolling their eyes and snorting.
Something in the darkness was following them. Ælrik could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Whatever it was — whether they were Norsemen or wolves — was keeping just out of sight, merging into the shadows and harrying them relentlessly. But just beyond the crest of the next moorland plateau was the warmth and safety of Berwick and the garrison. Thick stone walls encircled the town — a settlement that had been fought over for generations by Norsemen, Picts and Saxons alike. The Romans had regarded it as their most northerly frontier town. Even the women could wield a sword in this embattled place. The locals, bitter from years of bloodshed and violence, had faces as hard as the granite stone that formed the walls. They didn’t like strangers, and they didn’t like anyone or anything that hinted at Pagan filth and their degenerate beliefs. They knew the Lord looked after His own — and their swords would do the rest.
Once they were back in the safety of the garrison, Ælrik knew they could rest up, and then tell the commander of the potential threat in the morning. Then he and Jurgen could ride out with a company of cavalry and hunt these damn Norse wolfmen down. No fuss, no bother. A band of Norse warriors dressed in skins was nothing to worry about unduly. They’d need to be an army to go against the Berwick garrison, and from what the Picts said there was only a small band of these wolfskin-wearing bastards to deal with.
Ælrik wasn’t concerned with anything except making it back to the garrison. Out here, and with only Jurgen for company, he was vulnerable. With his men behind him, he’d be invincible.
They reached the crest of the ridge and looked down into the valley. Ælrik could sense Jurgen behind him, growling rough commands at his increasingly nervous horse. He twisted in the saddle and looked at the young man. “You all right?”
Jurgen sawed at the reins and growled again at the skittish horse. “Aye. Just this damned animal. Never known it to be so unruly.” Jurgen knew the horse was simply picking up on his own rising panic, and he inwardly chastised himself for his weakness. He was a soldier, damn it. Soldiers didn’t get spooked by faerie tales and campfire exaggerations about men who could change into wolves, commanded by an ice giantess who could bring the very gods themselves to their knees. Without thinking, he slid his right hand into his pocket and curled his fingers around the runestone the Pict priest had given him. It wasn’t much, but somehow its smooth, hard surface reassured him. He was careful not to rub it, though — doing so would remove the delicate charcoal symbol and turn it from a runestone into nothing more than, well, a stone, really. He let the runestone drop back into the depths of his pocket and focused on the here and now, rather than superstitions and magical talismans.
“Nearly there.” Ælrik pointed to the horizon and the flickering lights of the garrison in the distance.
Jurgen managed to bring the prancing horse under control and shuffled alongside his friend. “You do know we’re being followed.”
“Yes. We have been ever since we left the Pict campsite. They’re good, I’ll give them that. No matter how many times I turn around, they’re staying just out of sight.”
“Isn’t that strange, though?” Jurgen frowned. “Norse raiders would have been on us like a swarm of bees by now. Why are they holding back?”
“Perhaps they’ve taken one too many blows to the head.” Ælrik laughed.
Jurgen wasn’t convinced. “Or perhaps they’re waiting for us to get to the garrison and the rush the gate when it opens?”
Ælrik’s smile abruptly vanished. “And this is why I chose you as a companion, Jurgen. Not because you speak a dozen languages, but because you’re a natural strategist.” He patted the younger man on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. They’ll get a nasty surprise if that’s their little plan. The garrison is fully manned right now.”
“No, it isn’t. I told you. The main company rode out for York yesterday. The King marches against the Norsemen. There’s only a handful of men defending the place.”
Ælrik spun around in his saddle. “What?”
“With so many Norsemen on the move, the King had to summon the entire garrison. That’s why I was sent to call you back from Edinburgh. We were due to march with them, but our delay by the Picts means we’ll have to defend Berwick with just a company of the walking wounded and a few peasants.” Jurgen shrugged.
Ælrik cursed loudly, and backhanded the blond man across his mouth, knocking him from his saddle. “Damn you! When exactly were you going to tell me this?”
Jurgen pushed himself back to his feet and glowered at Ælrik. He spat a globule of spittle and blood onto the ground and wiped the red trickle that ran from the corner of his mouth. “Do that again, and I’ll leave you to the mercy of my fellow Norsemen and their demons! I told you last night at the King of Alba’s table! Or were you too befuddled by ale to understand the urgency of our return, you damn fool!” Jurgen grabbed his horse’s reins and swung back into the saddle. “Perhaps it would be best to have the safety of the walls at our backs before we argue this out again, what say you?” With an angry shout, Jurgen spurred his horse towards the dim lights of Berwick.
Muttering profanities, Ælrik followed his friend, regretting his hasty reaction and determined to regain the Northman’s trust and favour once they got back to the garrison. Jurgen was right. He had drunk too much ale the night before. It was his weakness. It helped to dull the blood-soaked memories and the dreams sent by the Devil himself to torment him.
As the prey cantered away, snuffling and snorting filled the ridge and a cluster of black forms shimmered into view, staying just below the skyline and hunched against the gorse and heather. One, its form indeterminate and fluctuating from man to beast and back again, came across the globule of blood. It sniffed at the blood and recoiled, pulling his lips back and baring fangs that were neither canine nor human. A shadowy form walked among them, and with every step frost spread out like a fungus, crackling and entombing every blade of grass, every leaf and every prickle, with ice. She looked down at the spittle and frowned. “This one carries the protection of the All Father. He is not to be harmed as long as he holds that mark. Even if he is a traitor to our people and rides at the enemy’s side.” Her ice blue eyes looked towards the distant lights of the garrison. “The Saxon and his kind, though, are yours.” She turned her face to the sky, just as the last cloud slipped away and revealed the shimmering, silver disk of a full moon.
With a howl, the shapes finally settled on a single form. Bones cracked, broke and reformed, sending the morphing creatures into spasms of rage and agony. Thirteen men became thirteen raging, slavering wolves — bigger, faster and more vicious than any pack that ran through the wilds of the northern lands. These were Skadi’s Wolves — feared not only by mortals and their mothers, but by the Gods themselves. The Christian Fisher King’s mewing men would be no match for their fury.
Baying and howling, they looked to their mistress to release them. She smiled, petted the largest — a massive, black-furred, golden-eyed monster with a maw that would swallow a baby whole — and raised a glistening, frost-covered hand. She curled all but one finger into a fist, ice crystals dropping from her skin, and pointed at the garrison. “Feast, my children. Feast!”