With a final group howl, Skadi’s Wolves were unleashed…
“What in God’s name was that?” Ælrik skidded to a stop and spun around in his saddle.
“That was our doom calling us! Ride, you fool, ride!” Jurgen kicked his horse into a gallop, no longer concerned by possible tree roots or rabbit holes. They had just a mile to go before they reached the garrison. He knew his horse was almost at the end of its endurance — he could see the vein in its thick neck pulsing frantically. Damn it, the blasted creature’s heart was close to exploding through sheer exhaustion and terror. “One mile, damn you, one mile!” He kicked the animal in the ribs, urging it on. If the wretched creature collapsed at the gates then it was of no matter. But they needed to get to safety before the Wolves descended upon them.
Ælrik scowled. “No man howls like that…”
The demonic, blood-curdling howling screamed defiance, vengeance and a lust for blood that only the beating heart of a terrified, dying man would slate.
“Lord God Almighty, protect us!” Ælrik kicked his heels against his horse’s ribcage and the creature leapt into a gallop with no further encouragement.
One mile.
That’s all.
Just one mile…
The garrison at Berwick was almost deserted. A few lame and injured soldiers, still beaten, bloodied and bruised from recent running skirmishes with the Norsemen, were all that were left. One cook, one stable boy and a couple of guards to protect the gate made up the company. It would be a pitifully weak defence against anything that may come from the north. But the Garrison walls were three feet thick in places, and the gates were made of solid English Oak that age had hardened to the strength of iron. Besides, all the problems were to the south, where York was now the focus of King Æthelstan’s attentions.
Every man who could fight had marched with the King. All that was left in Berwick were those who would have simply slowed the column and become a burden to their comrades. Three monks had volunteered to stay and tend to the sick and the wounded, raining muttered benedictions and blessings on those who could not escape their pious mumbling. The monks did nothing except remind the dying soldiers of their impending mortality. Their poultices stank and stung, the bandages were merely sack cloth cut into strips, and the gruel they slopped into wooden bowls would not have sustained a child. Yet here they were, these monks with their tonsured heads, their filthy brown robes and their stinking, dirt-caked skin — and large, solid silver crosses swinging from their waists. The grubby, once-white cords that held their robes in place each carried a silver cross so large that, if melted down and beaten into coins, would feed and clothe a family for a year. Many of the soldiers, who were still struggling with their faith, felt a jarring at the juxtaposition of supposedly penitent monks displaying such ostentatious wealth so flagrantly. No wonder the men of the North constantly raided their shores, if they knew that such riches were on open display and there for the taking!
Many of the northern soldiers blamed the monks in no small measure for the violence that had plunged their land into such black and bloody turmoil. And now the sanctimonious bastards had the audacity to tell them to be grateful for God’s bounty of watery gruel and stale bread? Damn them all! Damn them and their Fisher God…
The gate guards were roused into slothish movement by the sound of pounding hooves and shouting. “Open the gate! Open, in the name of God and the King!”
A screaming whinny indicated a horse that had finally given up and collapsed, its heart now just a flapping, bloody mess of torn muscle in its chest.
The gate guards rushed to the observation point to see who demanded entry at this hour. “Who goes there, calling by the name of the King?”
“Ælrik and Jurgen! For the love of God Almighty, man, let us in! We’re under attack!”
The gate guard turned to his colleague. “Sound the alarm!” One guard nodded and sprinted off along the battlements towards the alarm bell, while his compatriot slid down the wooden ladder and ran to the gate. With a grunt, he heaved the heavy oak bar out of its resting place and hauled on the handle.
When there was just enough room to squeeze through, Ælrik stumbled his way in, spun, grabbed Jurgen by the scruff and hauled him through. “Shut it! Shut it now!” The guard slammed the gate shut and Jurgen helped him lift the oak beam and slot it back into position.
The clanging alarm bell brought the few mobile occupants of the Garrison scurrying out into the courtyard. Limping soldiers on crutches, those with bandages around their heads or with their arm in a sling, stood bleary-eyed and confused. The three monks scurried out like brown rats, twitching their noses and scuffling their sandals through the horse-shit and mud. “What’s this? What’s this?” The eldest of the tonsured fools scuttled up to Ælrik. “Are we under attack?”
“Why do you think my men have sounded the alarm, you dolt? Of course we’re under attack! And by something unholy too, Father. So we may have need of your skills and machinations before this night is through!” Ælrik glowered at the monk, his instinct to backhand the damn fool battling with his reverence for the supposed authority of a priest.
The oak gates shook violently as a force slammed into them from the outside. The beam held. Just. Another violent judder shook the entire gate. Small flakes of stone and mortar floated down. From the other side of the gates came snuffling and growling — deep, guttural and primeval. Claws scrabbled and dug at the wood, scraping and scratching into the oak planks.
Ælrik, Jurgen, the guards and those men that could stand and move stepped slowly back, drawing their swords and readying themselves. The gates were strong, but would they be strong enough? Another shudder shook the gates as the beasts on the other side threw their weight at the oak.
“What manner of attack is this?” The oldest of the monks stared at the shaking gates and crossed himself frantically.
“Demons, Father. Demons with big teeth and a taste for Christian blood!” Ælrik snarled at the monk. “Vile hounds from the north. They delight in the name of Skadi’s Wolves.”
“God preserve us!” The monk wailed. “Not here, not again!”
Before Ælrik had a chance to ask the monk what he meant by ‘not again’, the gate juddered violently. A sliver of wood broke away from one of the planks, and a single golden eye filled with menace and evil peered through. The owner of the eye snarled and growled, a long, low rumbling that lasted several heartbeats. Taloned fingers, part human, part animal, curled through the small gap and started to worry and scrabble at the planking.
Before Ælrik or any of his men could respond, a monk leapt forward. The silver cross that usually hung from his grubby, knotted cord was in his hand and pointing straight at the beast’s golden eye. The monk, yelling for the power of God to protect him, plunged the long shaft of the cross deep into the wolf’s orb.
The screaming was horrific. The beast disappeared from view and continued to howl in agony, the silver cross still embedded in its eye. Thrashing and snarling came from beyond the damaged gate, as the injured beast yelped again and again like a kicked puppy. The smell of burning flesh filtered through the gap in the wood; an odd, acrid smell that stung the back of the men’s throats.
Above the animal sounds rose a scream of absolute fury that stopped every living creature — man and beast — in its tracks. The sound of a furious ice giantess. “NO! You dare defile my children? You dare? Kill them! Kill them all! Spare no one!”