by Dan Smith
The wanderer had arrived in the village one afternoon, asking for food and ale in return for the stories he had collected. As usual, everyone came to the hall to listen and pass the night, and by morning, Ylva had forgotten all of the stories he told – all except for one. The last tale had stuck in her mind. It was a tale of such horror that the wanderer had lowered his voice to a whisper, as if he were afraid even to tell it.
A band of Vikings from the village of Gila had sailed to Northern England three summers ago, to find fame and make their fortune in plunder. They spent many days raiding, burning all the villages and monasteries they came to. Wherever they went, they left a trail of blood in their wake. Monks, farmers, women, children . . . no one was safe from the raiders of Gila. And when the raid was over, the men returned to their ship. The sea god, Njord, watched over them as they made the crossing home in safety and returned to their families.
But there were three greedy brothers on that boat. Three brothers who spent their new-found riches before the winter was even half-done.
And when their riches were gone, they turned their sights on their neighbour, Bjorn Ivarson, who had kept his wealth buried. To make it last, Bjorn had used only a small amount of his treasure, and only when he needed it to buy food and furs for his family. If he returned from a hunt empty-handed, he had silver to buy food from more successful hunters. If he needed furs, or a new axe, he had silver to buy them.
The greedy brothers were so jealous of Bjorn that they spied on him, day and night, to find the place where he had buried his silver. But Bjorn was as cunning as a crow; he suspected the brothers wanted to steal from him so he was careful not to let them follow him to the place where he’d buried his hoard. Many times he led them on a wild chase through the forest until eventually, the brothers became so frustrated and angry they decided to make Bjorn tell them.
One snowy night, the brothers forced their way into Bjorn’s home, but Bjorn was no battle-shy Christian monk; he was a Viking. When he woke to find the three brothers standing over his bed, he didn’t just lie there and let them harm him. He rolled from his bed, snatched up his sword and fought them. He fought for his life, for his riches, and for the lives of his wife and young sons. But three against one was impossible to win, and soon Bjorn and his family were on their knees.
‘Where’s your silver?’ the brothers demanded.
‘I’ll never tell you,’ Bjorn spat at them. ‘But I’ll tell you this for nothing; if you kill anyone you see in this room, I will never rest – never – until the gods give me my revenge.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ The brothers killed Bjorn with a single crushing axe blow to his head. They then murdered his wife and sons, so that no one could tell what they had done, and they buried the whole family in the forest behind Bjorn’s home.
The mysterious disappearance of Bjorn Ivarson and his family was the talk of the village. His friends had no idea what had happened to him, and the brothers put on a perfect act of innocence. But two weeks after Bjorn’s disappearance, an old woman claimed that while she was collecting mushrooms one evening, she saw Bjorn walking in the snowy forest around Gila. Except, he wasn’t Bjorn Ivarson any more; he was a draugr. A corpse that lived. She said his eyes burnt red and his skin was black. He left no footprints in the snow, and a rotten smell like bad meat filled the air he passed through. No one believed her, but exactly two weeks and a day after the murder, one of the three brothers was found dead in his home. His eyes were wide and staring, and his mouth was open in a scream of horror.
The two remaining brothers remembered the old woman’s story and went straight to Bjorn’s grave in the forest. Under the cover of night, they dug it up, but found only the bodies of Bjorn’s wife and children.
Bjorn himself was not there.
And as the terrified brothers stared into the grave, Bjorn Ivarson emerged from the forest and tore one of the brothers to pieces with his bare hands.
The next morning, when the villagers found the surviving brother, he was kneeling by the open grave, covered in blood, his mind driven to madness. The only words he ever spoke after that were ‘Bjorn Ivarson’, but Bjorn’s body was never found, and the people of Gila believed that he was still out there in the forest, protecting his buried silver.
Bjorn Ivarson had his revenge.
When Ylva turned and looked out across the trees, she knew there were monsters out there. Not Bjorn Ivarson, perhaps, but monsters nonetheless. And she knew they were looking for her. What she didn’t know, was that she would see them again very soon.
27
Freya’s Tears
Ylva allowed the pup’s leash to slacken so he could explore the cave, but he never went far. He always returned to Ylva’s lap where her blankets and cloak shrouded him from the cold. And when he was with her, Ylva held him tight. She ran her hand over his smooth coat, marvelling at the blackness of it. His colouring was much darker than his mother’s, and in the firelight it became clear that his eyes were mismatched. One as blue as ice, the other as gold as Freya’s tears.
She found comfort in the closeness of the pup, and felt herself relax until exhaustion overcame her. Finally her eyes closed, her head dropped, and she tumbled into a troubled half-sleep.
She was woken by the sound of wolves.
The pup was no longer in her lap. The fire had burnt down to almost nothing, and the cold was fighting its way back into the cave. Out in the forest, a wolf howled again. It was long and terrifying. A sorrowful song that made her skin tighten, and struck the most basic kind of fear into the deepest part of her.
For a few heart-stopping moments, Ylva wondered if the half-skulls had found her. They were Ulfhednar, with the spirit of wolves in their bodies, and they had tracked her the way a wolf would track her. An image leapt into her mind of the first time she had seen the three-fingered man. He had tasted the air and known there was someone hiding in the forest. Did he know she was here now?
Almost too afraid to move, Ylva lowered her hand to the axe at her belt. Her insides were like water, but she had to be strong. She couldn’t be afraid. She was Ylva the Fearless.
The pup was standing by the mouth of the cave, the leash taut behind him. He stood with his ears pricked forward and his nose to the air. The horse was a few paces away from him, pulling against his tether, stamping his feet and rolling his eyes in fear. Beside Ylva, Cathryn showed no sign of stirring from her sleep.
The snow was still falling as if it would bury all nine worlds.
Another howl met the first; the two voices twisting together like tendrils of greasy smoke. Then came a third and a fourth, knotting them into a chorus. The pup lost his nerve and trotted back to where Ylva was sitting with her breath held tight in her chest. He pressed against her, so she scooped him up and loosened his leash to put him inside her cloak.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Ylva whispered. ‘Don’t be afraid.’ She put her finger in the dirt at her feet and drew the same symbol Bron and Cathryn had painted on their horses.
She had no idea if it would help her, but she traced her finger around the shape several times as she gathered the courage to move. When she was ready, she crept over to the horse to settle it. She stroked his neck and spoke to him as the howling continued. ‘Just wolves,’ she said. ‘They’re just wolves.’
Ylva stayed with him like that until the sounds softened and faded and the forest was silent again.
28
Wolf-Warrior
The fire dwindled to just a few glowing embers. Ylva was afraid to leave the cave, though she would never admit that to herself, but as the night drew into the early hours of morning, the fire finally died and she was left with no choice. She secured the pup’s leash, then took her axe and spear and scrambled down the ledge into the closest trees to gather firewood. There was no wind. The forest was silent. The snow continued to fall in a dream.
Keeping to the bracken to disguise her tracks, Ylva collected an armful of good sticks. After she had piled them
at the base of the path up to the caves, she foraged a little deeper among the trees to find more. She needed enough to last until daylight.
The sound of wolves was still fresh in her mind, so she moved slowly and in near silence, but as she strayed further from the cave, she heard something else; something out of place.
Ylva dropped the bundle of sticks and hurried to a shadowy patch of dense bracken, where she got down on her knees. She closed her eyes and listened to the skiff and thump of horses moving through the snow.
‘We haven’t seen hide nor hair of them since we reached the river,’ a voice said. ‘Where did they go?’
‘All this snow isn’t helping. As soon as a track is laid down, it’s covered right up again.’
‘Shh. Keep your voices down.’
Ylva gripped her makeshift spear and scooted on to her belly. She let the snow begin to bury her.
‘We’re not giving up.’ This voice was muffled, but deep, like the rumble of wagon wheels. Ylva knew immediately who it was. ‘Don’t anybody suggest we give up.’
The three-fingered man came into view. Dressed head to toe in fur, he was a nightmare sitting atop his horse; a wolf-warrior riding into the world of the dead. The trees were dark skeletons against the stark whiteness of the snow, and the huge silhouette passed wraith-like among them. The horse wore thick leather armour to protect its head. Curved tusks protruded from either side of its muzzle, and it breathed out steam with each blustering breath. It was as if a fire burnt deep inside it.
Behind it, four other fur-clad riders emerged from the forest, moving in single file. They were no more than twenty paces from where Ylva was lying.
‘We’re chasing our tails out here.’ A woman’s voice this time. The one who had stolen Mother’s locket.
‘They’re here somewhere.’ The three-fingered man spoke again. To Ylva’s ears, it was the voice of a demon. Deep and smooth, and softer than it ought to be.
‘We haven’t seen anything since the river. We could be looking in the wrong place.’
‘No. They’re here.’ The three-fingered man steadied his stallion and turned his head this way and that as he rode by.
Ylva held her breath; afraid he would catch her scent. She gripped the spear in her fist and felt such deep anger that she wanted to leap from the shadows and scream her battle cry as she had screamed at the bear. She had fought that beast, so why not this one? She could take her spear and run at the three-fingered man, driving the fire-hardened point into his chest. Bron’s arrows had killed these warriors, so why not her spear?
‘We’ll split up.’ As he spoke, the three-fingered man turned in Ylva’s direction, and she was looking at a monster. ‘We’ll find them.’ He wore a thick leather helmet with a nosepiece, and holes cut into the shape of wolf’s eyes for him to see. Another piece of leather was fixed around the lower half of his face, covering his mouth, with the half-skull design painted on to it.
Now was the time.
Finish this. Kill him and be done.
But she didn’t move. She couldn’t do it alone. All she could do was watch the three-fingered man pass in front of her, moving between the trees, and vanish into the darkness.
29
Geri and Freki
‘I saw him,’ Ylva whispered when she was back at Cathryn’s side. ‘I went for firewood and saw the three-fingered man. He was right there in the woods. Him and four others. He’s still looking for us.’ She poked a stick at what was left of the fire. ‘I think it’s best to leave this for now. In case they come back.’
Cathryn opened her eyes and watched Ylva.
‘I had my spear. He was right there. I could’ve killed him. I’m sure I could’ve. If only I’d . . . Ugh!’ Ylva threw the stick aside in anger. ‘I failed Mother. I should’ve avenged her right then.’
‘Five warriors,’ Cathryn said. ‘If you’d attacked, you would’ve got yourself killed.’
‘But I could’ve got him. If I died it wouldn’t matter. I don’t care about me.’ She brought the wolf pup to her and held him in her lap.
‘I don’t believe that. I believe you’re a survivor, child, that’s why you’re still here.’ Cathryn shivered. ‘You didn’t attack him because you wouldn’t have survived, and that wouldn’t do, would it? For him to live and you to die?’
Ylva stared into the fire. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’
‘Uh-huh. Or maybe it’s something else altogether, Ylva the Fearless. You’re letting the fire die, so you must be afraid he’ll come back.’
‘Afraid? I’m not afraid, I’m—’
‘Concerned. I know.’ Cathryn turned her head to face the ceiling of the cave. ‘Did you hear the wolves?’
‘I did.’ Ylva took a strip of dried fish from the bag and offered it to Cathryn.
Cathryn glanced at it and shook her head. Ylva didn’t feel like she could stomach anything, either, but she knew it was important to feed herself. She took a bite and forced herself to chew.
‘And you know it’s not him howling, don’t you?’ Cathryn said. ‘That he can’t turn into a wolf, and he isn’t possessed by a wolf spirit.’
Ylva swallowed as a thought occurred to her. ‘But if the three-fingered man is Ulfhednar, then maybe the wolves are helping him.’
‘Child, I’ve been to many places and seen many things, but nothing has ever convinced me that magic is real. And even if Ulfhednar are real, the half-skulls are not them. I’ve already told you; they’re just men, and Bron’s arrows killed them dead enough. Remember that whenever you have any doubts.’
‘Do you promise?’
‘Yes.’
Ylva looked to the mouth of the cave and into the darkness of the forest. ‘How far to Seatun?’
‘A few hours’ ride.’ Cathryn closed her eyes.
‘Then we should leave as soon as it’s light.’ Ylva tore off a piece of fish with her teeth and offered it to the pup. He sniffed it then tugged it from her fingers and swallowed it in one gulp. ‘You’re hungry.’ She gave him another piece, and when he’d finished, she put her hand on the soft fur between his ears. The pup waited for more food, trying to lick her hand, but when it didn’t come, he sniffed and buried his muzzle under her arm. Ylva lifted him up and put her face against the side of his head. His smell wasn’t exactly like Geri’s, but it was similar enough to bring a flood of memories. ‘Do you think she’s going to be all right?’ she whispered in the pup’s ear.
‘I’m stabbed, not deaf.’ Cathryn half opened her eyes. A smile broke her lips and she started to chuckle. It was a low, throaty sound.
‘What’s funny?’ Ylva asked.
‘Chased all over Midgard by a horde of half-skulls and I fall on my own knife.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘If I didn’t laugh, child, I’d cry. And you know what else is funny? You and that pup. I think you just about deserve each other.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means each of you is as sorry-looking as the other. Wild and alone and halfway to being fierce.’
‘I’m not alone; you’re here. And I have the pup.’ Ylva put him in her lap and held him there despite his complaints. ‘I’ll call him Freki,’ she said. ‘Odin has two wolves, Geri and Freki.’
‘I know. And I understand why you want to keep him, but your dog was not a wolf, and that pup is not his brother. It’s a wild animal and it will never be yours. It won’t replace Geri.’
‘No.’ Ylva allowed Freki to wriggle free and run to the end of his leash. ‘Nothing could ever replace Geri.’
‘And he doesn’t deserve to be collared like a slave.’
‘He’s not a slave,’ Ylva said. ‘He’s my friend.’
‘Perhaps you should let him decide that.’
30
Don’t Look Back
Cathryn slept through most of the day, fever slowly consuming her. She mumbled in her troubled sleep, and her body shook as if spirits were fighting over it.
From time to time Yl
va walked to the cave entrance and looked across the forest, knowing that the three-fingered man was out there somewhere. Relighting the fire was a risk, but the longer she waited, the more they needed warmth. Cathryn especially. Ylva put it off as long as she dared, hoping that Cathryn would improve and that they could leave for Seatun, but the woman’s condition only worsened. Growing more afraid for Cathryn than she was of what might lie hidden among the trees, Ylva finally rekindled the fire and kept the flames burning low. What little smoke there was rose to the cave roof and dispersed before drifting out through the entrance. There was hardly any trace of it in the grey light of day.
As the cave warmed, Ylva checked Cathryn was still breathing. She lifted the woman’s blanket and pulled up the hem of her tunic. When she untied the bandage and looked at the injury, she didn’t like what she saw. The blood had stopped but the area around the wound was angry.
‘This is bad.’
The wolf pup, Freki, lifted his head and pricked up his ears at the sound of her voice.
‘Yes,’ Ylva told him. ‘It’s very bad.’
Freki sniffed the air, then rested his head on his front paws and watched her, eyebrows twitching.
‘Ylva.’ Cathryn reached for Ylva’s hand, taking her by surprise. ‘There’s nothing . . .’ Cathryn took a moment to catch her breath, ‘nothing you can do for me now. Go to Seatun and find Bron. He’ll take you somewhere safe.’
‘Without you?’
‘This isn’t getting better, Ylva. I’m dying. I feel it.’
‘No.’ Ylva shook her head and pulled away from her. ‘I won’t leave you.’
‘There’s no use you waiting here to watch me die.’ Cathryn closed her eyes again. She was quiet for so long Ylva thought she’d fallen asleep. ‘Get to Seatun. Find Bron. He’ll keep you safe.’