‘You are ill, traveller,’ said the Raven. He looked around him. ‘This is your god’s house but he is not here for you. My fellow, yes, my fellow, he waits in the dark where he has always waited. Here, quench your thirst.’
He passed the confessor a cup. The water in it smelled familiar, though Jehan’s thoughts were too disordered to recognise it. He swallowed it down.
His thirst was not quenched. He wanted only one thing. Blood. He looked at the Raven and knew what he needed to do. He stood. He had the sword in his hand. The Raven stood. Jehan tried to lift his hand to strike but the sword wouldn’t move. His arm would not obey his command.
‘This place wants death,’ said the Raven, ‘and it seems it wants yours.’ He pushed Jehan in the middle of the chest and the monk fell back. Jehan was lying on the floor, the smell of blood filling his mind. He was coughing. He put his hand to his mouth. A black ooze was at his lips. The cup had been poisoned. He had known the taste if only his mind had been functioning well enough to recognise it. And yet the feeling had begun long before he’d drunk the poison.
‘You have killed me.’
‘Not yet,’ said the Raven, ‘not yet.’
Jehan looked up at the scarred mess of the sorcerer’s face and finally recognised it. He had not looked in a mirror since he was seven years old, but there in front of him, thinner, eaten and torn by ritual and privation, scarred and misshapen, was his own face looking back at him.
Jehan collapsed and the Raven took him by the arms and dragged him to the crypt.
38
The Wolfstone
Prince Helgi the Prophet lay sweating in his bed. The khagan had a problem. He needed to be a bulwark for his people, a rock on which they could depend, so by day he presented a front, was bluff and cheerful, indulged in the drinking games and allowed his warriors to let him win the contests of strength and speed. But at night, in sleep, he had no such control over himself. He cried out in the dark, and his cries were cries of panic. The Norsemen were not a private people: they slept in their longhouses side by side, children, men and women all packed in together. Soon his night terrors were the stuff of marketplace gossip; they undermined him in his dealings with his druzhina, and he heard it whispered that Ingvar’s party were using them to foment trouble against him.
It was as if his fear of the god’s prophecy — that Ingvar would rule — was itself making that prophecy come true.
The rabble of soothsayers and magicians was still around him, living off his coin, but Helgi put no faith in any of them. He went again to the temple of Svarog, into its dark lodge, breathed in the burning herbs, endured the darkness and the waiting, but nothing came, just visions of Svava, watching him, always watching him. He needed more.
He found himself unreasonably irritated with the normal night-time sounds of his hall — a child crying, a mother soothing it, a couple kissing and caressing, an old man snoring and farting — and went outside to look up at the deep stars. He would conquer everything under them, he thought, if only that awful prophecy didn’t hang over his head like an enemy’s axe.
‘You need to take the girl from Paris.’
A voice. Helgi looked around him. There was no one, just the shadows under the lee of the hall roof.
‘Who is this?’
‘A friend.’
It was as if the shadows unwrapped, and the wolfman stepped forward, tall, dark, his face drawn but his limbs strong, the great wolf’s pelt about him, its jaws over his head as if devouring it.
‘I can bring her here. I can convince her. My destiny is entwined with hers. It has been revealed to me.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Sindre, called Myrkyrulf.’
‘You are a sorcerer?’
‘Of a sort.’
‘How much are you looking for?’
‘I don’t want silver; I need something greater than treasures from you.’
‘What?’
‘Your promise. The one-eyed god is coming to earth and we must prevent it.’
Helgi swallowed. The man seemed to know about Loki’s prophecy, but the god had revealed it no one, and no magician had even come close to guessing it so far.
‘What promise?’
‘You must keep her safe. You must find a place of safety for her.’
‘That is my wish, but I cannot get to her.’
‘I can.’
‘So why do you need me?’
‘Because it is my destiny to die at the hands of my brother. I can bring the girl here, I am sure, but her ongoing protection must be someone else’s responsibility.’
‘Who is your brother?’
‘The sorcerer called the Raven. This has been revealed to me.’
‘By who?’
‘By my mother.’
‘Who is your mother?’
‘A slave from the north. Her name is Saitada and she is a wide-seeing woman and an enemy of the hanged god.’
‘What do you know of the one-eyed god. Of Odin?’
‘I am his enemy.’
‘Is he coming to earth?’
‘We can prevent him.’
‘How?’
The wolfman touched his own neck. A pebble hung there, a common grey stone with the crude etching of a wolf’s head upon it.
‘This is a gift of Loki, the enemy of the gods. It stops magic, silences runes. To come here she will need her magic to defend herself. Once she is here, she must wear this, the Wolfstone. The wolf will not find her while she wears it. You will be able to get her to a place of safety.’
‘Why will she not go to a place of safety without it? Does she seek death?’
‘She doesn’t, but the runes do. And she is pursued. There is another woman who carries the runes. She seeks the lady’s death and is very capable of causing it. She and her brother — Hugin and Munin, strong sorcerers as I know to my cost — are servants of Odin.’
‘I have heard of them.’
‘I have fought them, but I cannot risk too much. It is my brother’s destiny to kill me. This stone has been my protection.’
‘Keep your stone. I have had enough of charms,’ said Helgi.
‘My mother is skilled in Seid magic and used this stone for many years to protect herself from witches. Put this on her, and you and she will be safe from the runes. The god cannot come together on earth. Ask yourself why I should lie about this when I have spoken so much truth about everything else.’
Helgi looked at the man and believed him. He knew so much; he wanted no reward; he had come unseen past the town’s guards. All this was reason to accept what he said, but there was more: Helgi wanted the wolfman to be speaking the truth, so he decided that he was. ‘The destiny will be prevented?’ Helgi thought of Ingvar marching at the head of his army.
‘This is my hope.’
‘What do you need to get to Paris?’
‘Only a guide,’ said the wolfman.
‘I will give you my strongest men.’
‘Let me travel quietly,’ said the wolfman. ‘To conquer Paris and take the girl you would need ten thousand warriors. Better to send none at all than too few. We are to take the girl by stealth. I need only a guide, a little man who can go to an inn and buy food for me without sparking comment.’
It was then that Helgi had thought of the merchant who had come to him petitioning for a loan to help buy a cargo that he was certain could earn the prince ten times his outlay. Helgi had sent him from his hall. The man had been unlucky in business and the khagan thought it might be catching. But Leshii the silk man would do, he thought, for men came scarcely any littler than he.
Helgi had a question before granting the wolfman even a dog to guide him: ‘If you are certain of death, then why do you try to save the girl? You will not be here for her.’
‘Because I have died for her before. It is my destiny to do so. It is the nature of my bond to her. And if the god fails to come to earth, perhaps his spell will be broken and when we live again…’ he seemed brief
ly lost for words ‘… we can live unremarkable lives.’
‘It is a blessing to be a hero,’ said Helgi.
‘I have not found it so,’ said the wolfman.
Helgi held out his hand. ‘The stone. I will need it if it is as you say, and the magic inside this girl can work independently of her will.’
‘No,’ said the wolfman. ‘I will need it to fight the forces that are against me.’
‘So how will it come to me?’
‘We have a powerful god working for us in Loki. This is his gift. If he wants you to have it, as I believe he will, then the stone will make its way to you.’
Helgi did not know what to believe but he was certain of one thing. The wolfman seemed confident he could recover the lady from Paris, and the prince would only have to risk the life of one failing merchant to let him try.
39
Song Everlasting
Water and darkness. Cold and noise. A voice singing. Singing? Jehan could see nothing. He was pinioned to something, tied with his hands behind his back, up to his chest in cold water. Someone next to him was singing. Plainsong. The words seemed curiously muted, a tight little echo that spoke of a low roof.
‘You will not fear the terror of the night,
Nor the arrow that flies by day,
Nor the plague that prowls in the darkness,
Nor the scourge that lays waste at noon.’
The voice was tremulous, the notes uneven, but Jehan could tell it had been trained in the monkish practice. The song was a psalm. He felt so strange he couldn’t tell if he was dreaming or awake.
‘Who is here?’ said Jehan.
The sensation of hunger was no duller in him. He spat. The taste in his mouth was vile. Poison. Yes, he had been poisoned. He recalled the Vikings in the warming house. The poison on their lips had not killed them — they had been asphyxiated by the smoke. The thought came and went like a footprint in the sand, washed away by the cold tide of hunger.
One voice stopped singing and said, ‘Brothers Paul and Simon. Who are you?’
‘Brother Jehan, of Saint-Germain.’ It was as if he was shouting his name over a high wind. He felt tormented, almost unable to think.
‘The confessor of Paris?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you come to save us?’
‘I cannot save you.’
The song of the man on his right continued:
‘A thousand may fall at your side,
Ten thousand fall at your right,
You, it will never approach,
His faithfulness is buckler and shield.’
‘Are you strong enough to sing, brother? We must keep the song going. This abomination has befallen us because we allowed it to stop.’
Jehan couldn’t reply. He moved his leg. Something bobbed against it.
‘We are to die,’ said the monk. ‘Thank God for the gift of our martyrdom.’ His words were brave but his voice was quaking. Jehan could tell the man was cold. Jehan was cold too, very cold.
‘Where are we?’
‘In the lower cave, at Christ’s well.’
The song went on:
‘See how the wicked are repaid,
You who have said, “Lord, my refuge!”’
‘Where is that?’
‘There is a tunnel from the crypt. It drops to here, a holy well beneath the earth. The Norsemen slaughtered us without pity. It is polluted now.’
Something else bobbed against the confessor’s arm. Something else too, tickling his hands. Weed? No, there was a solid form behind it. Jehan grasped it and felt around with his fingers. He ran them across something hard and smooth, a semicircle of ridges and bumps. Then he let go. What he had in his hand was hair, he realised, and they were teeth he felt with his fingers.
‘Can you move?’ said Jehan.
‘No. Are you not tied?’
‘I am tied.’
‘Then it is useless. He will be waiting for us. He means us to die here.’
Jehan swallowed. He was trembling too. The song to his right faltered.
He strained forward and coughed. Something was at his neck. A noose. He tried to work it free by twisting his head but that only made things worse. It was tight now, not crushing his windpipe, not even cutting off his blood, but he knew that any more struggling could kill him.
And then he saw it — a light coming towards him. It was a candle. Surely some of the monks had survived; surely some of the Vikings would become sick of waiting and break in. He saw where he was — a pool in a natural cavern, its ceiling an arm’s reach above his head. Three big pillars of limestone sank from the roof into the water, and it was to these that the men had been bound. To his right was the singing monk, spluttering out the words of the psalm. To his left another, fatter monk. Both men were chattering and shaking with the cold.
All around them, the bodies floated or hung in the water, pale as dead fish in a pond, their human juices, blood, shit and piss, voided from the body by death, turning the pool to a stinking soup. The monks had been murdered, no doubt — some by the sword, some by the nooses tied with three close-fitting knots.
The Raven put down the candle by the edge of the pool. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This terror is… required.’
‘Unclean thing,’ said Jehan, ‘abomination, sorcerer-’ The rope dug into his neck, choking him. ‘I am not afraid of you.’
The Raven smiled at him but there was no humour in his eyes.
‘It is not your terror the god wants. He looks for mine. These…’ he searched for a word but could not find one, so he used the confessor’s ‘… these abominations are not my inclination. Do not mistake me for the Roman who gloried in torture.’
Jehan tried to speak but could only cough.
The Raven continued: ‘We will both have what we want, monk. I will have my vision and you will be a martyr. When they find you they’ll make some rare art to commemorate this death. The pilgrims will wear medallions for you, no doubt.’
‘I-’
Jehan couldn’t speak.
The Raven sat down at the water’s edge. He rocked backwards and forwards intoning a chant quite different to the plainsong of the monks. This was low, guttural, and its metre pattered and stuttered, raced and paused in a dizzying tumble of Norse words.
‘Fenrisulfr,
Pinioned and bound,
Wolf, ravenous and tortured,
Great eater,
Godbane and blight,
I will suffer as you suffer.
For my agony
Insight,
For my terror
A vision…
The chant went on and on, the plainsong rising above it. The monk to his right failed and the other took up the recitation. The psalms had been sung every day in that place for hundreds of years. For what? thought Jehan. To keep this horror at bay. Had this abomination lain unfed for so long because the monks had kept to their vigil?
The cold numbed him, the chants made his head feel like a ripe fig, straining to split its skin. Do you know what they did to me? Do you know what they did? There was a voice in his ear full of rage and hatred. He was in a different place. Or rather it was the same place but changed. There was no pool at all. The room was dry, in fact parched. His nostrils stung and his tongue seemed cased in sand. Around the pillar to his right wound a great serpent, gold, red and green, dripping venom from its lips. It stretched up over his head, curled about the pillar that secured him and down the pillar to his left. On that, pinioned like him, was an extraordinary sight.
A tall pale man with a shock of red hair was screaming as the serpent dripped venom into his eyes. His skin was red raw where the venom burned it, his hair singed to patches, his eyes dark as liver, his lips black and charred. Acrid steam issued from the flesh as the venom trickled and seared.
‘Can you not free me, my son?’ The voice was imploring, between a sob and a scream.
‘I am tied myself.’ Suddenly Jehan’s thinking was clear.
‘They tied you like they tied me, the gods of darkness and slaughter.’
‘Can we get out?’
‘We will get out. It is foreseen.’
‘Where is the Raven? Where is that creature?’ Jehan shouted.
‘Gone.’
‘He deserves death.’
‘He is death’s servant. He serves the god in the noose.’
For the first time in his life Jehan felt afraid. This thing in front of him was in torment but it had a presence that seemed to make the air heavy around it. An awful thought came to him: This is hell. His pride had undone him and he had been sent to the lake of fire. ‘You are a devil,’ he said, ‘and this is hell.’
‘Hell fears you, Fenrisulfr. Its halls tremble to hear your voice.’
‘Why do you call me that?’ The name seemed to resonate in his head like the bell of hours.
‘It is your name.’
‘Release me from this place, devil.’
‘Would you be free?’
‘I would be free.’
‘Then run free.’
Suddenly Jehan was choking again, drowning, back in the pool. Something was beside him in the dark, its great head lolling against him, its breath hot on his skin, the monstrous note of complaint and agony that issued from its throat threatening to burst his ears. The wolf was next to him, held down with bonds cruel and thin. Its agony consumed him, and he was no longer himself; he was the wolf, trying to stand, trying to breathe even, beneath the awful constriction of the vicious threads that held and cut him. He broke his bonds behind him and ripped at the noose around his neck with his fingers, tearing the rope to nothing.
Something at his side was in its death throes. The seductive beat of a failing heart, constricting veins and muscles, the shallow, frozen breath filled his mind. His body responded to it and he forced his way through the water to drink in the delicious rhythm of death, to take it in and express it like a dancer expresses music.
There was a great cry. It was so near that at first he thought it had come from himself. But it had not. It had come from the man lashed to the column of rock, the man dying under Jehan’s fingers and teeth. More noise, more howling. The other monk was screaming for him to stop. Jehan went to him and made him quiet.
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