by Angus Watson
They walked towards Beaver Man. Finnbogi recognised his entourage as the men who’d come bounding across the rocks with him. They were dressed now, in leather trousers and cotton shirts. It was a relief not to have to avoid staring at their marvellously muscled torsos. The one with sheep horns was still wearing them. They actually looked like they were part of his head, and, as they got closer, Finnbogi could that the skin around them was inflamed and pus was oozing from the gap between horn and head, as if they were a part of his body that his body didn’t want.
The rest of Beaver Man’s Owsla were a regular-faced, strong-jawed, flinty-eyed lot. The Calnian Owsla had been picked for their looks as much as their skills. It looked like these men had been picked with the same criteria in mind. They regarded Finnbogi and Freydis with a mix of disinterest and contempt.
Beaver Man watched the Wootah approach, a weary smile on his strangely shining face.
“Greetings, Finn and Freydis. Has your stay been pleasant?”
“I made friends with a bobcat,” said Freydis.
“That’s good.”
“Hugin and Munin didn’t like it much.”
“Racoons and bobcats are rarely friends. Now come over here, please, both of you. Don’t be shy. Why don’t you take a seat in front of me?” He gestured to a space on the bench at his feet, then to the men around him. “These are my friends, I’d introduce them but they’re not a chatty lot and you won’t know them for long. Ah! Here comes the next display. You’re lucky, this is going to be a good one.”
Finnbogi and Freydis sat on the lowest bench. Were they here just to watch the battles with Beaver Man? Finnbogi dared to wonder.
Walking out onto the arena floor was a man with a spider box like theirs on his neck, armed with a stone axe very much like Finnbogi’s. Finnbogi nearly slapped his forehead when he realised he should have asked Sofi for his sword back. Surely she would have given it to him? He guessed he’d never know.
“Stop there!” shouted Chapa Wangwa, when the man reached the centre.
The man turned slowly, arms out, weapon ready, chin jutting, lips pouted. He had the puffed-out chest and permanent, half-nervous, half-threatening smile of a man who’s managed to convince himself he’s superb even though, deep down, suppressed but always niggling, he knows that he’s not.
He caught sight of Beaver Man, took a few paces towards him and shouted: “I am Grunyan! Father of a murdered son, son of a murdered father and more man than any of you freaks! Send whoever you like at me, and I will send them to walk in the fields of the gods!”
“This Grunyan guy is awful,” said Beaver Man quietly, leaning forward so only Finnbogi and Freydis could hear. “His tribe actually begged my catch squad to take him. He told us about his murdered son and father before his first fight, which intrigued me, so I let him live and had a word with some of the others that we took from his tribe. They took great glee in telling me how dreadful he was, and that he’s never had any children, murdered or otherwise, and that both his parents were alive and apparently overjoyed to see the back of him. I’ve let him win a few fights since because it’s amusing to see him become ever more bombastic. We gave him two elderly coyotes yesterday. After he’d dodged their worn-out claws and smashed their thin skulls, he leapt about like a bird in springtime. It’s a shame you won’t get to see his victory dance, since I’ve had enough of him and today he will lose.”
Perhaps, thought Finnbogi, Beaver Man had seen that he had an interesting and enquiring mind and he wanted to talk to him, not to watch him die. That would explain why he hadn’t taken an Owsla or one of the tougher Wootah. On the other hand, this was the fellow who’d cheerily crushed a man to death …
“Have you wondered what the holes in the ground are?” Beaver Man continued.
“I have.”
“Me, too,” added Freydis.
“Good. It’s important to be inquisitive. Keep your eye on that one over there,” Beaver Man pointed to a hole at the edge of the arena.
A moment later a head poked out. At first glance Finnbogi thought it was a buffalo calf, given its size, but it kept coming and he saw it was a snake; an abso-fucking-lutely enormous snake.
The green, black-spotted body that slithered out after the head was nearly half the girth of the hole. It stopped after five paces, with Loakie knew how much of its body still underground, and slipped a long, black, forked tongue from its lipless mouth. The tongue flicked up and down as the great head weaved from side to side. Extending towards Grunyan in the middle of the arena, the tongue flicked all the more, then the snake set off towards him, more and more of its horrible body emerging from the underworld.
Freydis pressed against Finnbogi. He put his arm round her and gripped her tight.
Grunyan turned as if to run, but then seemed to check himself. He turned back to wait for the snake, bouncing from toe to toe, a strange mix of confidence and terror twisting his face.
“Marvellous animal, isn’t it?” enthused Beaver Man. “Its ancestors came from the endless forest, many miles to the south. They were docile creatures and not venomous. Armed with a stone axe in an open area, your average adult—even this idiot Grunyan—could have killed one. But this animal’s predecessors had much alchemy worked on them, combining their essence with an altogether nastier and more venomous snake. We call the result a rattleconda.”
The rattleconda was finally clear of its hole. Its freshly emerged tail was the least appealing part of the whole appalling animal. It was like a giant, segmented maggot. As if the snake knew just how loathsome it was, it lifted the hefty protuberance and shook it. The deep but melodious rattle made the hairs on the back of Finnbogi’s neck stand and shiver. Freydis squeaked and huddled closer.
It slithered across the arena. It sounded like it was hissing, but Finnbogi realised it was the sound of the heavy body sliding along the soft, bare rock. On the other side of the arena, Finnbogi noticed two Empty Children on bighorn sheep who had their heads tilted towards the snake as if controlling it.
Grunyan tossed his axe from hand to hand.
The rattleconda reared, towering above the man. It opened its mouth wide to reveal two long, thin fangs.
Freydis pushed her head into Finnbogi’s chest and covered her eyes.
The snake struck.
Grunyan roared and swung his axe, but the snake dodged the blow and clamped its mouth around the man’s head. With eye-defying speed, it coiled its strong body around him. The mud-green, black-spotted body pulsed ever tighter. The animal opened its mouth and reared above its encircled prey, revealing his head.
Grunyan was purple and panting. The snake tightened. Panting became choking, then a high-pitched groan as his skin darkened and his red eyes bulged from his head.
“That’s interesting,” said Beaver Man. “The snake hasn’t bitten him yet. It’s playing with its catch. Or perhaps it’s showing off for our benefit. I like that. A show-off being killed by a show-off.”
“But aren’t the Empty Children over there controlling the snake?” asked Finnbogi.
“No. They encouraged him from his hole then let him go. They can control him, and will do if he attacks the crowd, but the rattlecondas seem to understand that they’re meant to go for the person in the arena and not the spectators. I don’t think it’s any great intelligence on behalf of the snakes, simply a choice between something that looks like their natural, easy prey and something that probably seems to them like a bizarre animal with dozens of heads and limbs. As your Gunnhild might say, nothing is as frightening as the unknown.”
Grunyan’s head shook and Finnbogi thought he must be dead, but his eyes swivelled to follow the snake’s head as it lowered again. The rattleconda opened its jaws. Its fangs were dripping with a clear substance that could have been saliva or poison, or both.
With a quick bob, the snake punctured the very top of Grunyan’s skull with one fang. A thin but powerful jet of blood bloomed skyward then fell like red rain, spattering lightly off man a
nd serpent.
“How can we consider ourselves superior to animals,” said Beaver Man, “when they can produce something so enchanting?”
Slowly the snake lowered its head and the plume of blood splashed off its fangs and face until Grunyan’s head was inside its mouth again. Coils sloughed off the victim’s shoulders, the jaw opened ever wider, and moments later Grunyan’s upper torso was inside the snake. The animal uncoiled completely, reared up and swallowed. Grunyan jerked headfirst down into its convulsing throat. The rattleconda’s body bulged.
Slowly, convulsing to shift its meal ever further down its length, the rattleconda lay down and slithered back to its hole. The lump, perhaps a third of the way down its body, bulged as if Grunyan was trying to kick and push his way out.
“Is he …” asked Finnbogi.
“Alive? It would seem so,” nodded Beaver Man, “and trying to escape. One man with a very sharp flint knife did manage to cut his way out once at this stage. He tried to charge, presumably at me with murder on his mind. However, I assume he was blinded by the snake’s gut juices, because he ran the wrong way, fell over and lay screaming as his skin melted. The snake died, too, but the lesson there is that there is corrosive liquid inside the snake, so you want to beat it before it swallows you.”
They watched the rattleconda disappear into its lair.
“It is over?” asked Freydis, her eyes still hidden.
“It is for Grunyan. The suffering of the people who had to put up with him is over, too,” said the young leader of the Badlanders. “A glorious day so far. Now it’s your turn.”
“My turn?” Freydis was wide-eyed.
“And Finn’s. You’ll face a rattleconda, too. Not this one, obviously. It won’t be hungry for weeks. There are plenty more, though.”
“Can we fight an elderly coyote instead please?” asked Freydis. “I don’t fancy our chances against a rattleconda.”
“You might beat it. You’d be the first, but it is theoretically possible, and I have given you clues. Do you know, I almost want you to win?”
Beaver Man looked over their heads. “Chapa Wangwa, call a rattleconda!”
Chapter 6
Finnbogi the Brave
“Please can Freydis have a weapon?” Finnbogi the Boggy asked Beaver Man.
“Why?”
“If she’s armed, she’ll go to the Hall of a god called Tor when she dies. Otherwise, she’ll go to a children’s Hall. She’d like to be with me. And I’d like to look after her.”
Beaver Man sat up a little straighter. “Tell me about this Tor,” he said to Finnbogi, and, louder, to everyone listening, “and someone find a knife for the girl.”
Finnbogi explained Tor as best he could and, following further probes from Beaver Man, he told him about the gods’ Halls, about Oaden, Loakie, Fraya, Balder, Slepnear, Hel and the whole lot of them.
To begin with, Finnbogi was very aware that he was extending the time before being swallowed alive by a giant snake, but then he began to enjoy himself, making the tales as interesting as possible and putting on voices for the characters.
It took a while. Beaver Man’s Owsla fidgeted. Chapa Wangwa interrupted several times to say that the rattleconda was ready, but each time Beaver Man held up a finger to silence him. When some of the spectators made to leave he instructed Chapa Wangwa to encourage them to stay or face a rattleconda themselves.
After a good long while, Freydis said, “This is boring, can we just get on with the snake?”
Beaver Man looked a little surprised, but said: “Hmmm. I like your stories, Finnbogi. I’m going to cut you a break.”
“Yes?” Finnbogi was not surprised. He couldn’t believe that someone as interesting, interested and, frankly, cool as Beaver Man was really going to order their deaths. The whole morning had surely been a ruse to scare them a little before Beaver Man asked Finn to be his friend.
“Freydis, will you go over there and stand next to Chapa Wangwa, please?”
Freydis did as she was told.
Beaver Man lowered his voice, so only Finnbogi could hear. “Either you and Freydis can face a rattleconda together, you with your axe and her with a knife …” Beaver Man looked at the sky, stroking his smooth chin.
Was Beaver Man going to ask Finnbogi to be his permanent storyteller? Or maybe to join him in his dwellings for a long, drunken lunch?
“Or Freydis goes back to the rest of them and you fight two rattlecondas on your own, unarmed.”
“… What?”
“I said Freydis goes back to the rest of them and you take on two rattlecondas, unarmed.”
“So I can die with Freydis or die alone. That’s my choice?”
“The first choice—with Freydis and a weapon—gives you a chance. You may be able to strike the rattleconda while it’s eating her.”
“I thought you liked my stories?”
“I do, but I’m interested to see which choice you take, and I’m certain that Gunnhild Kristlover knows your tribes’ tales at least as well as you do.”
Finnbogi looked at the calm, confident, superbly healthy chief, then at sweet Freydis with her questioning, equally confident blue eyes. She might be a wise little thing, wiser than Finnbogi it often seemed, but she was still just a six-year-old girl.
“You’re a dick,” he told Beaver Man.
“Yes. I’ve been told that before,” the chief replied.
Erik the Angry paced. He was near tears and he felt sick. They’d taken his son off to his death and there was nothing he could do about it! He wanted to pick up rocks and hurl them, and had in fact tried that for a while. It had helped a little, but he’d become self-conscious. So he stood, desperately trying to think of a way to rescue his son and to escape.
As always, the Empty Children on bighorns were watching, on a flat-topped outcrop to the north, stark before the pure blue sky. Their blank gaze somehow managed to say that they knew what he was thinking, and that he shouldn’t even think about trying it.
“Easy for me to say, difficult for you to do,” said Wulf the Fat, walking up, “but you shouldn’t worry yourself into a hole. Finn’s cannier than he makes out.”
“Is he?”
The head of the Hird shrugged. “Possibly. Freydis definitely is. They’ll come back. But we have to get out of here before they take any more of us.”
Erik had the beginnings of a glimmer of a plan, and had started to make wooden disks that could, possibly, be pushed between spiders and skin to prevent bites. But he had no idea whether it would be possible to slot them in before the spiders bit and he hadn’t yet mustered the courage to try.
He’d voiced his idea to Wulf, Sofi Tornado and Yoki Choppa the night before, hoping they might build on it. The problem was that he’d never been much good with animals like spiders. He’d once controlled bees, he told them, but it had taken him several moons to get them simply to fly from one hive to another on command. To beat the spiders, he needed greater control. Unfortunately, Chapa Wangwa knew when he was trying to communicate with the spiders, had burned him for it and threatened to pop both his and Freydis’s eyes with a heated arrow if he tried it again.
He’d asked if Yoki Choppa had any way of enhancing his animal ability.
“No,” the warlock had replied.
So that had been a disappointment.
He stood with Wulf, looking along the path that Freydis and Finnbogi had taken, bouncing on his toes with frustration.
“Erik, Wulf?” They turned. It was Sofi Tornado. She looked over her shoulder. There was nobody else nearby. “Working together, using your wooden plates, we may be able to beat the spiders. However, if either of you tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, I’ll kill you. Understand?”
Erik and Wulf looked at each other, then nodded.
“Good. It’s not much, but it might be enough.” She looked around once more then said: “I can tell when the spiders are asleep.”
“How?” asked Wulf.
Finnbogi the Boggy
walked out to the centre of the arena alone, feeling naked without his stone axe. Some of the spectators regarded him with mild interest, others were talking to each other.
Nam Cigam had saved Wulf from the white bear, so Finnbogi scanned the crowds for the reverser warlock. He was nowhere to be seen.
The yellow-eyed woman he’d knocked unconscious when they’d been captured and who’d come on to him at the crazy snake party was, however, sitting on her own in the middle of one of the lower rock-cut benches. She waved at him as if they were friends. She wasn’t good looking as such, but she was a woman between the ages of fifteen and forty and she wasn’t repulsive, so nineteen-year-old Finnbogi fancied her. He’d knocked her back at the party only because he was drugged up and terrified, and because Thyri would have found out.
She was hardly the gang of cheering beauties he’d hoped for, but she would have to do. Now all he had to do was impress her by winning, unarmed, against two enormous, venomous serpents.
A snake’s head emerged from a hole on the far side of the arena. The horrific creature slithered out about half its length and went through the tongue flicking routine.
“Behind you!” cried the yellow-eyed woman.
Finnbogi swung round. A second rattleconda was coming at him, mouth open, fangs dripping with poisonous saliva.
Sofi Tornado heard the Calnian warriors returning with Freydis, but not Finnbogi.
They wouldn’t come into sight for a while, so there was no point in telling Erik that his son hadn’t returned. It wouldn’t help him, she didn’t want to reveal more about her hearing than she already had and, besides, she had a conversation to finish.
As Erik and Wulf talked on, developing their far from satisfactory plan, Sofi mused on the danger and strangeness of knowledge. She knew that Erik was about to be deeply unhappy. He didn’t. It was an odd one.
“The girl’s coming back,” she said, “without Finnbogi.” She wasn’t sure why, but it seemed he deserved to know.
Erik ran to the perimeter line to meet her.