Naylor tasted blood as the last beats of his prey’s heart sprayed its lifeblood over him as it fell.
He lifted his head to the night sky and roared.
* * *
The motor launch chugged away down the river. Behind them, the compound blazed in a red and gold mirror of the sunrise that was just beginning to creep over the hills behind the house.
Naylor closed his left eye, the human one, and marvelled at the rich colours.
He looked over at Lowe who lay against the gunwale, swathed in bandages from the boat’s first aid kit. “You look like hell,” Naylor said.
Lowe looked back at him. “You can talk,” he said.
Naylor smiled, feeling the unfamiliar length of the incisors on the right side of his mouth. He looked down at his paw: the black jaguar fur reached halfway up his bicep before giving way to human skin. But the changes didn’t stop there. His right eye was bright yellow with a slitted pupil, his right ear was pointed and wouldn’t keep still. It kept moving, searching out sounds on the riverbank.
“That was some mission,” McDowell called back from the wheelhouse.
“Yep,” Naylor replied. He hefted the rest of the skinwalker pelt he had taken from Ramirez’s body. “But I reckon they’re going to get a lot easier from now on.”
Skadi’s Wolves
Kirsten Cross
The English/Scottish border – 927AD
Dozens of unblinking eyes were watching every move Ælrik made. It was impossible to see the rest of their blue-stained faces in the shadows that clustered around the perimeter of the campfire. Only the whites of their eyes shone like malevolent stars in the darkness. The fire sent up greasy plumes of smoke, and every so often the resin that seeped out of the pine branches reached boiling point and erupted in a violent fizz and crack that sounded like condensed lightning. No matter how many times it happened, it never failed to make Ælrik flinch.
Flinching was something you didn’t want to do in front of the ‘Painted People’. These damn Picts saw any indication of fear as a sign of weakness – a sign that would instantly draw a violent and bloody response.
So the fact they were so frightened of what they called ‘Skadi’s Wolves’ that they were even talking to Ælrik, a soldier and messenger of the hated King Æthelstan, without hacking him to pieces in the process was all the more astonishing.
The warlord and his priest squatted opposite Ælrik and his companion, a tousle-haired Dane named Jurgen. The lad was only in his nineteenth year, but already he had the mind of a far wiser and more experienced statesman on his young shoulders. If he lived, he’d go far. If he lived. His sword-arm was strong too, and in these times of turmoil that was probably much more useful than all the pretty words any silver-tongued envoy could pour onto the unimpressed heads of the Painted People – heads that bristled with lime-hardened spikes of white hair. To Ælrik’s eyes they looked for all the world like hedgepigs that have rolled into a ball to defend themselves from the attentions of an over-curious wildcat.
The priest had spent the entire time muttering and drawing symbols into the dirt with a charred stick. His rotten teeth caused him to slur and stutter, but Jurgen could just about make out the guttural noises and interpret them into words. He translated the gibberish for Ælrik. “They come when the moon is full, he says.”
“Who do?”
“Skadi’s Wolves.”
“Yes, I keep hearing this name. Who is this Skadi? Is he some kind of warlord?”
Jurgen shook his head. “Skadi is an ice giantess. She is one of the most feared of all the northern queens. She is the one who punished Loki for his crimes.”
“Ah, right. So a myth, then.”
Jurgen snorted. “As real to me as your mythical Fisher of Men is to you, my friend.”
Ælrik rounded on the young Dane. “Blaspheme against the name of our Lord one more time and I’ll kill you myself, understand?”
“Your lord, Ælrik, not mine. Anyway, I thought you Christians were supposed to forgive us simple Pagans?” Jurgen raised an eyebrow. “And perhaps this is a conversation for another time and not one we should indulge in now?” He gave an almost impercievable nod towards the Picts and lowered his voice. “They’re nervous enough as it is of our presence, Ælrik. One wrong move and we could find ourselves skewered and roasting over this very fire. They eat people, you know. They really do.”
Ælrik snorted. “No they don’t, you young fool. But I agree that perhaps our spiritual debate can wait for another time. Continue.”
Jurgen shifted uncomfortably. The Picts may be happy to squat for hours in front of a fire, but he had become used to the relative comforts of the Berwick garrison and, in particular, cushions. “According to the priest, Skadi’s Wolves single out warriors. Anyone with a sword is fair game. They leave the villagers and farmers alone, unless, of course, they can’t find any warriors. Then they’ll feed on anyone they can run down.”
“So what we actually have is a bunch of Norsemen raiders, dressed as wolves and led by a woman, and spoiling for a fight.” Ælrik rolled his eyes. “Jurgen, you’re a soldier. Do you honestly believe this nonsense about ice queens and men that shapeshift into wolves?”
“Says the man who asks some dickless monk to give him absolution every holy day, and then promptly goes out the next day killing and slaughtering. Be wary of what you make jests towards, my friend.”
Ælrik stared open-mouthed at Jurgen. “You cannot possibly be telling me that you actually believe that some ice goddess–”
“Giantess.”
“Whatever. Some ice giantess is hunting down soldiers with a pack of slathering, demonic wolves? Can’t you see this is just a matter of simple campfire stories made up by a bunch of backward fools who still believe that painting their skin blue will make them invincible in battle?”
Jurgen shifted again. “Hush, man. Watch your tone. Our hosts may be ignorant, but they’re smart enough to know when you’re mocking them, even if it is in a language they don’t understand.” He twitched again, the merest of suggestions towards the warlord and his mumbling priest. The Picts scowled back. Ælrik held up an open hand in apology and indicated to the priest to continue.
Mumble, mutter, mumble. The priest scribbled in the dirt, the lines forming glyphs and symbols. Jurgen strained to see them and nodded. He pointed. “This one is Algiz – the rune of protection and concealment.”
“And that means?”
“It means we are dealing with a hidden enemy. An enemy that uses the darkness to hunt its victims. But tonight it also means that we, too, are protected by the clouds that conceal the moon. Without bathing in her shining light, the beasts cannot take on their true form.”
“So they can be killed when it’s a bit cloudy? You jest, surely!”
“This is no jest, my friend. These are not ordinary wolves.”
“Yes, I thought we’d already established that, Jurgen. These are not wolves at all! These are men dressed as wolves. And men, whether they wear the skin of a wolf, a bear or a flea-ridden alley-cat, I can kill.” Ælrik stood and gave a stiff bow to the Pict warlord. “Jurgen, tell them we thank them for their hospitality and their information. I will inform our commander that we have a rogue band of Norsemen wandering around the countryside, and we’ll hunt them down as we would a wild boar for a feast.” He bowed stiffly again and turned to walk away from the fire.
A hand rested on his shoulder and he spun back, the warrior instinct immediately kicking in, his sword half drawn from his scabbard before he’d finished turning. He stared straight into the cracking blue woad and wild eyes of the priest. The smell of rotting meat rolled forward in blasts from the decrepit old man’s mouth. Strands of putrid venison stuck between the stumps of his decayed teeth. The man’s breath could have knocked down Hadrian’s Wall itself.
“She comes. For you and your warriors. Her wolves come. They will devour you all!” The last words were snarled and filled with utter hatred. Damnation. The priest h
ad understood every word, the foul little runt! Ælrik was tempted to draw his sword from the last half of the scabbard and run the disgusting little man through. But if he did, he knew he’d get no more than three steps before the entire tribe of blue-painted lunatics would be on him and tearing him apart. He had enough to worry about knowing there was some rogue Norse raiding party wandering the countryside between here and Berwick garrison, without having a horde of angry Picts chasing them through the badlands as well.
He sheathed his sword slowly, making damn sure the priest could hear the metal sliding back into the scabbard and know just how close he’d come to feeling the cold kiss of English steel in his belly. His eyes never left the wild, staring orbs of the priest. White foam collected in the corners of the Priest’s mouth. The old man panted heavily, sending waves of foul breath washing over Ælrik. It was all the soldier could do to stop himself vomiting in the priest’s face. He glanced at the taloned hand of the priest that still gripped his shoulder, and then back to the Pict. His eyes narrowed and he snarled at the vile little man. “Unhand me. Now.” The authority in his voice – a voice used to giving orders – made the Pict retract his hand reluctantly and withdraw a pace. Ælrik could see him vibrating with anger, and sensed that the mood was spreading throughout the tribe. Angering a priest amongst these heathens was never a good move. The mood around the campfire was turning ugly. Time for a tactical withdrawal.
“Jurgen, the horses.”
Jurgen sprang up, said a few hasty words of thanks to the warlord, assuring him they would be on the lookout for Skadi’s Wolves as they journeyed back towards Berwick.
The warlord laughed. “You’ll be looking for them? Northman, they already have your scent! You’ll meet them soon enough!” He laughed again and, kicking dirt over the fire to extinguish the flames, barked a command at his followers. In a heartbeat they had melted back into the darkness. All except the priest.
The old man stood motionless by the smouldering embers and watched as Jurgen and Ælrik mounted their jittery horses. Ælrik gathered up his reins and, with one last dark look at the old priest, dug his heels into his mount’s side. The horse leapt from standing start to flat gallop in just a few paces.
Jurgen paused, his hand on the pommel of his saddle. He turned and briefly bowed to the priest. The priest shook his head sadly. “You are a warrior. They will come for you too. I cannot give you protection. You have made your choice.” The priest paused, and then picked up a pebble. With the burnt end of a stick, he scraped a shape onto the surface and held it up to the young man. “You are of the North. Perhaps Skadi will forgive you more readily than she will that Saxon dog. Take this.” He thrust the pebble into Jurgen’s hand, turned and vanished into the darkness.
Jurgen frowned, and glanced down at the stone. On its surface was a roughly shaped rune – Algiz. Protection. He pocketed the stone, looked around the deserted camp one last time, and spurred his nervous mount into following Ælrik. The horse needed little encouragement – it was keen to leave this place. It could smell them coming. It could sense them on the breeze...
* * *
Eyes, surrounded not by blue woad but by coarse, short hair, watched from the darkness. These weren’t eyes full of fear, but shining golden orbs with elongated pupils. Eyes full of blood lust. The shadows twisted and writhed, as if the owners of those cold, gold eyes couldn’t quite decide which form to take. The darkness rippled and contorted. A mouth twisted into a muzzle and curled back to reveal teeth that gleamed like polished walrus ivory. A low, throaty snarl rumbled slowly through the forest. It was joined by others, each one singing the same song, calling to their mistress to unleash them, to let them run the warriors down, to hunt, to chase, to feed.
“No. Not yet. We wait for the moon’s light to shine upon you. Then you may hunt.”
The darkness had a fractured, broken voice full of ice crystals and venom. A voice of the north, where the green, flickering lights of Asgard rippled and danced across the night sky. A voice that wrapped revenge in warm fur skins and set it loose across the frozen wastelands. The voice of a giantess with a heart that had no mercy for her enemies. Had she not challenged the gods themselves, and won? Had she not tormented Loki with the dripping toxin of a viper until he begged her to release him?
She knew no fear. And she knew no mercy, either. Mortal warriors like these two were nothing to her. They would lead her to a far greater bounty, a bounty that would generate more and more of her children until they grew into an army that would sweep the hated Saxons from this island – an island she claimed as her own. Then she would bring the ice, and a hundred winters and a hundred more…
* * *
Ælrik slowed his horse to a walk. A flat-out gallop through the darkness was foolish in the extreme. It would take just one tree root or one rabbit hole to send his horse crashing to the ground, screaming and snorting as its leg snapped. Then he’d be forced to either ride two-up on Jurgen’s horse, or run the last few miles to Berwick garrison. And if they really did have a band of Norsemen, or demons, or whatever on their tail, then trying to outrun them would be just as foolish as galloping a horse along a trail in the dark. He’d never make it.
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 h
im. 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.
SNAFU: Wolves at the Door: An Anthology of Military Horror Page 3