Ælrik cursed loudly, and backhanded the blond man across his mouth, knocking him from his saddle. “Damn you! When exactly were you going to tell me this?”
Jurgen pushed himself back to his feet and glowered at Ælrik. He spat a globule of spittle and blood onto the ground and wiped the red trickle that ran from the corner of his mouth. “Do that again, and I’ll leave you to the mercy of my fellow Norsemen and their demons! I told you last night at the King of Alba’s table! Or were you too befuddled by ale to understand the urgency of our return, you damn fool!” Jurgen grabbed his horse’s reins and swung back into the saddle. “Perhaps it would be best to have the safety of the walls at our backs before we argue this out again, what say you?” With an angry shout, Jurgen spurred his horse towards the dim lights of Berwick.
Muttering profanities, Ælrik followed his friend, regretting his hasty reaction and determined to regain the Northman’s trust and favour once they got back to the garrison. Jurgen was right. He had drunk too much ale the night before. It was his weakness. It helped to dull the blood-soaked memories and the dreams sent by the Devil himself to torment him.
As the prey cantered away, snuffling and snorting filled the ridge and a cluster of black forms shimmered into view, staying just below the skyline and hunched against the gorse and heather. One, its form indeterminate and fluctuating from man to beast and back again, came across the globule of blood. It sniffed at the blood and recoiled, pulling his lips back and baring fangs that were neither canine nor human. A shadowy form walked among them, and with every step frost spread out like a fungus, crackling and entombing every blade of grass, every leaf and every prickle, with ice. She looked down at the spittle and frowned. “This one carries the protection of the All Father. He is not to be harmed as long as he holds that mark. Even if he is a traitor to our people and rides at the enemy’s side.” Her ice blue eyes looked towards the distant lights of the garrison. “The Saxon and his kind, though, are yours.” She turned her face to the sky, just as the last cloud slipped away and revealed the shimmering, silver disk of a full moon.
With a howl, the shapes finally settled on a single form. Bones cracked, broke and reformed, sending the morphing creatures into spasms of rage and agony. Thirteen men became thirteen raging, slavering wolves – bigger, faster and more vicious than any pack that ran through the wilds of the northern lands. These were Skadi’s Wolves – feared not only by mortals and their mothers, but by the Gods themselves. The Christian Fisher King’s mewing men would be no match for their fury.
Baying and howling, they looked to their mistress to release them. She smiled, petted the largest – a massive, black-furred, golden-eyed monster with a maw that would swallow a baby whole – and raised a glistening, frost-covered hand. She curled all but one finger into a fist, ice crystals dropping from her skin, and pointed at the garrison. “Feast, my children. Feast!”
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!”
The gate shook violently as the beasts launched a barrage of attacks. The sound of splintering wood sent the men back further. Ælrik had a nasty feeling that English steel, while it may have been good for skewering Pictish priests, would be no match for these hellish creatures and their furious mistress. “Priest! How is it that your man’s cross had such an effect?”
“As much as I’d like to say it’s the power of our Lord God Almighty that smites them, it is the silver. They cannot bear its touch. That and the touch of the sun’s rays.” The monk held up the cross that dangled at his waist. “See this?” He indicated to the main shaft that tapered down into a point. “Have you never wondered why our crosses are shaped so? It is because we know of these beasts.”
“Then you know how to fight them.”
“Normally? Yes. But they’re too great an enemy for us to fight, soldier. We must flee.”
“You do and I’ll cut you down myself!” Ælrik snarled. “We have just an hour until dawn. We hold them off. We fight!”
The monk shrugged. “Then we’ll die. I suppose it is God’s will that we die alongside you and your men.”
Ælrik shook his head. “No. Leave the fighting to us. The three of you get the wounded to the keep. If they breach the outer gate, that will be our only chance. Move!”
The monks scuttled away, leaving the soldiers to face the gates and the hellish creatures that lay beyond them. Time and again the beasts threw themselves with renewed vigour at the oak, and time and again it managed to repel them. But slowly, surely, the wood was starting to weaken.
“Ælrik! Look!” Jurgen pointed to the top of the gates. White frost was starting to creep slowly down the surface of the wood. Deep, penetrating fingers of ice crackled and snapped, plunging deep into the timber and pushing its fibres apart. The ice giantess’ touch was sending permafrost deep into the solid oak, splitting it like a woodsman’s axe would go through soft pine.
“Damn it!” Ælrik could see they had moments before the gates fell. “Fall back! Fall back to the keep!” The soldiers turned and ran, the more able supporting their wounded colleagues.
Jurgen stood motionless, watching the frost creep down the wood, mesmerised by the glistening patterns. His Norse blood pulsed. He knew he was in the presence of one who had seen the halls of Asgard, who had stared into the eye of the All Father himself. One who had defied the gods and chosen her own path. Could he deny his heritage any longer? Could he sit and listen to the burbling of the Fisher King’s priests, knowing now what stood before him just beyond that gate?
He had abandoned his people. His kin. He had turned traitor and ridden at the side of the enemy. He deserved Skadi’s wrath. His sword clattered from his hands and he dropped to his knees, bowing his head, waiting for the wolves.
“Jurgen! What in God’s name are you doing! Run, man! Run!” Ælrik started to move towards his friend.
The gates gave way, exploding in a shower of ice crystals and deadly splinters. The thirteen beasts stood snarling and slathering at the threshold. Slowly, Jurgen looked up and opened his arms, welcoming the wolves at the door, inviting them in. In his right hand was a small, round pebble. It was just possible to see the mark of Algiz – the rune of protection. Smudged. Smeared. Incomplete…
A wolf, massive, muscular and with one ruined and bloody eye socket that still seeped sticky vitreous fluid, moved forward slowly. He stood in front of the prostate man. The lips of his muzzle were pulled back to reveal two rows of gleaming, savagely sharp teeth – teeth designed for tearing flesh and crushing bones. He reached out and batted the worthless pebble out of Jurgen’s hand, a low, rumbling growl vibrating in its massive throat.
The pebble clattered onto the cobbles and rolled away. Jurgen looked into the golden eye of the beast. A single tear rolled down his cheek. “Take me. Spare the others. I am your kin. Take me.”
The beast studied the prostate man for a moment, its hot breath blasting onto Jurgen’s cheek. Then it turned, looking back over its shoulder and waiting for permission from its mistress to begin the carnage by feasting with the one who had carried the mark of the All Father. The one who now kneeled, defenceless and unprotected, believing foolishly that his sacrifice would protect the others.
It wouldn’t.
In the darkness a figure, massive and imposing, nodded once. The beast turned back to Jurgen and its muzzle wrinkled in a savage snarl. The massive maw opened and with a roar the beast fell on the blond man. The others, taking their cue from their leader, swarmed through the ruined gates and, snapping and snarling at each other, tore Jurgen to pieces.
“NO!” Ælrik screamed defiance and rage at the savage slaughter of his friend. “You foul demons! No!” Screaming in fury with every step, he charged towards the beasts as they ripped into the flesh of his comrade. He could see Jurgen’s leg protruding from the melee of writhing bodies, twitching and jumping as every savage bite tore another lump of flesh from his body. The poor man was still alive. The beasts were prolonging the agony. Finally, Jurgen’s screaming was cut short as one wolf tore off his face, ripping the skin from his skull as one would peel the fur coat from a coney.
His men saw the savagery of the beasts, and despite their injuries the warrior instinct filled every single one of them. With a roar, they charged towards the beasts, determined to cut them down and avenge Jurgen’s horrific death, or die like soldiers in the attempt.
The silver light of the moon dimmed.
In mid-feast, Skadi’s Wolves stopped and looked up as a cloud slid across the face of the moon, shielding her rays and plunging the courtyard in
to gloom. The moon vanished and the beasts howled in unison. The men of the garrison watched in horror as their enemy struggled to find a form.
“Now! While they’re weakest! Attack now!” Ælrik charged forward, hacking at the writhing bodies with his sword. His men followed suit, stabbing and slashing at anything that moved.
The cobbles became slick underfoot. Blood and guts mixed with shit and the slippery ice crystals from the shattered door. Yelping and howling filled the night – the roar of an unholy battle between ancient demons and terrified, enraged men.
Men died. Badly. The beasts, torn between the agony of transformation and the injuries the soldiers were inflicting on them, still fought with a ferocity that was matched only by the fury of the soldiers they tried to slaughter. It was a vile, bloody stalemate.
In the darkness, a huge figure stood and watched impassively, a cold smile playing around thin, hard lips. What the mortals seemed to forget was that clouds were transient. They drifted like snow on the wind. Skadi looked up. A twinkle of a frosty star and the silver edge of the moon’s glow indicated the cloud was passing. She looked back at the melee. The mortals believed they were winning as her twisting, writhing children howled and bayed, falling back under a barrage of sword strikes.
Then the cloud drifted on.
The moon blazed forth in all her glory.
Skadi threw her head back and let out a roar that was heard in Valhalla itself.
Ælrik watched as the beasts writhed and twisted back into demonic hounds full of golden-eyed fury and snarling rage.
“Oh, God, no…”
Semper Gumby
Steve Coate
Robert Neidermeyer grabbed hold of the straps securing him in the back of the C-130 Hercules. He felt a jolting impact with each turbulent shudder of the aircraft’s hull. Around him, the other members of his squad paid no heed to the rough and tumble ride. Neidermeyer straightened in his seat and willed his hands to release the straps holding him in place. It was his first active-duty mission and he wanted to impress the others in his squad.
SNAFU: Wolves at the Door: An Anthology of Military Horror Page 4