Fenrir

by MD. Lachlan

  ‘Doesn’t like getting his feathers wet,’ said Ofaeti.

  Fastarr breathed out. The monk could sense he was irritated that his request for silence was going unheeded.

  ‘Another shapeshifter?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A wolfman.’

  ‘Where did he come from? Could he be the wolf that was prophesied?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. Anyway, he’s dead.’

  ‘Unlikely to be that wolf then. Has anyone seen the Raven since?’

  ‘I expect he’ll be back in the woods with his sister, provided she hasn’t died.’

  ‘In which case he’ll be cooking her,’ said Ofaeti.

  ‘Shut up, Ofaeti,’ said Fastarr.

  The king gave a dry laugh. ‘You don’t fancy cutting the crow’s throat, do you, Fastarr?’

  ‘I would have done it in the city if he didn’t move so quick, sir.’

  ‘Really? I wasn’t being serious. He’s useful to me and an ally. We just have a disagreement on the correct path forward, that’s all.’

  ‘Above my head all that, my lord.’

  ‘Good.’

  The confessor heard footsteps approaching. Sigfrid’s voice said, ‘This is the god?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The crippled saint. That’s not a god, Fastarr; you should get your terminology right. But you act for God, don’t you, priest?’

  Jehan said nothing.

  ‘You’re renowned, do you know that? Your men-at-arms shout your name as they pour fire and stones down on my ships. Is he a mute? Is his tongue as twisted as his body? Does he speak our language?’

  ‘He can talk, I reckon,’ said Ofaeti. ‘He said something in their temple.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He wasn’t a god.’

  ‘Well, we’re agreed on something then. How did you come by him, Fastarr?’

  ‘He was with the girl in the temple.’

  ‘So you had her and you let her go?’

  ‘The wolfman got her out, sir. He’s a sorcerer; there was nothing I could do. I broke a good sword hitting him with it and the lads here snapped a few spears on his hide.’

  Jehan doubted that. The Norsemen hadn’t mentioned it, and something so remarkable would have been bound to excite comment.

  ‘And yet the Raven did for him.’

  ‘Enchanted arrows, sir. They can only be harmed by magic, and the Raven is a well-known magician.’

  ‘I wonder. So what happened to the girl?’

  ‘She jumped out of a window on the south bank. Ran up into the woods, and that’s where we lost her.’

  Jehan heard someone breathe out and pace the floor.

  ‘The reason I allow you Horda in my camp at all is that you are supposed to be great heroes. Mighty men! And yet a girl loses you in the dark.’

  There was much shuffling of feet.

  ‘Where would this girl have gone, priest? Is there anywhere on the south bank she would have run to?’

  The confessor remained silent.

  ‘We’re not the only ones looking for her, you know. If I take her then she’ll live. If others get hold of her she’ll need all your god’s help and more.’

  He felt breath on his face. The man had bent to address him.

  ‘Our Raven wants her, and he is not a tender man. She’ll be eaten by him, most likely alive. If you want her to avoid that fate, help us find her.’

  For the first time Jehan spoke: ‘Why do you want her?’

  ‘So he does talk. Answer my question: where is she?’

  ‘I did not know she had been taken. My knowledge of the back country is poor. As you see by my condition, I am not used to wandering the fields.’

  The voice came closer to his ear.

  ‘You don’t seem scared, monk.’

  Jehan said nothing again.

  ‘You’re a prophet, aren’t you?’ said the king.

  Silence.

  ‘Come on. I know it. Don’t think your Eudes is the only one with spies. We’re not quite as backward as you think, you know. You’re a prophet, I’ve heard it said.’

  Jehan could smell something underneath the pine needles, underneath the reeds and the roasting meat. What was it? The same smell he’d experienced in Paris. Dead flesh. Rot. Human putrefaction.

  ‘Let’s do this the easy way. I want you to work for me. You tell me what you need and I’ll give you what you want. What do you want?’

  Jehan knew only one response to such a question. ‘Your soul for God.’

  ‘No. I am a king and Odin’s man – it is well known. But let me make you comfortable. Would you like wine? Food?’

  ‘Yes. But I cannot feed myself.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to feed you. I draw the line at touching cripples.’

  ‘Use the boy.’ It was Ofaeti’s voice.

  ‘Silence, fat bellows,’ said Fastarr.

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘A merchant outside has a boy slave, a mute and an idiot. He’s from Miklagard and simple anyway, so it’s not going to matter if he catches anything off the cripple.’

  ‘Mute I like,’ said Sigfrid. ‘Send him in. You, berserkers, get out of here. And the rest of you. Go. I’ll speak with the monk alone.’

  ‘Out!’ It was Fastarr’s voice. Jehan heard the men leave.

  It was quiet for a moment and the confessor listened to the fire crackling, the sound of the king pacing the reeds. There was that smell again. Death.

  The confessor heard footsteps.

  ‘Feed this monk. Meat and wine.’

  Silence.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, boy? Feed the monk.’

  ‘He doesn’t speak your language.’

  ‘Do you speak his language?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Speak to him then.’

  ‘You are to feed me and give me drink. If it is you, lady, then spill a little wine as you do,’ the monk said in Greek, which he knew the lady spoke and was almost certain Sigfrid did not.

  Jehan heard a plate lifted, the glug of wine into a cup. When the cup was pressed to his lips, it was too high and the wine spilled down his front.

  ‘Careful, lad. That stuff’s too hard to come by to waste,’ said Sigfrid.

  The confessor was fed bread and meat in quantity. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until he started to eat.

  ‘Have faith, lady,’ said Jehan. ‘We will prevail here.’

  Again, that hand on his shoulder, the cold tingle that shivered through his body.

  ‘Let me tell you my problem, priest.’ It was Sigfrid’s voice. ‘Your lot on the walls are holding out rather longer than I had anticipated. It’s not easy to keep my army together. Many of them will go home if we don’t break in soon, or even offer themselves to my enemies. There are enough warlords here who are only loyal as long as I keep the plunder rolling in. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, my people are a superstitious lot. Me, I’d convert to your religion tomorrow and take advantage of all the alliances and marriage possibilities that would bring. Your god talks of peace but he’s mighty in war – we saw in our grandfathers’ time the power of the old King Charles. So I like your god: he makes his kings rich and powerful.’

  ‘Christ doesn’t want men who come to him for such reasons.’

  ‘I didn’t ask him what he wanted, did I? It was more me telling him what he was going to have. Anyway, there is a prophecy. Our seers have seen it, the thing that pursued your lady has seen it, half the holy idiots of the north have seen it. Our god, Odin, will come to earth in the form of a man.’

  ‘That is a lie.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. The people, the vast majority of the northern men, will follow the one who they believe to be this god on earth. If this god happens to be me, then they will follow me.’

  ‘So why do you not claim to be him? If you believe it all to be no more than a lie, then why not make it a useful lie?’

  ‘I do claim to be
him. And I didn’t say I thought it a lie. However, the prophecy is widely known and it comes with certain conditions. “How ye shall know him” – you know the form. The person, or the thing, that will identify the king of gods in earthly shape is our friend Hugin, known as Hrafn, he who staged a single-handed assault on your city not five hours ago, obliging a good number of my men to follow him to prevent him performing the darker aspects of his desires. He is of the cult of Odin the hanged, the mad, the wise, deep in magic, lord of poetry, blah blah blah. He himself is said to be the incarnation of one of the mad god’s ravens, his intelligencers, who spy on all the world for the god and return to whisper their news in his ear. So much bunk you may think but no more ludicrous than what you’re peddling. What’s a living saint if not a bit of god on earth, eh? Anyway, he needs to give the nod to Odin made flesh, announce him and proclaim him.’

  ‘Why don’t you just make him do that for you?’

  ‘You can’t make that thing do anything. Believe me, if I put him to torture it will be sweet rest compared to what he’s put himself through. I would love to but it isn’t practical. Also, the people wouldn’t stand for it.’

  Jehan felt the wine cup raised to his lips again. Aelis, he was sure it was her, was trembling.

  ‘So I’m left with fulfilling the prophecy. Which is where it gets interesting. Our people believe that, on the final day of the gods, Odin will fight a creature called the Fenris Wolf. That creature will kill the god. The appearance of this wolf here in middle earth will indicate who Odin is. It will come to kill him.’

  ‘So you prove yourself king of kings by dying?’

  ‘Just as your Christ did, eh?’

  ‘That is sacrilege.’

  ‘Calm yourself. The way I see it is this. If we can fulfil this prophecy, get this wolf to turn up, then I can rewrite destiny.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll kill it. I’m good at killing things, it’s been my only profession. That way we make our own myths. I will be Odin in triumph. If it kills me, I have a hero’s death and renown down the ages. I really don’t see how I can lose.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t appear?’

  ‘It will. If we can get hold of your lady.’

  ‘What has she got to do with this?’

  ‘Our Raven has a sister. She is a prophet of a sort and she has identified your lady as the key to the appearance of the wolf. Odin has come to earth before, fought the wolf before, and in some way this girl, who has lived before, was caught up in all that. Where she goes, the wolf will follow. That’s why we want her.’

  Jehan swallowed. He thought of what Aelis had told him in the church. It was becoming clear to him what had happened now. She had heard the rumours of what the Norsemen intended for her and it had given her nightmares. As it would anyone.

  ‘And why does the heathen sorcerer try to kill her?’

  ‘He doesn’t agree that I’m Odin. He thinks the wolf has not come yet. If he can kill this girl before the wolf catches her scent, so to speak, then he can weaken it or even avoid his master’s death. It’s like your seers who read the future in the night sky. Could they shape the future if they could reach to the heavens and snuff out a star? The Raven believes that is possible and your lady is the star he wants to snuff out.’

  ‘You don’t think that is necessary?’

  ‘I believe the god – me – can cheat his destiny too. We just want to go about it in different ways. I want the girl to live, to snare this wolf. Then I beat it in combat, as I’ve beaten everything that has stood before me. He wants her to die sooner. It’s a difference of theological opinion.’

  ‘This is poisonous nonsense,’ said the confessor.

  ‘Maybe and maybe not,’ said Sigfrid. ‘I have seen enough of prophecy to know that it can be true. Why not then the gods? I am supposed to be of the line of Odin. Maybe I’m the god; maybe I’m not. All I know is that if I can get this wolf to turn up and then kill it, our friend Raven will declare me a god.’

  ‘There is one god, one almighty power, Jesus, who is Christ, risen and glorious.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sigfrid, ‘why don’t we put that to the test? You prophesy where the girl is and I’ll convert to your god. I’ll have to do it on the quiet of course, but I’ll convert openly once all the armies and the warlords have rallied to me and sworn allegiance. Really, I will.’

  ‘Prophecy is a gift from God: he will not send it under such circumstances.’

  ‘He must.’

  ‘I will not do this thing. Use your heathen Raven woman if you must, for all the good it will do you.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not really up to that at the moment. The methods for obtaining prophecy are rather’ – Jehan heard the king tap on something in thought – ‘draining, I think it fair to say.’

  ‘Do not look to Christ for your answers. He has only one answer for the likes of you, and it is eternal damnation.’

  ‘You refuse me help at your peril.’

  ‘I am not afraid of death.’

  ‘Well good, because I think you’re about to meet him.’

  The smell of putrefaction became overpowering and Sigfrid heard the lady draw in breath. There was a light step upon the reeds.

  ‘Saint,’ said Sigfrid, ‘this is the Raven Hugin. He has already half killed his sister pulling prophecies from her; he can quite easily do the same to you.’

  11 Hrafn

  The thing’s eyes seemed to bore straight through Aelis, the same glittering black gems that had looked at her in the attic. She felt herself trembling and backed into the shadows. Had it recognised her? It looked down at the priest. Perhaps it hadn’t.

  It came forward into the candlelight and she could see it properly. It was bone-thin and wrapped in a cloak of black feathers, its black hair stuck into a shock with an oily tar, feathers within it sweeping up into a sort of black crown. Its face, now she could see it more clearly, was a terrible mess of scars, deep but tiny wounds, some festering and swollen, some healed and some still seeping blood. The creature reeked of corpses.

  Aelis watched as it approached. The monk flinched as it bent close to his ear and spoke in Latin. ‘The prophet,’ it said. ‘Are you Jehan, who they call Confessor?’

  ‘I will have no dealings with devils.’

  ‘I am not a devil. You will work for us, prophet. If you have the gift I can show you how.’

  ‘How do you speak our tongue, monster?’ said the confessor.

  Jehan felt himself shaking, as he often did when he was angry and cursed himself knowing that his enemies might mistake it for fear.

  ‘I was raised as a monk, for a while.’

  ‘So you turned your back on Christ.’

  ‘At Saint-Maurice he found me—’ the man clasped his fist, fingers up, ‘—and then at Saint-Maurice he threw me away.’ He cast his hand down to the floor. ‘Conversions can go both ways, Confessor.’

  Jehan swallowed. He recognised the name of the monastery. Saint-Maurice was an Augustinian house to the east, in the mountains of Valais. It was one of the great centres of Christendom, known for its treasures and relics and the song of ages, the laus perennis – the monks had begun to sing the psalms nearly four hundred years before and, working in shifts, had never stopped since. How had this monster come out of such a place?

  ‘How do you know me?’

  ‘I have heard of you. I should fear you, I have been told.’

  ‘Fear God,’ said Jehan, ‘for he reserves special torments for the likes of you.’

  The creature smiled. ‘And for you, it would seem.’

  Aelis tried to place the thing’s accent. Northern certainly, but not a Dane’s. It was nearer to the merchant’s.

  ‘Can you make this monk find the girl?’ said Sigfrid. Aelis didn’t understand him but she guessed what he said from his urgency and his gestures.

  The Raven nodded, though it replied in Latin. ‘In a short time perhaps, perhaps not. Given longer, yes.’

  The king be
came angry, waved his arm to indicate the whole camp and, Aelis could tell, asked the Raven to be as quick as possible.

  ‘Then we will try. The method will be quick. It will kill him but we will have our revelation.’ Again the Raven spoke in Latin. Aelis knew that by speaking in a tongue the king understood poorly the creature was in a weird way expressing its superiority, its power even, over the king. And he was threatening the monk.

  The king said something in Norse.

  ‘He thinks you are a risk to him alive, Confessor. Doesn’t he know they will come after your bones, your relics? Should I grind them to dust?’

  ‘No one will seek me,’ said the confessor.

  ‘Not so. Even dead you are a rallying point, but let’s not run ahead of ourselves.’

  ‘How long?’ said Sigfrid.

  There was another conversation in Norse. Aelis sensed the king didn’t trust the Raven. The king raised his voice.

  The Raven shrugged and bent to where the confessor sat on the floor. In the firelight the confessor’s twisted body reminded Aelis of a melted candle stub, the long form bending over it like a shadow it had thrown.

  ‘Will you work with us, Confessor? Will you use your abilities to help us? It will cost you little.’ He spoke in Latin.

  Silence gave the Raven its answer.

  ‘Do you know how magic works?’ said the creature.

  The monk said nothing but Aelis felt a coldness coming from the Raven, a sense of high and desolate places and of something else she couldn’t quite identify. She was tempted to say it was loneliness, though she couldn’t imagine the creature having any tender feelings at all.

  The Raven continued: ‘I do. Through shock. Your thoughts are intertwined, like the weft on a loom. If there is magic in you it is a single thread obscured by many others, the illusions of the everyday, of hungers, lusts, the babble of your priests, the senses and smells of the world. Those illusions must be removed. Something that scars or revolts, or throws the thoughts into chaos is required. Something that cuts the duller threads and leaves the scarlet of the truer, magical self shining through. Your hermits do it in their isolation, so that the thoughts fall in on themselves to reveal the magical self beneath. Your Christ did it on his cross, calling down lightning and causing the dead to walk while those next to him only spluttered and died. Not everyone can achieve this, or, rather, exactly what we can achieve is different. Some people can prophesy. Some can see far in distance but not in time, put their mind into a raven’s body and fly with it on the upper airs. Some can slow time and see everything at half its speed, become mighty warriors. Most can just scream.’