Dmitri closed his eyes and screamed.
And then the room fell silent.
Something soft touched his face. He opened his eyes to find himself sitting in his daughter’s room again. Katerina was young and innocent once more, the way he always remembered her. She pulled his face close to hers. Her cheeks were slick with tears.
“Please, Papa. You couldn’t save me before, but you can help me now. I know you would do anything you can to help me, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I would.”
He opened his mind to her and she drew out everything he knew. She found the names of every key member of the Moscow resistance, every secret safehouse in the city, every meeting and recruiting place, every security agent on the take, every sympathetic worker association, every contact beyond the city and the country. He offered all of it up, and she took every last scrap.
When she finished, she pulled back from him and smiled. She was older again, the way she’d looked at the metro station.
“Thank you,” she said, sobbing. She stood to leave, but Dmitri grabbed her wrist.
“Please, Katti. Don’t go. Not yet.”
“I’m sorry, Papa. You know I can’t stay.”
Katerina’s gaze went to her bedroom door. Dmitri turned to find the gray-eyed woman standing there.
“Excellent work, Katerina. You’ve proved your loyalty to this agency beyond all doubt. Time to go now.”
Katerina kissed him on his forehead.
“Goodbye, Papa.”
“Goodbye, Katti. I love you.”
He blinked, and she was gone.
Dmitri sat in the room for a long time before finally standing and staggering down the hall to the living room. Inga and Ninel were there, both of them looking the way they had when they meant so much to him. They smiled when he sat in the chair.
The sun shone through the window, filling the room with golden light.
He couldn’t remember the sun ever shining so brightly in Moscow.
The door opened behind him, followed by the faint click of a safety switch being released.
“I’m ready,” he said.
A burst of light flooded the room, so brilliant it washed everything else away.
The light burned out in an instant, leaving nothing behind.
The Wolf Queen
Originally published in Hammer of the Gods II: Ragnarok (Rogue Planet Press, 2017)
My first attempt at writing a longer form story, this one is technically considered a novelette, which I think is French for “completely unmarketable.” The story itself dates to about 2007 and was one of the last things I wrote before going back to grad school. It was originally a Rostogov story, but I gave it a pretty thorough rewrite/edit at some point to strip away those elements and place it in more of a Viking-inspired setting. There are some cool elements here but it’s definitely a story that wears its influences on its sleeve. The important thing about this story, though, is that it convinced me I could write something longer and a bit more varied than a short story.
Tuliak’s lungs burned as he stumbled through the depths of the forest. The fierce winter winds threw snow and ice into his face and all around he could hear the bare limbs of the forest scratching and clawing at one another like ravenous, starving animals.
In every shadow, he saw death.
He felt ready to collapse when he heard a sound that did not belong amidst the howling winds or the scraping limbs. It was not a sound produced by a random act of nature, but one born of an insidious intelligence.
Then Tuliak turned and he saw its eyes.
He screamed and fled, heedless of his direction or what lay within his path. Brittle branches and thorns tore at his flesh, but neither the pain nor the deep snow could slow his frantic pace.
The sound grew louder, accompanied by a cacophony of snapping twigs and massive feet pounding across the frozen ground. In his delirium, Tuliak imagined that he felt the hot, eager breath of his pursuer striking the back of his exposed neck. He pushed his weary legs to carry him faster but the effort was wasted when he tripped and crashed into the snow.
Claws and fanged jaws fell upon him, ripping away flesh and splintering bone.
He screamed. Not from the pain, but from the realization that his death, and consequently his life, had ultimately been for nothing.
Then he heard a voice.
A beautiful voice.
Her voice.
His could not make out what the voice said, but at the sound of it, the monster that had mauled him released him and fled, vanishing into the night.
Tuliak dragged his mangled body up from the snow and felt his way through the darkness. Pain clouded his senses and the bitter cold numbed his wounds, but he found the will to continue.
There was no further sign of his attacker as he trudged through the snow, only the howling wind and the clawing branches of the trees.
A thin plume of smoke rose wearily from the cinders of a large campfire as the warriors of Erlinger began to rouse themselves. The rising sun was concealed somewhere behind a blanket of gray clouds, but the men knew that dawn had come and soon they would ride out to make war upon their enemies. Slowly the encampment stirred with activity as the men passed baskets of bread and buckets of water to one another and laughed heartily at the mention of tales and songs that had been recited the night before after far too much drink. Even as they began to polish their expensive steel armor and sharpen the edges of their fine weapons there was a great deal of merriment to be found among them all.
A large tent had been erected in the center of the encampment and the men within it were slower to awaken than their fellows for the light of dawn did not shine upon their slumbering faces. Indeed, they had scarcely moved until a fully armored warrior stepped inside the tent with a basket of bread in one hand and a clay jar of water tucked under his arm. He carefully stepped over a sleeping giant of a man and placed the containers on the large table that filled the center of the tent. His approach was enough to stir the others from their sleep and by the time he left the tent, they were beginning to rise.
Erlinger, a stern faced, muscular man with long, gray hair, was the first to stand up and take a long drink from the jar of water. After washing the taste of last night’s ale from his mouth, he kicked a pair of legs sticking out from beneath the table beside him. A loud groan issued from below and the legs moved slightly.
“Come, Brynja,” Erlinger said. “The day is upon us.”
Without another word, he made his way to the back of the tent where his exquisite armor and heavy battleaxe had been hung on a rack with great care.
As he walked away, a young woman crawled out from under the table and got to her feet. Though barely more than a girl, she was already as tall as Erlinger and her great, muscular limbs were nearly as thick. She said nothing, but instead brushed her raven black hair away from her face and took a deep drink from the jar of water herself before she walked over to her own set of armor in another corner of the tent.
Brynja donned her armor quickly, with an efficiency born out of familiarity and repetition. Her armor was not as grand as Erlinger’s, but it was well made and impressive in its own right with finely burnished brass adorning the steel breastplate, pauldrons, and gauntlets. A skirt of scaled steel plates hung down to her knees and a matching set of grieves protected her shins. Brynja had tied her sword to her waist and was hoisting up her heavy shield and plumed helmet when she saw that Erlinger, already fully armored, was watching her.
“I am ready, Father,” she said. Erlinger smiled and seemed ready to say something when one of his warriors stepped into the tent and saluted him.
“My lord Erlinger, a herald brings word to you from the north.”
“By the gods, boy, we’re ready to march for battle! What news could be so dire that I must delay our departure?”
“I know not, sir, but the boy is exhausted and badly wounded. I fear his wounds are mortal.”
Erlin
ger sighed.
“Very well, I shall hear this news he brings.”
“Yes, sir. I will summon him.” The warrior turned to leave, but Erlinger followed after him.
“No, if he is wounded then I shall come to his side. It would not due for him to die with his tidings only half delivered,” he said. “Brynja, you will hear this news with me, girl.”
Brynja followed her father outside. She hoped this matter would not delay them long.
The herald from the north was indeed badly wounded. Brynja found it remarkable that he still lived. Much of his face had been torn away by the claws of some animal and his body was covered with cuts and gashes. The tips of his fingers were badly frostbitten, as were the black toes that poked out from his tattered boots. Only one of his eyes was still reasonably intact; the other was filled with blood and covered by a sickly white film. Erlinger’s men had done everything within their power to ease his pain, but it was plain to see that he could not hope to recover from his injuries.
“U…Erlinger…” the man muttered, “I m…must speak with Er…Erlinger.”
Erlinger knelt down before the herald and took up what remained of his hand.
“I am here, lad. What is this news you bring to me with your dying breath?”
“I bring you…word from Jarl Habrec of…Hillcrest. His majesty…begs for your aide...against the wretched days that…have fallen upon us. Our lands bleed. We are besieged…by an evil not of man’s making. Its shadow…it haunts our steps and its…hunger…consumes our children.”
The herald paused to cough violently and then vomited blood into his lap. His voice was noticeably weaker when he continued.
“Please…you must help us! Our people’s strength has…faded with the loss…of so many b…brave sons. Our once great jarl…himself…sits upon an heirless throne. He broods now in…darkness and despair…without hope. Please, Erlinger! C…can you…n…not answer this…humble plea as…your friend of old once answered yours?”
As those final words escaped his lips, the herald’s shoulders sagged and he sighed heavily. His good eye looked upward and a smile came to his ruined face.
“I can…see you, father…”
And then he died.
Erlinger placed the dead man’s hand on his bloody lap and stood up. He stared thoughtfully at the corpse without saying a word.
“Sir?” one of his warriors interrupted. It was Cazlous, one of his lieutenants.
“A moment, Cazlous.”
“I am sorry, but we have little time to spare over the mad ramblings of a dead man.”
Erlinger suddenly whirled about and struck Cazlous with such force that the armored warrior was knocked to the ground.
“Mind your tongue, dog! Had I not the temperance of age I would strike you dead where you lay!”
Cazlous did not move, his wide eyes fixed on his fearsome leader. Erlinger took a moment to quell his rage before he spoke again.
“Forgive me, Cazlous,” he said as he offered a hand to his lieutenant and pulled him to his feet. “I accuse you of ignorance of things which you could not know. Habrec of Hillcrest is indeed an old friend. Long have I owed him a great many debts, for were it not for his sword and courage Erlinger would not stand ready to lead you to war on this day. This news of his loss pains my heart all the more for I have no time to mourn the passing of his noble and worthy sons.”
“What then of his plea then, sir?” Cazlous asked. “What is to be done?”
Erlinger’s face tightened for a moment and then he nodded grimly.
“Cazlous?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Call my men to order. I would make my will known to them.”
“As you command.”
It did not take long for Cazlous to summon Erlinger’s warriors. Though the host was scarcely more than four hundred swords strong, most of the men were already prepared to march out for battle and their discipline made it easy to call them to order. The men gathered around Erlinger’s large tent within a few minutes and Erlinger climbed atop a nearby wagon to address them. Brynja took her place among his lieutenants between him and the mass of armored warriors.
“This day, my brothers,” Erlinger said, “we march to the north and to war. But I fear that dire news has reached by ears this morning from the north. A noble ally of my younger days, Jarl Habrec of Hillcrest, finds his lands in the loathsome grip of an evil that threatens to consume them utterly. He has sacrificed the blood of his own kin to protect his subjects and now has called for my aide. Many times over do I owe Jarl Habrec this warlike life of mine and I will not turn a deaf ear to his plea in these his darkest hours.”
Erlinger paused and allowed his men to whisper their thoughts to one another for a moment before he went on.
“As you know, we ride north on this bloody day to fulfill the oaths we have made to our allies in Sigmund’s Deep. But honor demands that I honor both these oaths and those I made long ago to an old friend. The warriors of Erlinger shall ride to the north very soon to face the soldiers of Valenhold, all save five. Five warriors will ride to the west, to the humble lands yet governed justly by Jarl Habrec. These men will ride in my name and see that my will is done, though my life may end in the days to come. There is no bond greater than the one between those who face danger alongside one another, my brothers. I ask for five volunteers, five of you who will help me to honor the bond that I have made with those once dear to me.”
Erlinger crossed his arms and surveyed his host of warriors as he finished, waiting for the first man to step forth.
Someone called out from the crowd.
“Sir, you would ask us to escape from the coming battle? Do you seek to test our resolve?”
“Far from it,” Erlinger said. “No man can be thought a coward who elects to face the dangers of the unknown rather than the predictable threats of the battlefield. Any man who thinks otherwise is truly ignorant of the infinite dooms the gods have in store for us all.”
Erlinger’s words silenced the host, but still no man answered his lord’s call.
“Is there no one?” Erlinger asked, though he seemed to speak only to himself.
Brynja stepped forward then and drew her sword.
“I, Brynja, daughter of Erlinger, will ride to the west to uphold the oaths of my father’s days gone past,” she said. An uneasy silence settled upon the camp for a moment before Brynja continued with a far more boisterous tone of voice. “And take heart, Father! You need spare only three of your warriors on this errand,” she said as she turned to Erlinger’s host, “for my sword is worth any two found among them!”
And with Brynja’s boast the warriors erupted with laughter, not because they mocked her words, but because they knew them to be true. Even the usually dour Erlinger cracked a smile as his daughter roused the good spirits of his men. The laughter was beginning to subside when an ugly, scarred warrior with long red hair stepped forth.
“I, Kurgin, son of Lukviian, will ride west in the name of Erlinger,” he said. There was a dour set to his face as he approached Brynja dutifully. She nodded in acknowledgement and he took his place beside her.
“As will I, Ilari, son of Donatus,” another man said. His features were darker than his fellows and wore clothing that was a much different fashion than theirs as well. It was not more elegant than that of his fellows, nor was it of lesser quality, but his dress clearly marked him as a foreigner among the warriors of Rostogov. He bowed his head to Brynja and she clapped her armored hand upon his shoulder as he passed her to stand alongside the red haired Kurgin.
“And I, Casten, son of Teshek,” a third warrior, much younger than the others, said. Compared to most of Erlinger’s host, Casten was slight of build, almost lanky. His face possessed a boyish quality that was only accentuated by his long blonde hair and wide blue eyes. There were quiet murmurs throughout the crowd of warriors as the boy stepped forward to join Brynja, but she nodded at his approach as well.
“What jest is this?
” a hulking, bearded man rumbled as he stepped out from the host brandishing a giant hammer as if it were a twig. “Our great captain has put forth a call for heroes, not for villainous rabble such as this!” he said, pointing to the three volunteers. Again the company of warriors burst into laughter and the subjects of the bearded man’s jest laughed as well, for they knew him to be a man of good humor.
“My lady,” the man said, kneeling before Brynja. “I beg of you, do not ride forth with but this trio of fools at your side. Though your sword arm may well be the match of any two in this company, let my killing hand be the fifth that your father, my friend of old, has called upon this day.”
Brynja smiled and extended a gauntleted hand. “What band of heroes could even think of themselves as such without you among their number, Severian, son of Evodkii?”
The massive warrior nodded and rose to take his place with the men who already stood behind Brynja. Erlinger raised an eyebrow at his daughter and she merely smiled in return.
He returned the smile and nodded.
“So be it, my fearsome daughter.”
Erlinger provided Brynja with a leather case that contained the few maps he possessed that detailed the country surrounding Hillcrest. The town was not marked on any of them, but he had a general idea of where it was despite not having stepped foot inside its walls for over twenty years. He warned his daughter as he handed over the maps that he could not vouch for their accuracy, for they were both old and of uncertain origin, and he had not traveled to the regions they detailed since he acquired them. Then, after a few parting words wishing one another courage and good fortune, Erlinger took his place at the head of his band of mercenaries and rode out of their encampment bearing to the north.
After watching the last of the host vanish over the horizon, Brynja made preparations to ride westward. She inspected her father’s maps more closely and judged that it would be a three day ride to Hillcrest, assuming they were not slowed by poor weather. Since she was no longer riding for battle, Brynja took time to remove her heavy war armor and then packed it carefully within the rolls of a soft leather wrap. She then donned a garb more suitable for traveling; tanned leather breeks that were laced up the side of the legs, a white linen tunic beneath a vest of leather armor covered with round metal studs, a set of knee high riding boots lined with soft fur, and a heavy russet cloak. A sheathed broadsword was tied to her belt and she slipped a long bladed dagger into each of her boots.
Distant Worlds Volume 2 Page 25