The Wolf Mile

by C. F. Barrington

  ‘You shall be Punnr.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Thrall VII. Next.’

  Thrall VII’s nose was encased in bandages and his lips were swollen. Radspakr observed him wryly. ‘It pleases me to see that your training is taken so seriously. You shall be Erland, the outsider. Thrall VIII, step forward.’

  The little blonde took her turn. Radspakr studied her for several seconds, taking in her slight frame and sculpted features. ‘You have done well,’ he said. ‘You shall be Calder.’

  ‘Yes, sir. May I ask what it means?’

  ‘It is ancient Norse for cold waters.’

  She considered the description. ‘Is there a reason for that choice?’

  Radspakr had been about to call the next number, but her question arrested him and he peered at her. ‘I receive the naming options from higher levels in the Pantheon, from which I may make my choice. I understand in your case that my selection is not unapt.’

  She stepped back and Thrall X was called. ‘You shall be Hertha. Powerful woman.’

  Finally, bull-necked Thrall XII. ‘You shall be Vidar, the fighter in the woods.

  ‘Learn these names,’ he commanded once they were back in line. He returned the notebook to Freyja and dropped his spectacles into his pocket. ‘Henceforth you will forget your numbers and use only these new titles. It is an honour I bestow.’ He turned and strode back to the platform. ‘You are the final few in this process. The true Electi. You are not, however, the only ones seeking recruitment to the rank of Valhalla Thegn. There are others who will challenge you for a place at the officers’ table. Others who will seek to surpass you. Halvar, signal that they may enter.’

  Halvar stepped to the broken door and beckoned impatiently into the shadows. The six Thralls stood transfixed. From the darkness emerged new figures. One, two. They kept coming. Six, seven. They walked in a line off the platform and down the centre of the warehouse, stopping across from the newly named Thralls. There were eight in total. It was hard to see them clearly, but they looked young, perhaps between fifteen and eighteen. Seven males and one female. They were dressed in the same black T-shirts, trousers and boots which appeared to be the regulation garb for trainees during the Armatura, but their appearance differed in one dramatic way. Each carried a wooden sword and circular shield.

  They faced the group of six. They had grim, hard faces and sinewy bodies. They stood with swords and shields lowered, at ease with the implements, holding them with casual confidence. There was a brooding silence and Radspakr let it extend. He was enjoying this new surprise.

  ‘Let me introduce you to your competition. Please welcome the best graduates from our Valhalla Schola,’ he said eventually. ‘They are Perpetuals. The Disappeared. The Lost Children.’

  Tyler felt prickles along his spine. Lost Children! Each of them knew what that meant. Across Britain statistics suggested a child disappeared every three minutes. Tens of thousands a year, mostly aged between ten and fourteen. The cases with higher profiles were those where youngsters ran away from otherwise ‘normal’ families, but much less was known about the thousands lost from deep within the bowels of the care system, from residential homes, temporary placements, foster families. The majority were found quickly, but there were many others who slipped between the cracks and were never seen again, at least under their old identities.

  The online rumour-mongers were rife with speculation that some of these youngsters ended up in the Pantheon. Those with the best aptitudes, they said, were whisked away to secret Scholae. The media called them the Lost Children, although in truth many were already adolescents. There were unproven accusations that the care sector colluded with Pantheon Venarii parties in their search for viable new recruits, or at least that it did little to prevent the loss of these individuals from an already broken system. At the Pantheon Scholae, it was said, the Lost Children spent their formative years closeted from the outside world in an environment of discipline, learning and training. Those who didn’t reach the required standards were released back into the community, often with far better prospects than if they hadn’t been taken in the first place. Those deemed of suitable quality were put through rigorous selection criteria in the hope of joining the ranks of one of the Palatinates. The Scholae were the Pantheon’s academies. The breeding grounds for each successive wave of warriors.

  Tyler stared across at the motionless figures. They seemed almost mystical. The manifestation of so many rumours.

  ‘I don’t have a good feeling about this,’ Brante said quietly.

  ‘Perpetuals!’ Freyja shouted with a parade-ground voice. ‘Present arms!’

  Eight shields locked into place and eight sword arms swept up. The figures hunched as one, took a single unified step forward on their leading foot and then held motionless again. Their eyes bore into the six Thralls from above their shield rims. The wooden swords looked clumsy, but they held them without so much as a quiver.

  ‘Perpetuals! Advance!’

  The figures marched in unison across the warehouse floor. Eight moonlit shadows coming straight at the six Thralls. ‘Halt and brace!’ They stopped dead ten paces away and hunched into their shields as if preparing to spring.

  ‘I really don’t have a good feeling,’ whispered Brante, although the tall man stood strong and proud at the centre of the Thralls.

  Freyja stepped down from the platform and placed herself at the end of the line. ‘Perpetuals! Left present!’ They spun towards her and brought their swords down in swift sweeps. ‘Right present!’ They turned on their rear foot, raised their sword arms and swept again in the opposite direction. Each motion was timed to perfection. ‘Advance face! Flank right strike!’ The sword arms swung out to the right, but at the same instant they each raised their shields across their left shoulder, so that the swinging sword of their neighbour struck the wood. There was a single resounding crack as the weapons hit as one.

  ‘Advance face. Advance attack!’ The eight figures spun back to face the Thralls, then came at them across the ten paces, cutting left, right, high, low with their sword arms, and letting out a single cry. Just before the moment of impact with the Thralls, they halted, presented their swords to attention and stopped motionless. To Radspakr’s esteem, not one of the newly named Thralls had taken a step back. They stood rigid and faced the advance, and now both lines were a hair’s breadth from each other.

  There was silence.

  Tyler found himself eyeball to eyeball with a youth of about eighteen. He had a small effeminate mouth with lips that almost pursed, a weak chin, a crop of crudely cut black hair, thick eyebrows and pimples on his neck. There was a hint of a moustache forlornly growing on his upper lip, like moss on a moon-baked stone. He seemed an unlikely warrior were it not for the sneering flash in his black eyes.

  Tyler couldn’t resist the unspoken challenge. ‘Is that all you got?’ he whispered.

  Surprise flashed through the other man’s face and then he took in Tyler’s wounds. ‘Your mum give you a thrashing?’

  ‘Silence!’ Freyja ordered from the end of the line. ‘Perpetuals! Slope weapons!’

  The eight figures stepped back one step and brought their swords up so they rested on their shoulders. The man hadn’t taken his eyes from Tyler. ‘Look out for me,’ he said just loud enough for Tyler to catch the threat in his words.

  ‘Perpetuals, retire!’ Still facing the Thralls, they walked smartly backwards and halted. ‘And stand easy!’ Once more they lowered their shields into a casual hold and waited motionless.

  Radspakr strolled between the lines with deliberate steps. ‘So, my young ones, introductions over. I trust you are all now bosom companions. I will make this simple for you to understand. There are fourteen of you standing here tonight. Thralls and Perpetuals. When the Armatura is over at the end of next month, there will be but seven of you presented to Charon the Ferryman for the Oath-Taking and for the crossing of the River Styx. That is the number permitted by Valhalla’s Bl
ood Funds this season. So you each know the odds. You must each be stronger than your neighbour. Faster. Better. More ruthless. Only seven will make it.

  ‘Thralls,’ he continued, turning to the group of six. ‘You will train with wooden weapons like those you have seen the Perpetuals demonstrate tonight. You will learn to use them in single combat and as a unit. You will practise until the shield and sword and stake are parts of your own bodies, until you do not feel their weight, until they are extensions of your own limbs. And then you will face the Perpetuals. And we will care not whether you are Thrall or Perpetual, only which of you is stronger than your neighbour. Which seven will stand and which seven will fall.’

  He dropped into silence and let it hang in the air. A candle spluttered. Something flapped high up in the ceiling. He waved his hand towards Freyja.

  ‘Perpetuals!’ she called. ‘Left face!’ They spun towards her on their heels. ‘And dismiss.’ They strode back to the platform, filed through the broken door and were gone.

  Radspakr turned his attention on the Thralls. ‘As I have already said, you have done well to reach this point and in recognition I have given you names tonight. The Armatura is reaching its climax, but in the time remaining your training will become much more testing. And there will be great challenges to surmount. However, you are not yet Oathsworn. If any in your number is doubtful, I urge you to listen to that voice and dispose of your amulet before it becomes impossible.’ He studied them, but no one stirred. They were like granite in their wordless response. ‘So be it.’ He strode away to the platform. ‘Some of you I will see again. May Odin fortify you.’

  He disappeared through the doorway and the group stirred. Halvar came over. ‘Okay, you heard the man. We move to sword and shield practice now.’ He grinned unexpectedly. ‘Don’t worry about those turds,’ he waved towards the door. ‘By the time Freyja and I have finished with you, you’ll whip their arses!’

  As the Thralls began to head to the opposite entrance where the drivers waited with blindfolds, Tyler dropped back next to Halvar. ‘Radspakr never defined my name.’

  ‘Defined?’

  ‘Punnr. He never explained the meaning.’

  Halvar peered at him. ‘It’s old Norse for weakling.’

  Tyler stopped in his tracks. ‘Are you winding me up?’

  ‘Your arm. It’s been holding you back. Giving you trouble. So Radspakr thought it a suitable name.’

  ‘On Monday, in case you’ve forgotten, I broke Thrall VII’s nose.’

  ‘Aye, you did laddie. And he’s called Erland now.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck what he’s called. Radspakr had no right to name me that!’

  Halvar squared up to him. He was several inches taller and he peered down into Tyler’s eyes, but with a certain grim amusement. ‘So what you going to do, Punnr The Weakling? Cry about it, or prove the bastard wrong?’

  XI

  On the next occasion they entered the vault, the room was empty except for Freyja sitting on a stool, waiting for them. Her braids were tied back and her burnt-cinnamon eyes glinted in the candlelight.

  ‘Sit,’ she said extending her arms to indicate the circle she expected them to form on the floor in front of her. They glanced at each other, but obeyed wordlessly, dropping down and crossing their legs like a class ready for a story. There was none of the usual equipment. No hanging punch bags, dumbbells, lateral bars. No hexagon drawn across the flagstones. Only Freyja looking at them and waiting for them to settle.

  ‘It’s just me tonight,’ she said eventually. ‘Halvar’s excused himself because he’s no good at this stuff. This evening I have a few things to say and you’re going to listen. This isn’t an open forum. I won’t be fielding questions. But what I have to say is a vital part of the process. So I will speak, you will listen, then you will depart and each do as your conscience demands.’

  She focused on a flagstone in front of her as she thought about her next words. No one stirred.

  ‘People die in the Pantheon. Let’s not pretend otherwise.’ She said it simply and raised her eyes to look around the circle. ‘I think you know that. I think most of the world out there—’ she waved towards the ceiling to indicate the city above ‘—knows that. But there is the romance of death; and there is the reality of death. And they are two very different things.

  ‘You saw the Perpetuals. You watched their skill with the training swords. You heard Radspakr and Halvar telling you it’s time for your own weapons training to begin. And you’re not fools. You know that although you may start with a blunt wooden stick, you’ll graduate to razor-sharp iron. And when your foe also grasps such a weapon – well, that’ll be the moment you fight for your life.’

  She dropped her eyes again and the Thralls could see her trying to structure her words. ‘When Radspakr had you all gathered in the cellar at the start of this Season and he gave his speech about how people seem to love the Pantheon, I was standing at the back and his words resonated with me. Over the last two decades, the world has got used to living with the Pantheon, especially in those cities where we operate most – Rome, Istanbul, Beijing, Budapest, Edinburgh. These populations have grown accustomed to our activities. They know on winter nights the Palatinates may roam between the hours of Conflict and they have learned to avoid us and get on with their lives.

  ‘Many of them still dislike us and some are vocal in their opposition, but for others we have become something they welcome. A seam of excitement running beneath the surface of their lives. They follow us like they would a sports team – researching the results of our confrontations, surmising on the team strengths, debating who will be victorious at the end of each Season. Hell, we’ve even become tourist attractions. The cities brag about hosting their Palatinates, hoping to fleece visitors for every buck they own. And we ask ourselves why? Why does the world put us on pedestals? Why are people excited by our violence? Why do kids play Pantheon and why do their parents let them?

  ‘We find these questions hard to answer because we’re too involved. We’re unable to step back and remember what the Pantheon looked like from afar. But if we could step back, we would see an irony – that it’s not in the Pantheon where death is an obsession, it’s outside in the everyday world. There’s barely a film in the cinema or a drama on television or even a plot in a book which doesn’t include death. We’re all fixated by it. It fascinates us as much as it scares us. And when it passes us at arm’s length – when it’s part of a story, part of something bigger – well, we romanticise it. We make it glorious.’

  She looked up once more and searched their faces. ‘The reality of facing death is very different when it’s coming right at you. And that’s why I am tasked with giving you this talk. Next time you enter this vault you’ll be given your training swords and you will begin your final journey towards becoming Weapons Worthy. We don’t intend to waste our time on Electi who haven’t understood the reality of death. If you aren’t comfortable with this, then don’t come back. We’ll give your places to the Perpetuals and we can all move on.’

  She took a deep breath and bit the bottom of her lip in a manner that made her look vulnerable. ‘When I reached this point in my own selection many years ago, I was given this speech by my instructors and I went away and I found it hard to come to terms with what had been said. I almost left the process because I didn’t think I should be forced to face danger.

  ‘But then I had a revelation. I was raised among the orchards and terraced hills of the Kullu Valley in Himachal Pradesh, northern India, and in my teens I began to look higher and took to climbing in the Parvati Himalayas. After graduating from Delhi University, I came to Edinburgh to study, but what I really discovered were your mountains. Every weekend I packed off to a crag somewhere. In the summers I’d climb the warm faces of Rannoch Wall, Polldubh Crags, even the Cioch on Skye, until the last of the daylight was stretching the world into shadow. And in the winters you would find me on the ice walls of Glencoe and the Northern Corrie
s of Ben Nevis. I loved it, but one loose piton, one weak rope, one broken handhold, one ice axe not properly embedded – and it would have been over. In climbing circles they say, If you don’t watch your step, the biggest obstacle to your ambition will be the fact that you’re dead. So there was my revelation. I discovered I had already faced the reality of death on innumerable occasions.

  ‘And that got me thinking. I realised many ordinary people voluntarily place themselves in harm’s way. It happens all around us, all the time. Every recruit to the Armed Forces. Every fireman. Every mountain or lifeboat rescuer. Every deep-water fisherman. And then there are the adrenaline sports junkies for whom the risk of death only makes their experience sweeter – motor racers, parachutists, white-water kayakers, big wave surfers. The list goes on. We strain every sinew to take us to the very edges of life, because that’s where we most keenly feel its fragility.

  ‘So – I suppose I am trying to say to you – that what the Pantheon asks of us is not so exceptional.

  ‘A thousand years ago, our ancient Viking forebears lived by a creed called the Havamal – the sayings of the High One – and the eighty verses are as relevant today as they were then. A cowardly man thinks he will ever live, if warfare he avoids; but old age will give him no peace, only spears may spare him.’ She let the words hang in the air. ‘Think on this.’

  She was silent for many moments and when she spoke again, she was once more steely and regal. ‘You may stand.’ They fumbled to rise and kept their eyes averted from one another.

  ‘The cars are waiting. Depart in silence and I suggest that if you’re not at peace with what I’ve said or what we will expect of you – then don’t return. Goodnight, Electi.’

  After a year accommodated near the seafront in Edinburgh’s Portobello, the Maitlands moved again, although their mother had seemed reluctant. The sea air disappeared and they moved closer to a strange shaped hill near the centre of the city, but this time their new home was many floors up in a grey concrete block. Their front door opened onto a shared walkway and when Tyler peered over the parapet, the ground would yawn up at him from an infinite distance below. There were many children here. His sister met new friends and spent hours absent after school. Tyler got to know other youngsters and they ran lawless up and down the blocks, playing, joking, boasting and fighting.