His mother worked longer and longer hours and she seemed to fade before them. She still drank and her slim figure became shapeless and no longer filled her clothes. She strove to provide a hot meal every evening, even though Morgan and Tyler rarely cared about it. She introduced touches of vintage, and even antique, furniture to the tiny flat and tried to create a space that resisted the concrete brutalism of the building around.
The years passed. Tyler grew tall and girls began to notice him. He started at the local secondary, making the commute each morning with gangs of other youths from the same estate. He kicked balls in the playground and supported Hibs and got into brawls. He played truant on Duddingston golf course, loitered in packs in the city centre at weekends, and kissed girls with bubble-gum-flavoured mouths on the edges of Holyrood Park. And he learned about the Pantheon. Kids talked about it in the playground and doodled images of Vikings and Hoplites in their maths books. They bought the stickers on sale at newsagents and offered themselves in tribal allegiance to one or other of the Palatinates. Tyler would write Valhalla on his hand and his mother would react with fury and slap him and try to scrub it off.
Morgan moved further into her teens and Tyler and his mother started to lose her. She grew unaccountably angry about everything. She would speak to their mother like dirt and stay out late every night. Swaggering boys collected her at the door and when she returned to their shared bedroom, Tyler would lie awake listening to her bang around and he knew she had been drinking. She smoked wantonly even when their mother shouted at her to do it out on the walkway and one time the police escorted her home. She could hardly stand and her mother whispered her apologies to the officers.
‘Please forgive her,’ she said, although they were already leaving.
When Morgan reached sixteen, she changed again and her estrangement took on a new ominous note. She had hung around with boys her own age on the estate for long enough already, drinking and copulating, but now she started to meet new men. Older, quieter, more powerful. She stopped drinking. Became serious and earnest. Spoke with new condescension to her mother. Disappeared for entire nights and returned with bruising which she flaunted. She chattered furtively to her girlfriends and they treated her with awe.
Tyler himself grew wilder in response. At twelve he was smoking and playing truant from school. By thirteen his evenings were fuelled with cheap lager. By fourteen he lived for hard spirits, soft drugs and older girls. He stayed away from the flat most of his waking hours, roaming the estate with his gang, torn between endless tracts of boredom and occasional explosions of violence.
Morgan left school, but didn’t bother with a job. She seemed to have money without the need to work and she spoiled Tyler with gifts. A widescreen television, a games console, a new laptop. Whenever a purchase materialised, their mother would steadfastly ignore it and refuse to allow Morgan to contribute to the household’s general expenses, saying she wanted none of her dirty money. So instead Morgan surreptitiously began a monthly payment of £500 into Tyler’s account.
A year slipped by and Tyler first began to notice that there was a new presence in his sister’s life. She became more effusive and would tease him over breakfast and even hum as she flitted around the flat. Some evenings she departed not in her usual black garb, but dressed in smart clothes and smelling of perfume, and occasionally when she returned in the early hours he would lie in his bed and hear her speaking to a companion on the walkway outside in a tone he had never heard her use before.
One evening he was wandering back from a neighbouring block, when he caught sight of her outside their building. The light above the entrance had long ago been smashed, so he could only just make out the figure hovering in front of her, but he saw the kiss clearly enough. He made his way towards them, but when he called out she pushed the man away and he dissolved into the night.
Later that year, Morgan decided to begin a Foundation course at Leith College of Art. She appeared to take some pleasure in it and would show Tyler photos of her paintings on her phone. Then came the day of her graduation. It was an island of serenity amidst the usual strife and Tyler would always remember how beautiful his mother and sister looked in their finery. Ladies, both of them. He felt stupid in his tie and jacket, but he was swept up by the whole occasion and they celebrated Morgan’s artistic creations over champagne and speeches and photographs and family embraces.
But the hostility resumed and as Morgan grew fiercer and more defiant, their mother wilted. Her natural beauty became hollowed out. Her skin dried and cracked like the bed of a stream in drought. Her eyes spoke of long-lost hurt and dark fears.
One afternoon Morgan used a felt-tip to draw a circular symbol on Tyler’s hand and whispered about Valhalla in the same thrilled manner they had used when they were young. Their mother caught her doing it and became hysterical, swearing she would go to the police. ‘Someone has to do something to save you!’
Morgan reacted with fury, grabbing her mother’s arms and pushing her back against the wall. ‘Don’t ever threaten me with the police,’ she shouted. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’
Morgan didn’t return that night and their mother paced until dawn, drinking gin. She tried to kiss him when he rose, but he was hurt and angry about everything and pushed her away. ‘I made a call last night, Tyler. To the one person who can help your sister. She mustn’t be allowed to carry on this way. It has to stop before someone gets hurt. It must stop.’
She took her coat and stepped out into the grey morning light.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I have a meeting with someone.’
‘Not the police?’
‘No, not the police. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.’
But she never was.
XII
As Tyler walked down The Mile to the usual meeting point at Bull’s Close, he peered ahead through the darkness and his breath billowed in the bitter air. In truth he hadn’t needed Freyja’s pep talk, though her words and her effort had surprised him. He had returned to his flat and found the Havamal sayings online and sat until the early hours reading them and pondering these pearls of wisdom calling from across the centuries. During the course of the Armatura he had doubted much about his abilities, his resilience, his very presence among the Electi, but he had never doubted his willingness to risk life and limb. He instinctively knew what was coming and – he supposed – he had always been ready for it.
But now he looked ahead to the meeting point and could see only three figures. No Thrall II – Brante, and no little Thrall VIII – Calder. 9.59 p.m. The cars would be pulling up in moments. Where are they? Not those two, surely?
He joined the other three and they nodded from under their layers. He could feel their eyes on him and realised that they all thought he might be the one not to show. He stared beyond them and spotted Brante striding up from the direction of Holyrood. Thank god, he thought and was surprised by the relief flooding through him. I don’t think I can do this without that man.
The Mercs pulled around the corner at the bottom of The Mile and came towards them. Tyler caught Brante’s eye and they both looked up the street, searching for the figure they hoped would materialise. The lead car pulled up beside them and the doors swung open. The others began stepping in.
Don’t do this. Not now, Tyler found himself mouthing to himself. Where are you?
The first vehicle pulled away and the second drew up. He refused to take his eyes from the street rising westward because she always came from that direction.
‘We have to go,’ Brante said grimly. ‘It is what it is.’
Tyler turned to the taller man. ‘Fuck,’ he whispered and the other man nodded his agreement. Tyler hunched and lowered himself into the back seat of the Merc.
Brante made to join him, then stopped himself. ‘Wait!’
Tyler sat forward and stared over the driver’s shoulder. She was coming at a half-run, blonde hair picking up the streetlights. Brante held t
he door for her and she dropped onto the seat next to Tyler, breathing rapidly. Thrall II closed the door and took the front seat.
As they moved away, Tyler glanced over at her. She looked back at him, eyes wide and serious, but neither spoke.
True to their word, during those final two weeks of November, Halvar and Freyja drilled the Thralls in the art of weapons handling. Each found themself provided with a hardened leather jerkin, gauntlets, a wooden sword and circular shield. In the first week, they practised only with the swords, learning how to grip the hilt, how to stand, how to step in and out, and how to thrust. The one now named Calder was dismayed by the weight of her weapon and Freyja explained that they were designed to be almost twice as heavy as the real things.
‘Learn to wield these burdensome instruments until you can strike without flaw and parry every blow brought against you, and when a true iron weapon is placed in your hand it will be to you as light as air.’
The corn sacks were again suspended from the ceiling and they trained hour after hour. Then they were split into pairs and taught to feint and parry, and the crack of wood hitting wood reverberated around the stone walls. The weight of the weapons exhausted them. Calder found she could barely lift her arm beyond the first thirty minutes of each session and they all left the vaults with shoulders that burned.
At the end of each night, Freyja and Halvar gave them a demonstration. The Thralls watched in silent wonder as their trainers each took a clumsy wooden sword and became in that moment a breed of warrior that their class hadn’t seen before, attacking without hesitation or reserve. There was a flowing beauty, as well as a latent ferocity. Halvar exhibited a grace none of the watching Thralls could have imagined as his booted feet danced, but Freyja was the true revelation. Her stern reserve dissolved and her face was lit with wild delight as she skipped around Halvar, dodging his blows and parrying his sword arm with such strength that it belied the sheer power of his strikes. Despite his own size and speed, it was she who was in control, stepping beyond his thrusts and stabbing at leisure, then jumping away again. Halvar was like a bear enraged by a wasp and it wasn’t lost on the Thralls just how many times the wood of Freyja’s weapon made contact with his exposed torso and just how much blood would have been spilt had her blade been iron and honed to a brilliant cutting edge.
The second week, they were introduced to their shields. These were circular and designed in varying sizes to ensure each warrior – tall or short – could be protected from chin to knee. They were made from lime wood, with an iron boss in the centre of the face and an iron grip riveted to the reverse. They were practice shields. The real things would be covered in hardened leather, rimmed in iron, and painted. First they were taught to soak up blows. They would stand braced while a partner used their wooden sword to strike the shield. A hefty hit often smashed the shield back into their bodies and Halvar would bellow at them to hold firm until their arms were blue and ready to drop. Then they learned how to move and circle while holding the shield and how to manoeuvre it to defend attacks from differing angles. Finally, they were presented with their swords again and shown how to thrust over, under and around the rims. It was torture. They were shaken and bruised as they staggered home, but each time they returned a little stronger, a little faster and a little more deadly.
They no longer carried the Roman numerals on their shoulders. Instead, each was referred to by their new name and treated as though they had been given these at birth. Tyler had to make a physical effort to remember them and would recite each under his breath. Tall Brante, taking to the skills of sword handling like a duck to water; Erland, formerly Thrall VII, with his broken and bandaged nose, who maintained a new deeper sullenness; hefty Thrall X, now Hertha, throwing herself into the tasks; bull-necked Thrall XII – Vidar, crashing into the duels bereft of finesse but with the force of a bus; and then remote little cold water Calder, pale, beautiful, delicate, agile, fleet, tough, wordless, and utterly enigmatic.
And what of Punnr the Weakling? He approached the training with a new indignant anger, determined to show Halvar that the sobriquet was poorly chosen. He was thankful that the others hadn’t learned the meaning and didn’t think to ask. They had enough on their minds and simply accepted that thin Thrall VI, who had battled to a standstill against his feeble limbs and overcome every challenge thrown at him, was now to be known as Punnr.
XIII
Princes Street Gardens and St Andrew Square were filled with the bustle of Christmas Markets. Wooden stalls spawned everywhere, hung with lanterns and filled with trinkets. Ice rinks were laid over the grass, spruce arrayed in regimented lines and a huge Ferris wheel given leave to shoot upwards beside the Scott Memorial, like a vast alien weed seeking to smother the carefully nurtured architecture around it. The night air became redolent with the heavy scents of mulled wine, spice candles and fried onions. On cue, the weather also joined the festive spirit and saturated everything with heavy squalls.
On the first Thursday of the month, the six Thralls were given new joining instructions. Gather on Waverley Bridge at four in the afternoon.
‘If any of you whelps have commitments,’ Halvar said, ‘get yourselves excused. We’ll wait for no one.’
The daylight was just dissolving beyond Corstorphine, washed away by the rain, when they assembled on the Bridge a few dozen yards from the fumes of the ever-present tourist buses. Brante had a huge maroon and turquoise striped scarf coiled around his neck and he was growing his own small musketeer beard to match Punnr’s, but set against his shaved head, the effect was more Ali Baba. Punnr’s cuts were healing and he no longer sported a plaster beneath his eye, but his lips remained tender. Vidar was smoking, his bulk hunched into a leather jacket. Calder peeked from the recesses of a fur-lined hood and nudged closer to Hertha who had opened a large umbrella and was trying to shield them both from the blustery wind. Erland stood a few steps detached, his coat collar zipped up to his bandaged nose and his usual hoodie pulled over his head.
‘Well, well,’ said Halvar as he approached from the Old Town. ‘Don’t you lot look the spitting image of battle-hardened soldiers. I love the umbrella. Essential piece of kit. You must remember to take that with you into a shieldwall.’ He wore a bomber jacket and a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. ‘Follow me.’
They crossed the road and strode down the sloping entrance to Waverley Station. The concourse was filled with evening commuters and smelt of warm doughnuts. Freyja was waiting for them. ‘Platform 20,’ she said simply.
Punnr twisted his head up to the boards and located platform 20. It showed only two destinations: Stirling and Inverness.
Halvar stopped beside a wall and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Got any more of those?’ he asked Vidar. The Thrall pulled out a pack and offered it to Halvar. He took it, then dropped it and ground the box under his boot.
‘What the…?’ Vidar exclaimed hotly.
‘What about you?’ Halvar demanded of Punnr and stamped on that box as well. ‘Both of you take a last drag on the one in your mouth and then get rid of it.’
‘Why?’
Halvar glared at Punnr. ‘You ever heard of a ninth-century Viking with a Camel in his gob? In the Horde we find other, more direct methods to kill ourselves. Smoke them in your own time. In the Pantheon you’re clean.’
Freyja led the way down the platform. She wore boots with higher heels than usual, which rapped out a staccato tattoo as she strode. She had a tartan woollen shawl around her shoulders and a small leather bag, and she looked every inch the affluent lady-about-town. The train was already waiting. It was twelve carriages long and they had to walk the whole length of the platform to board the rearmost. It was the last of three first-class carriages and it was empty. They filed through the sliding door into the quiet, air-conditioned interior and then hovered in the gangway as Halvar and Freyja seated themselves together at a table halfway down. The Thralls didn’t know whether they were supposed to sit as a group or maintain the caref
ul separation they had cultured over the preceding weeks.
‘So who’s with me?’ Brante asked as he made a decision and sat himself down at one table of four. Calder placed herself next to him, Punnr took the window seat opposite and Hertha pushed her large frame down beside him. Vidar and Erland took the two seats across the aisle. It seemed right. They had been through much together and it was time they were allowed to act as a group.
Halvar eased himself along the aisle and they were half expecting him to scatter them to the far ends of the train. ‘So ladies, you’ve no doubt noticed that this isn’t our usual routine. We’re going on a little trip out of the city. This carriage is ours. No one else will be joining us. Food and drink will be coming round shortly, so I suggest you relax and enjoy the journey while you can.’
‘Where are we going?’ Erland asked.
‘Now, you hardly expect me to answer that, do you?’
‘Is it just for this evening?’ said Hertha.
‘We’ll be away for six days.’
‘Six days?’
Halvar nodded. ‘It’s time for the final challenges of the Armatura.’
‘But what about our jobs?’ demanded Calder. ‘I’m expected in the office tomorrow morning.’
‘Everything’s been sorted. You are all excused for a week and no one will miss you.’
‘But I have clients…’ She trailed off when she saw the look in his eye.
‘I’ll repeat for your benefit, madam. Everything is sorted.’
A new thought occurred to her. ‘I’ve nothing with me. Only the clothes I’m wearing.’
The Wolf Mile Page 9