The Wolf Mile

by C. F. Barrington

  Once again Sveinn’s Mead Hall was deserted and the fire burned unattended, but they sensed other company hidden somewhere in the heights of the keep. They washed in bowls of hot water they discovered in their rooms and returned to find a feast laid out. Nettle soup, roast venison and duck, chicken poached in wine, honey crumpets, warm bread. They drank mead and ale and wine, and one by one dropped into unconsciousness around the fire.

  The next day, Halvar let them rest. There was no kick at dawn and when Punnr opened his eyes daylight was streaming through the windows, accompanied by the clatter of rain. They stirred slowly and let the morning drift. Halvar finally roused them to begin sword and shield training in a line down the hall. Later he showed them how to lock shields with their neighbour and how to advance as a unit. They practised and he cuffed them when they got it wrong, but they could see he was pleased with their progress. They continued the following day, glad not to be hiking in the rain. Freyja demonstrated how they should stab to the right in a shieldwall, rather than ahead. The whole formation relied on teamwork. Each individual stabbed at the foe to the right of his shield, thus protecting his neighbour in the line, while his companion on the left also struck right, so protecting his own front. They worked at it hour after hour and at the back of all their minds was a conviction that they would soon be facing the Perpetuals again.

  His mother had been hit by the van as she walked from their estate. Eyewitnesses said it was a non-descript white Ford Transit which mounted the pavement and flung her against a wall, but no one had the presence of mind to obtain the number plate before it roared away.

  The first Tyler knew of anything amiss was when his form teacher pulled him aside to tell him that his sister was waiting in the Headmistress’ office. Wild horses would never drag Morgan back to that school, so Tyler knew something was dreadfully wrong and his fears were confirmed when he saw her perched on the little sofa opposite the secretary’s desk, with shaking hands and wordless defeat in her eyes.

  Morgan, he learned, had already been at the coroner’s for two hours waiting to identify the body in advance of a post-mortem examination. Early conclusions were that their mother had died of massive internal bleeding in the ambulance at the site of the hit and run. Tyler accompanied his sister home and they drank sweet tea while they awaited the arrival of their aunt and uncle. Morgan quizzed him about what had been said before their mother’s departure, but other than that she was quiet, mechanically clearing up kitchen things and tidying the sitting room, as though getting it ready for their mother’s return.

  It took four days to complete the autopsy and then Morgan – as the formal adult next-of-kin – received the death certificate and was able to agree the release of the body to a local funeral director’s. They all went in their uncle’s car to the funeral parlour and were escorted into the chapel of rest which was cold, and some distant part of Tyler’s brain told him this was necessary because of the dead flesh. His mother’s face looked surprisingly peaceful, but there was a sheen on her skin, as if it had been varnished, and the colour was yellowy white, like gloss paint left too many years without a fresh coat.

  They refused to go with their aunt to her house in the Borders. The police visited on two occasions to ask background questions and to state that their enquiries hadn’t yet led them to identify the driver of the van. Tyler spent his time out on the estate walking alone, letting his legs take him where they willed.

  The funeral took place on a slate-grey Monday. A blustery wind whipped at the coattails of the undertakers and a few spots of rain sought out the downturned faces of the mourners as they filed into the chapel alongside the funeral parlour. It was a small group, just colleagues from the supermarket where their mother had manned the checkout and a smattering of friends from the estate. Morgan exuded tragic strength, but there was a vulnerability to Tyler which he had striven to hide as he gave the reading. His voice had cracked twice and he had been forced to pause, staring at the bible verses, never looking up from the lectern at the faces before him.

  Over the coming weeks, Morgan dealt with the many legal details without fuss. They received visits from Social Services who questioned Tyler. They looked into his schooling and Morgan dispatched herself to the Job Centre. Eventually, after interminable bureaucracy, she was able to sign a new tenancy agreement with the local council which allowed them to remain in the flat.

  Tyler reached sixteen and thrust a departing finger at a school that was just as pleased to see the back of him. He signed on and made half-hearted attempts at employment, but he could stick at nothing for long and the money his sister provided only encouraged him to grow desultory and wanton, and to lose sight of any direction that his life might have hoped to take.

  The one activity that did arouse an interest in him was dabbling in soft drug deals around the estate. Such transactions were closely controlled by the local gangs and if they caught him he would be beaten to a pulp, yet the threat of this very real danger was his only natural high, the stimulus that got his heart beating and forced him out of the front door each night.

  XVI

  Calder hunched by the glowing embers of the fire in the Mead Hall. It was the fourth morning of their stay and she felt like hell without her coffee. Her body protested against the hardships, not only the rigours of training but also the unremitting pressure of the stone floor they lay on each night, the cold of which no quantity of furs could alleviate. She stretched her neck muscles. In these bitter dawns she would rather be anywhere than this lonely castle.

  Brante passed her a cup of warm water with honey and she sipped gratefully, watching the smoke from the fire loop up to the hole in the ceiling. She liked the tall man. A quiet care radiated from him and she found herself drawn to him, perhaps even pleased that this mad adventure had sent her life colliding into his. She hadn’t felt that way for many years about a man – certainly not Justin – and it frightened her that she might be letting a barrier down.

  Halvar was inspecting their wooden weapons stacked by one wall, but he seemed in no hurry to rouse the Thralls. She watched his hulking frame. His head was bent over a shield, his cropped hair matted and uncombed. His chin was covered in its usual stubble and it struck her that in all the months she had known him his beard had never grown longer, yet neither had it been shaved clean. She decided his unkempt look was, in fact, carefully cultivated. She studied the swirling tattoos on his massive arms and found herself wondering about his personal life.

  The Perpetuals had joined them around the flames the previous night. Together they had shared meat, bread and fruit and eased their fatigue with alcohol, but there had been no conversation. She could see from their hardened bodies and the way they nibbled their food that these Lost Children had endured regimes of discipline, asceticism and sacrifice. They took their lead from Ulf, who sat cross-legged and stared belligerently at the Thralls. At the end of the evening, the Perpetuals rose as one and departed and the remaining six settled in their furs and talked quietly, although mostly they were silent and, one by one, drifted off to sleep.

  They spent the morning outside duelling with wooden swords and shields under the watchful eyes of the Housecarls. At midday they stopped to eat bread and cheese and wash it down with cold water. Then Halvar led them back into the hall and they saw they were no longer alone. The fire had been raked and the benches cleared to the sides to leave a large area of empty stone floor. On the raised dais were three new figures. Two of them were Vigiles, helmeted to hide their faces. The third was clean-shaven, with short grey hair, fleshy cheeks and soft eyes, and dressed in purple robes like a priest. He sat on a chair on one side of the dais with a goblet of wine resting in his hand.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said as they lined up in front of the dais. ‘My name is Atilius, Praetor of the Pantheon. I have heard a great deal about the six of you.’ Then he waved to Halvar and sat back with a smile twitching on his lips.

  ‘Right, you bunch of clods, look sharp. Place your weapons where I�
��m standing. Then split yourselves in a circle.’

  Calder felt nervous adrenaline tickling up her spine as she complied. She noticed two tripods set up at opposite corners with video cameras mounted on them. They were being filmed.

  Punnr was next to her, unstrapping his shield. ‘Forget about the cameras,’ he murmured.

  ‘I will,’ she replied under her breath.

  The six of them sorted themselves and stood in a ring, facing the pile of weapons at the centre. Calder could sense the seated man behind her and, despite Punnr’s advice, she found herself wondering who was watching from beyond the cameras. She had Vidar on one side and Hertha on the other. Erland was across from her, with Brante and Punnr either side of him. She took a deep breath and steeled herself.

  Halvar strode around the wooden weapons. ‘If you receive a strike anywhere on your torso, you are out. Last one standing wins. Any questions?’ His expression dared them to venture any. ‘Good. You’ve an audience today, so don’t disappoint them.’ He strode to the edge of the circle, then turned to the seated man, who waved magnanimously. ‘Alright, you maggots,’ the Housecarl bellowed. ‘Begin!’

  Before she could react, Calder sensed Vidar and Hertha fly forward. Brante was already there, shouldering against Erland. Too late, her legs released her and she dashed after them, only then understanding what everyone else seemed to know, that half the battle would be won before weapons were even in hand.

  She caught movement at the corner of her eye and knew Hertha already had her wooden sword and was arcing it down onto her. Without thinking Calder hauled her shield above her stooping frame. She only had a half-hold on the grip, but it was enough to catch the blow. She grabbed her sword and sprang backwards from the melee. Hertha braced and came towards her and Calder realised Vidar was also singling her out. Both approached her with shields raised to their chins.

  Hertha launched herself and Calder had only an instant to bring her sword to parry. They locked together and pushed. Calder looked at the other girl’s face inches from her own. Over the weeks they had developed a quiet bond of friendship – of sisterhood among the men – but that didn’t hinder the competitive spirit driving them both. She shoved Hertha away and then crashed after her, pushing her several yards across the stones. The larger girl was off-balance and Calder knew she had her. She brought her sword arm through in a flowing stab, aiming below the raised shield and driving the point into her opponent’s stomach. Hertha grunted in exasperation.

  ‘A hit!’ Halvar bellowed. ‘Get yourself out of the fight, missy.’

  Calder didn’t even pause, she turned and brought her shield up, knowing already that Vidar must be taking his chance. His sword clattered against the wood and she scuttled backwards to give herself a moment of respite. They circled each other. Around them, she sensed the others struggling, and she heard Halvar calling again. Vidar stepped forward and lunged. He was so strong and she knew that any blow from him would seriously hurt, but he was also slow. She managed to bring her shield down and knock the wooden blade’s trajectory to one side. He tried again, stabbing at her right side, then bringing his shield forward in a punch. She gasped and back-pedalled.

  The motion brought her near Punnr. He was locked in a struggle with Erland and their momentum took them between her and Vidar. The pair seemed to have renewed their duel from the vault when Erland’s nose had been crushed. They had managed to wrap their shields around each other and were pressed so close that neither could find space to bring their swords to bear. They were snarling, teeth gritted. In her seconds of respite, she wondered where Brante was and realised with surprise that he was already beaten and leaning disconsolately against the far wall.

  In the same moment, Punnr pushed Erland away from him and with his sword arm free, he prepared to strike. But he was so focused on his opponent that he failed even to consider the remaining Thralls. Almost apologetically, Vidar took one step forward to Punnr’s back and poked him in the lower kidney with the end of his sword. Punnr turned with a look of surprise. The hall held its breath.

  ‘That’s a hit,’ said Halvar. ‘Get out of there, laddie.’

  Punnr kept his feet rooted in place. The adrenaline was still surging through him and he seemed unable to compute what had just happened. Erland had hit Brante right from the off, before the taller man had even picked up his weapon, and Punnr had been struggling with the bastard for all the rest of the exercise. He wasn’t prepared for it to be over so quickly – in this way. He gulped and tried to control the fire in his belly.

  Perhaps Erland should have contained his own fire. Instead he gloated at his conquered adversary. ‘You heard the Housecarl. Go on, piss off.’

  Something snapped in Punnr. With a yell, he launched once more into the man, lunging with his sword. Erland was taken backwards, but stayed on his feet. Punnr struck again and again, swearing aloud, not caring about the others, just wanting to hurt him. He felt Halvar’s bulk driving in to separate them and began striking Halvar instead. Thump, thump. He swung at Halvar, his sword hitting him on both shoulders.

  ‘Bastard!’ he found himself yelling.

  Then Halvar was in his face, a huge fist blocking his next strike and the other one grabbing him by the throat. ‘Stand down!’ he bellowed in Punnr’s face. ‘Stand. Down!’

  Punnr pushed himself away, but lowered his weapon. ‘Why should I?’ he spat back. ‘We play your bloody games again and again. Never questioning. Just doing whatever Lord Halvar says! I’m sick of it! All you ever tell us is we’re going to have to fight the Perpetuals and only seven of us will succeed. If that’s what all these months have been about, just to get us ready to fight those fucking Perpetuals, then I’m sick of your bloody games. Just let us get on with it!’

  ‘Why, you little runt…’ Halvar stepped towards him.

  ‘Perhaps a moment of calm?’ The voice was soft, yet it cut through the hall and stilled everyone. The purple-robed figure had walked to the edge of the dais and was watching proceedings, still with a slight smile on his lips. ‘Well, well, Punnr.’ His smile broadened, though it was glacial. ‘So now we meet. And I must say I’m not disappointed.’

  Punnr stood motionless, breathing heavily. He could sense Halvar glaring at him and Erland standing against the wall, rocking from side to side. It was obvious from the young man’s body language that in those last few seconds, any loyalty he felt to his fellow Thralls lay shredded like a rabbit’s carcass beneath the crows.

  ‘You are frightened,’ said Atilius. ‘It is natural. You are frightened and you want to know what the future brings. I understand. So ask me what you wish.’

  Punnr looked around him uncertainly. Brante was rigid. Calder paler than new snow. He turned back to the Praetor. ‘Will we face our deaths against the Perpetuals?’

  ‘Only time and circumstance will determine that.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  The hall was still. None of them had expected the answer to be so direct. Punnr sought for words. ‘How will we face them?’

  ‘That has yet to be confirmed. The rules of the Sine Missione are fluid and change each year depending on the number of initiates. Some seasons Valhalla may only have one or two Thralls, sometimes none at all, depending on their Blood Funds. But I’ll tell you this. Tomorrow at dawn you will enter the field of the Sine Missione and you’ll be expected to seek out a tower. When dusk comes we will collect you, and the seven who are in the tower will be taken forward to the Oath-Taking.’

  ‘Will we be armed when we enter the field? With real blades?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will the Perpetuals?’

  ‘No.’

  Punnr felt his exasperation rising again, but could find no words for another question. Atilius watched him, then spoke again. ‘All warriors are frightened before conflict. Even our most experienced warlords. But that is no sign of weakness. I’ve monitored your progress over these weeks and I’ve watched you today. You are ready to face wh
at lies ahead. You all are. You have come this far readily enough without turning back. So don’t falter now. Have faith. You have fire in your bellies. You are ready.’

  He stepped awkwardly down from the dais and suddenly beamed and clapped his hands. ‘Enough talk. You are fine warriors. Bring them wine!’

  The spell broke. Freyja disappeared through the door at the end of the hall and returned with a tray of beakers and a clay jug. She began distributing the wine among the group, serving the robed man first. The two Vigiles seemed unmoved by what they had seen and went about dismantling the cameras without eye contact.

  Halvar approached Punnr, his eyes hard but his voice low. ‘You know what you just felt, boy? Battle rage. It’s powerful stuff and I suggest you bottle it, ready for tomorrow.’

  Very slowly the tension leaked from the room and Calder felt herself begin to tremble as the waves of adrenaline that had flooded her body receded. Hertha approached her and smiled cautiously. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Calder replied dully, sinking onto a bench.

  Hertha hesitated, then sat next to her. ‘How have we got ourselves to this point?’

  ‘By turning up every night, by getting in the cars. We’ve allowed it to happen.’

  ‘Are we fools?’

  Calder looked at her friend. She could see the girl was frightened, but she herself felt strangely calm. ‘No, we’re not. We’ve taken this path with open minds and they’ve made no secret of the risks. I think we know it’s right to be here, otherwise we would have stepped away already.’ She reached out and squeezed the girl’s arm. ‘You stick with me tomorrow and you’ll be okay. We’ll all stick together.’