The Wolf Mile

by C. F. Barrington

  Orders were given further up the column and the Hersirs of each litter steered the Horde from order of march into line of attack. Freyja’s scouts and Halvar’s Wolves broke into two halves and deployed to the wings. The Hammer Regiment formed up in three lines of thirty-two in the centre, and Storm Regiment ranged behind and upslope. Surrounded by his Bodyguard and accompanied by his Thane, Sveinn strode around the Hammer Shieldmen and took up position ahead of the ranks, looking across the empty field to the opposite flaming fence line and the platform beyond with the Lion standard.

  Punnr followed and stood just behind the royal group. He wished he knew which of the masked warriors were Calder and Brante. He felt hugely alone and would have given much to have them by his shoulder, just as they had been on that final summit in the Sine Missione. Since that day, Brante had settled well into the ranks of the Wolves, spending long hours in their company training, drinking and cajoling. When he had first learned of Punnr’s selection as the White Warrior, he had joined his fellow troopers in raucous approval, but as he had come to appreciate the real risk inherent in the role, he had been more subdued and would watch Punnr with the proprietary eye of an elder brother.

  ‘Good luck,’ he had whispered earlier as they gathered in the tunnel.

  As for Calder, she spoke little to Punnr, but he would catch her big serious eyes upon him and when she had passed him in the tunnel, she had also whispered two words: ‘Be careful.’

  Sveinn interrupted his thoughts and beckoned him to his side. ‘An inspiring sight, is it not?’

  ‘It is, lord.’

  ‘Our foe always takes to the field last. Alexander loves to make a grand entrance.’

  Radspakr spoke. ‘I very much doubt Alexander has enough troops this year to make a grand entrance.’

  ‘What do your calculations suggest?’

  ‘A hundred and seventy, lord. Give or take a few.’

  ‘Still a force to be reckoned with.’

  ‘But much slimmer than when the Titans were in their pomp. We have the upper hand.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Sveinn turned again to Punnr. ‘The torches are fashioned from hazel. It’s a small nod to an ancient Viking tradition. Formal duels or battles were known as Holmgangs and they would fence off the fighting area with hazel staves, a bit like a boxing ring. Blood could only be spilt within this enclosure.’

  Movement on the opposite platform made him pause. Figures had climbed out of the night. Even at this distance, Punnr could see one of them wore long robes and a great golden mask with sunbeams bursting from the back of it. The Caelestis came to the near edge of the platform and stared out at the Valhalla Horde. Then he raised his arm and beckoned to the lip of the valley at the opposite end and all the Viking helmets craned to see.

  There was a purposeful pause, as if the moment was being drawn out for effect, and then soldiers began to stream over the rim. First came another Lion standard of Macedon, surrounded by a troop of thirty and headed by a sinewy figure in burnished armour. They moved at speed, dropping down the slope and through the flaming fence towards the Horde. Scarlet cloaks whipped behind them, matched by great scarlet horsehair plumes atop their bronze helmets. They carried light circular shields and spears. They came at a run, pulling seamlessly out into a single line that stretched across the centre of the field. At a wordless order they came to a halt and brought the spears up vertically against them, butts on the ground. In moments they were motionless.

  Sveinn leaned over to Punnr again. ‘Menes and the Companion Bodyguard.’

  ‘Cock-sucking pansies,’ Bjarke grunted angrily from behind.

  There were more figures approaching from the skyline. Again they numbered about thirty and came at a run over the rough ground, as agile as mountain goats in the darkness. They were dressed identically to the first group, but they carried bows. They broke into the flaming circle and split into two, deploying to each wing, then freezing motionless like the Companion Bodyguard.

  ‘That will be Parmenion and his archers, peltasts and scouts. I had expected more of them. Radspakr is correct. The Sky-Gods are few in number this year.’

  Now came a much larger mass of soldiers in disciplined ranks. They approached in a concentrated square down the slope, around the front of their platform and squeezed through the gap in the burning fence line. They approached the Horde at a steady pace behind their shields. A solid wall of bronze and scarlet. The cheek pieces of their plumed helmets wrapped around their faces, leaving only their mouths exposed, as well as the black holes for their eyes. Punnr saw they each held a spear of enormous length. The weapons were elevated to marching slope and seemed to touch the stars.

  ‘The eighteen-foot sarissas,’ Sveinn mused to Punnr, seeming to enjoy describing his foe. ‘Impossible to wield in battle without using both hands, so their shields are strapped to their forearms. How many do you count, Radspakr?’

  ‘Eight rows of twelve, lord. Ninety-six.’

  ‘Fewer each year. But are they still a match for our Hammer Regiment? What are your thoughts, Bjarke?’

  ‘I’ll cut off their balls and stamp them into the grass until they are nothing more than a stain.’

  ‘Hmm, well, Punnr, you had better get a good look at them before Jarl Bjarke turns them into soup. The Brigade of Hoplite Heavy Infantry, the Titan Phalanx, led by their colonel, Nicanor.’

  They marched with much greater order than Bjarke’s Shieldmen. Precise strides even on the rough ground. This time there was a shouted order and the Phalanx halted behind the line of Companion Bodyguard. The sarissas were lowered as one until their butts touched the ground and once more stillness spread across the field. Then another, much smaller group shot from the lip of the valley and ran lithely into the arena. These bore blue plumes and cloaks. They formed up as a unit on the rear left of the field, as far from the Horde as it was possible to get within the confines of the flaming fence.

  ‘I count only sixteen, Radspakr. It is as well, I think.’ Sveinn turned to Punnr and spoke quietly for his ears only. ‘Those – my White Warrior – are the Titan elite. The Sacred Band. Beware them, Punnr. Each one is worth five of mine. You see the figure out front? She is Agape, Captain of the Sacred Band. What I wouldn’t give to have her in my ranks.’

  Punnr stared at the little troop. He remembered Leiv speaking of how they had appeared in the last Grand Battle just at the moment when he thought his Wolves could take Alexander. How they had come from nowhere.

  His attention was wrenched back to the centre. From behind the mass of soldiers, four figures emerged and walked to the front of the lines. The foremost was tall, stately, dressed from head to toe in gold helmet, breastplate, shield, armguards and greaves. His plume and cloak were scarlet, trimmed with gold, and the Lion of Macedon was engraved on his breastplate. Punnr needed no telling that here stood Alexander.

  Behind him came a robed figure, more simply dressed in grey, with a small silver helmet, and next to him was a burly soldier, bearing the red cloak and plume of most of the assembled Titans.

  ‘Simmius, the Adjutant and Quartermaster of the Titan Palatinate,’ mused Sveinn. ‘The foe’s equivalent of our very own Radspakr. And the stouter fellow will be Cleitus, Colonel of the Companions and Alexander’s second in command. He is newly promoted since the death of Timanthes last Season and I have a suspicion he may be their weak link.’

  But Punnr wasn’t listening because his eyes were locked onto the final figure at the back of the group of four. This soldier was slighter and shorter. He wore a plumed helmet, armour and shield like all the others, but every piece was fashioned in brilliant white. He waited behind the other three and Punnr had the sensation of hidden eyes staring back at him. The Titan White Warrior.

  A snarl was growing from the ranks of Bjarke’s Shieldmen. They hadn’t appreciated the show put on by the Titans and they didn’t intend to remain an obedient audience. The noise grew. It sounded like the deep hum below a pylon, like a vast power barely contained, and, indeed,
the lines of Hammer Regiment were beginning to pulse. Individuals found full voice and hurled their own challenges across the divide. Warriors inched forward. Curses were spat and shouts became incoherent.

  Sveinn and Radspakr turned to watch. Punnr thought the whole regiment was on the brink of breaking order and falling upon the foe. He looked back to the Titans and was surprised to see their ranks still motionless. They could have been statues of bronze, indifferent to the hatred being thrown at them. Now there were voices of order among the Shieldmen and a low beat started in their rear ranks. They were smacking their weapons against their shields. It spread. In seconds the entire Regiment was crashing in unison and their Hammer standard was wrenched in wide arcs above the rear ranks as every throat spewed curses until it was hoarse.

  From within the body of troops three men emerged. They carried no shields. One held an axe, one a hammer and one a broadsword. They had stripped to the waist and their torsos were black with swirling tattoos. They seemed unsteady on their feet, as though filled with liquor, and even in the fitful light, Punnr could see the wild stare in their eyes. They ignored the Royal party. They were groaning, growling and shouting incoherently and advancing slowly towards the enemy. They shook their weapons, postured and howled to the stars. The swordsman took the lead, swinging his weapon as he approached the front ranks of the Titans. Punnr knew of these men. Berserkers. In ancient days it was said that these Viking troops could stir themselves into such a frenzy that they were immune to pain. They led the carnage wherever the fighting was at its most fierce.

  The three warriors were only metres from their foe. They planted themselves, legs wide, and roared their challenge at the silent helmets. Then, as one, the front row of the Titans – the single line of Companion Bodyguard – took a step back and swept their spears above their shoulders. For a moment Punnr thought they were about to loose them and surely riddle the Berserkers with holes, but again the Titans froze. The move, however, was enough. Bjarke gave a brisk order and the three warriors began to inch backwards, still yelling and never taking their eyes from their enemy. But the moment of crisis was over. The maddened Shieldmen were, in fact, still under order and they retreated to the ranks. Hammer Regiment had, however, made its point.

  The noise subsided. The Companions brought their spears to rest again and Sveinn turned back to his counterpart. With a curt signal to his Shieldmen Bodyguard, he advanced forward without them. Radspakr followed him and beckoned for Punnr to do the same.

  ‘Forgive my Shieldmen, Alexander,’ Sveinn said, stopping just in front of the other king. ‘Every year it’s the same. Your boys seem to irritate them.’

  ‘I’m relieved to see you have a modicum of control in your ranks, Sveinn. They were seconds from being skewered.’ The Titan king’s voice was cold.

  ‘Just a little show. But you can hardly blame them if you insist on sending your troops onto the field like prancing ponies.’

  Alexander ignored the insult and turned his helmet to Radspakr. ‘Thane,’ he said and nodded.

  Radspakr bowed stiffly. ‘My lord.’ Then he also lowered his head to the robed figure behind. ‘Simmius. I trust you are well?’

  ‘I am, Thane Radspakr.’

  Sveinn waved a languid hand towards the Titan ranks. ‘You look few in number, Alexander. Not like the old days.’

  ‘It is force enough.’

  ‘I see you have used what few Blood Fund credits you received from last year to shore up your Phalanx and not your Sacred Band. A surprising tactical decision.’

  ‘We are full of surprises. Ah, we have company.’ Alexander’s helmet swivelled as four figures emerged from a gap in the burning fence between the two armies.

  The leader was Atilius, dressed in his usual purple robes and with a fur flung around him to keep out the cold. He was the only individual on the whole field not wearing a mask and he was escorted by three of his Vigiles, one filming.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ He was out of breath, no doubt fatigued from the walk up to the valley, and took a few moments to compose himself. ‘Welcome to the Nineteenth Agonium Martiale. Tonight we acclaim the new Raiding Season and you will have seen that both the Valhalla and Titan Caelestes honour us with their presence.’ He peered around at them all. ‘They are expecting much from you this year. As are the Curiate and all the Pantheon’s investors. I need not tell you that fortunes have been wagered on the outcomes. Empires will fall and rise as a consequence of your actions. Sums beyond the scope of our imaginings will change hands.’

  He clicked his fingers and the rearmost Vigilis came forward, holding a golden flask and drinking bowl. ‘Let us begin.’ Atilius took the flask, removed the stopper, and poured the contents into the bowl which the Vigilis held. ‘Alexander, as the losing Palatinate last season, it is for you to speak first.’

  He held the bowl gravely towards the Titan king, whose eyes Punnr could just see flickering in the recesses of his helmet.

  Alexander spoke clearly. ‘By this sacred blood, I swear that I – Alexander, King of the Titan Palatinate – my officers and my troops will act at all times according to the laws of the Pantheon.’ He turned to Sveinn. ‘My lord Sveinn, High King of the Valhalla Horde, I challenge you and your warriors to draw blades from this night hence and to fight with courage and honour according to the rules of this Raiding Season. Furthermore, I challenge you to meet again in the Blood Season on the field of the Grand Battle and to face the wrath of my Titans. I give you my oath that if my life is ended by the sword arm of a Valhalla warrior, my Palatinate will surrender to you.’

  Alexander dipped one hand into the bowl and splashed blood onto Sveinn’s shield so that droplets ran across the Odin symbol and dripped onto the grass. Then Atilius proffered the bowl to Sveinn.

  ‘My lord Alexander, Lion of Macedon, I accept your challenge. My warriors will draw blades from this night hence and fight with courage and honour according to the rules of this Raiding Season. We will meet you in the Blood Season on the field of the Grand Battle and face your wrath. I too give you my oath that if my life is taken by the sword arm of a Titan, I will relinquish my Palatinate to you.’

  Sveinn dipped his hand in the blood and splattered it at Alexander so that the bronze features of the Macedonian Lion on his shield were spotted red.

  Atilius spoke. ‘You have given blood oaths, not only to each other, but on behalf of every one of your troops. It is done. The Raiding Season may commence.’ He returned the bowl to the Vigilis, who disappeared to the rear again, then he seemed to notice the two White Warriors for the first time. ‘And who have we here?’

  Sveinn jerked his head to tell Punnr to step forward. ‘This is Thegn Punnr, chosen White Warrior of Valhalla.’

  Atilius’ smile dropped and for a second he froze, looking at Punnr hidden behind his white helmet. ‘Thegn Punnr? Yes, I remember. An unexpected choice, Sveinn.’

  He said no more and Sveinn didn’t reply, although Punnr sensed Radspakr examining him from the corner of his eye. Alexander broke the silence. ‘And this is Lenore, chosen White Warrior of the Titans. She has proved herself worthy.’

  Punnr stared at the helmet of his rival. He could just see the line of her lips between the cheekguards and a flash of eyes. She was a head shorter than him and only now did he notice the female curve of her hip.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Atilius. ‘These identities will be confirmed before the Raids begin.’ He clicked his fingers again and a second Vigilis approached, handing him two bound scrolls. ‘Come forward, Punnr and Lenore.’

  Punnr felt Lenore step next to him and their shoulders touched. Gravely Atilius placed a scroll in each of their hands. ‘Take these and open them with your King. They are the clue to your first location. But whether I give you a clue to the same location – or different – is for you to find out.’

  The Praetor waved them away and as they turned, Punnr saw long red hair dropping from the back of Lenore’s helmet.

  ‘Excellent,’ Atilius sai
d to himself. ‘Now, I believe we have one more piece of business to conclude, my Kings? The Honour of Elysium?’

  ‘Quite so, Praetor.’ Alexander raised his arm to his Companions and Sveinn turned and signalled back to the ranks of Hammer Regiment. Two figures approached from each army. They carried shields, but no weapons. Ushered by their kings, the four of them formed a small row in front of Atilius.

  ‘My brave warriors of the Pantheon, I understand you are ready for your journey to Elysium. You may remove your helmets.’

  Elysium, Punnr thought. The Paradise beyond the Pantheon. Some thought it was in the Caribbean, others the south of France. Most, however, understood Elysium less as an exact location and more as an ideal, somewhere a warrior could grow old and lazy with the sun on his back. The four figures lowered their heads and pulled their helmets off. Punnr didn’t recognise the two Valhalla troopers. They were both bearded, as opposed to the clean-shaven and shorthaired Titans. All looked older, grizzled and scarred, as men do who had seen much violence.

  Atilius studied each of them before continuing. ‘The Pantheon salutes you, my brave warriors. Each of you has completed ten Seasons. Each of you has fought courageously for your King and has defied the hand of death on many occasions. The gods smile on you and the Caelestia honour you. As is now your right, you have selected to leave the Pantheon. Hence you are no longer foe and you have no need of your helmets.

  ‘You will journey far from here to the Elysian Fields, where you may live and prosper, funded by the Pantheon. You have earned the riches of your retirement.’ From a pocket in his robe, Atilius produced four coins and placed one in the hand of each of the retiring soldiers. ‘Charon returns your denarii. You are no longer in his debt.’ In his high-pitched voice, Atilius spoke loudly enough for all to hear. ‘Armies of the Pantheon! Behold your Heroes of Elysium!’