SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

Eyes, surrounded not by blue woad but by coarse, short hair, watched from the darkness. These weren’t eyes full of fear, but shining golden orbs with elongated pupils. Eyes full of blood lust. The shadows twisted and writhed, as if the owners of those cold, gold eyes couldn’t quite decide which form to take. The darkness rippled and contorted. A mouth twisted into a muzzle and curled back to reveal teeth that gleamed like polished walrus ivory. A low, throaty snarl rumbled slowly through the forest. It was joined by others, each one singing the same song, calling to their mistress to unleash them, to let them run the warriors down, to hunt, to chase, to feed.

“No. Not yet. We wait for the moon’s light to shine upon you. Then you may hunt.”

The darkness had a fractured, broken voice full of ice crystals and venom. A voice of the north, where the green, flickering lights of Asgard rippled and danced across the night sky. A voice that wrapped revenge in warm fur skins and set it loose across the frozen wastelands. The voice of a giantess with a heart that had no mercy for her enemies. Had she not challenged the gods themselves, and won? Had she not tormented Loki with the dripping toxin of a viper until he begged her to release him?

She knew no fear. And she knew no mercy, either. Mortal warriors like these two were nothing to her. They would lead her to a far greater bounty, a bounty that would generate more and more of her children until they grew into an army that would sweep the hated Saxons from this island – an island she claimed as her own. Then she would bring the ice, and a hundred winters and a hundred more…

* * *

Ælrik slowed his horse to a walk. A flat-out gallop through the darkness was foolish in the extreme. It would take just one tree root or one rabbit hole to send his horse crashing to the ground, screaming and snorting as its leg snapped. Then he’d be forced to either ride two-up on Jurgen’s horse, or run the last few miles to Berwick garrison. And if they really did have a band of Norsemen, or demons, or whatever on their tail, then trying to outrun them would be just as foolish as galloping a horse along a trail in the dark. He’d never make it.

The horse puffed and blew, tossing its head up and down. Its ears flickered, flattening against its skull. It was spooked by something only it could see or smell. Ælrik patted its neck and made soothing, cooing noises. “Settle, shush, settle.” He watched as Jurgen reined in his own horse and fell into step. His beast was just as nervous as Ælrik’s, if not more so. The damn things scuttled and danced stiff-legged, rolling their eyes and snorting.

Something in the darkness was following them. Ælrik could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Whatever it was – whether they were Norsemen or wolves – was keeping just out of sight, merging into the shadows and harrying them relentlessly. But just beyond the crest of the next moorland plateau was the warmth and safety of Berwick and the garrison. Thick stone walls encircled the town – a settlement that had been fought over for generations by Norsemen, Picts and Saxons alike. The Romans had regarded it as their most northerly frontier town. Even the women could wield a sword in this embattled place. The locals, bitter from years of bloodshed and violence, had faces as hard as the granite stone that formed the walls. They didn’t like strangers, and they didn’t like anyone or anything that hinted at Pagan filth and their degenerate beliefs. They knew the Lord looked after His own – and their swords would do the rest.

Once they were back in the safety of the garrison, Ælrik knew they could rest up, and then tell the commander of the potential threat in the morning. Then he and Jurgen could ride out with a company of cavalry and hunt these damn Norse wolfmen down. No fuss, no bother. A band of Norse warriors dressed in skins was nothing to worry about unduly. They’d need to be an army to go against the Berwick garrison, and from what the Picts said there was only a small band of these wolfskin-wearing bastards to deal with.

Ælrik wasn’t concerned with anything except making it back to the garrison. Out here, and with only Jurgen for company, he was vulnerable. With his men behind him, he’d be invincible.

They reached the crest of the ridge and looked down into the valley. Ælrik could sense Jurgen behind him, growling rough commands at his increasingly nervous horse. He twisted in the saddle and looked at the young man. “You all right?”