SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

Flinching was something you didn’t want to do in front of the ‘Painted People’. These damn Picts saw any indication of fear as a sign of weakness – a sign that would instantly draw a violent and bloody response.

So the fact they were so frightened of what they called ‘Skadi’s Wolves’ that they were even talking to Ælrik, a soldier and messenger of the hated King Æthelstan, without hacking him to pieces in the process was all the more astonishing.

The warlord and his priest squatted opposite Ælrik and his companion, a tousle-haired Dane named Jurgen. The lad was only in his nineteenth year, but already he had the mind of a far wiser and more experienced statesman on his young shoulders. If he lived, he’d go far. If he lived. His sword-arm was strong too, and in these times of turmoil that was probably much more useful than all the pretty words any silver-tongued envoy could pour onto the unimpressed heads of the Painted People – heads that bristled with lime-hardened spikes of white hair. To Ælrik’s eyes they looked for all the world like hedgepigs that have rolled into a ball to defend themselves from the attentions of an over-curious wildcat.

The priest had spent the entire time muttering and drawing symbols into the dirt with a charred stick. His rotten teeth caused him to slur and stutter, but Jurgen could just about make out the guttural noises and interpret them into words. He translated the gibberish for Ælrik. “They come when the moon is full, he says.”

“Who do?”

“Skadi’s Wolves.”

“Yes, I keep hearing this name. Who is this Skadi? Is he some kind of warlord?”

Jurgen shook his head. “Skadi is an ice giantess. She is one of the most feared of all the northern queens. She is the one who punished Loki for his crimes.”

“Ah, right. So a myth, then.”

Jurgen snorted. “As real to me as your mythical Fisher of Men is to you, my friend.”

Ælrik rounded on the young Dane. “Blaspheme against the name of our Lord one more time and I’ll kill you myself, understand?”

“Your lord, Ælrik, not mine. Anyway, I thought you Christians were supposed to forgive us simple Pagans?” Jurgen raised an eyebrow. “And perhaps this is a conversation for another time and not one we should indulge in now?” He gave an almost impercievable nod towards the Picts and lowered his voice. “They’re nervous enough as it is of our presence, Ælrik. One wrong move and we could find ourselves skewered and roasting over this very fire. They eat people, you know. They really do.”

Ælrik snorted. “No they don’t, you young fool. But I agree that perhaps our spiritual debate can wait for another time. Continue.”

Jurgen shifted uncomfortably. The Picts may be happy to squat for hours in front of a fire, but he had become used to the relative comforts of the Berwick garrison and, in particular, cushions. “According to the priest, Skadi’s Wolves single out warriors. Anyone with a sword is fair game. They leave the villagers and farmers alone, unless, of course, they can’t find any warriors. Then they’ll feed on anyone they can run down.”

“So what we actually have is a bunch of Norsemen raiders, dressed as wolves and led by a woman, and spoiling for a fight.” Ælrik rolled his eyes. “Jurgen, you’re a soldier. Do you honestly believe this nonsense about ice queens and men that shapeshift into wolves?”

“Says the man who asks some dickless monk to give him absolution every holy day, and then promptly goes out the next day killing and slaughtering. Be wary of what you make jests towards, my friend.”

Ælrik stared open-mouthed at Jurgen. “You cannot possibly be telling me that you actually believe that some ice goddess–”

“Giantess.”

“Whatever. Some ice giantess is hunting down soldiers with a pack of slathering, demonic wolves? Can’t you see this is just a matter of simple campfire stories made up by a bunch of backward fools who still believe that painting their skin blue will make them invincible in battle?”

Jurgen shifted again. “Hush, man. Watch your tone. Our hosts may be ignorant, but they’re smart enough to know when you’re mocking them, even if it is in a language they don’t understand.” He twitched again, the merest of suggestions towards the warlord and his mumbling priest. The Picts scowled back. Ælrik held up an open hand in apology and indicated to the priest to continue.

Mumble, mutter, mumble. The priest scribbled in the dirt, the lines forming glyphs and symbols. Jurgen strained to see them and nodded. He pointed. “This one is Algiz – the rune of protection and concealment.”

“And that means?”

“It means we are dealing with a hidden enemy. An enemy that uses the darkness to hunt its victims. But tonight it also means that we, too, are protected by the clouds that conceal the moon. Without bathing in her shining light, the beasts cannot take on their true form.”

“So they can be killed when it’s a bit cloudy? You jest, surely!”

“This is no jest, my friend. These are not ordinary wolves.”