SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

“Yes, I thought we’d already established that, Jurgen. These are not wolves at all! These are men dressed as wolves. And men, whether they wear the skin of a wolf, a bear or a flea-ridden alley-cat, I can kill.” Ælrik stood and gave a stiff bow to the Pict warlord. “Jurgen, tell them we thank them for their hospitality and their information. I will inform our commander that we have a rogue band of Norsemen wandering around the countryside, and we’ll hunt them down as we would a wild boar for a feast.” He bowed stiffly again and turned to walk away from the fire.

A hand rested on his shoulder and he spun back, the warrior instinct immediately kicking in, his sword half drawn from his scabbard before he’d finished turning. He stared straight into the cracking blue woad and wild eyes of the priest. The smell of rotting meat rolled forward in blasts from the decrepit old man’s mouth. Strands of putrid venison stuck between the stumps of his decayed teeth. The man’s breath could have knocked down Hadrian’s Wall itself.

“She comes. For you and your warriors. Her wolves come. They will devour you all!” The last words were snarled and filled with utter hatred. Damnation. The priest had understood every word, the foul little runt! Ælrik was tempted to draw his sword from the last half of the scabbard and run the disgusting little man through. But if he did, he knew he’d get no more than three steps before the entire tribe of blue-painted lunatics would be on him and tearing him apart. He had enough to worry about knowing there was some rogue Norse raiding party wandering the countryside between here and Berwick garrison, without having a horde of angry Picts chasing them through the badlands as well.

He sheathed his sword slowly, making damn sure the priest could hear the metal sliding back into the scabbard and know just how close he’d come to feeling the cold kiss of English steel in his belly. His eyes never left the wild, staring orbs of the priest. White foam collected in the corners of the Priest’s mouth. The old man panted heavily, sending waves of foul breath washing over Ælrik. It was all the soldier could do to stop himself vomiting in the priest’s face. He glanced at the taloned hand of the priest that still gripped his shoulder, and then back to the Pict. His eyes narrowed and he snarled at the vile little man. “Unhand me. Now.” The authority in his voice – a voice used to giving orders – made the Pict retract his hand reluctantly and withdraw a pace. Ælrik could see him vibrating with anger, and sensed that the mood was spreading throughout the tribe. Angering a priest amongst these heathens was never a good move. The mood around the campfire was turning ugly. Time for a tactical withdrawal.

“Jurgen, the horses.”

Jurgen sprang up, said a few hasty words of thanks to the warlord, assuring him they would be on the lookout for Skadi’s Wolves as they journeyed back towards Berwick.

The warlord laughed. “You’ll be looking for them? Northman, they already have your scent! You’ll meet them soon enough!” He laughed again and, kicking dirt over the fire to extinguish the flames, barked a command at his followers. In a heartbeat they had melted back into the darkness. All except the priest.

The old man stood motionless by the smouldering embers and watched as Jurgen and Ælrik mounted their jittery horses. Ælrik gathered up his reins and, with one last dark look at the old priest, dug his heels into his mount’s side. The horse leapt from standing start to flat gallop in just a few paces.

Jurgen paused, his hand on the pommel of his saddle. He turned and briefly bowed to the priest. The priest shook his head sadly. “You are a warrior. They will come for you too. I cannot give you protection. You have made your choice.” The priest paused, and then picked up a pebble. With the burnt end of a stick, he scraped a shape onto the surface and held it up to the young man. “You are of the North. Perhaps Skadi will forgive you more readily than she will that Saxon dog. Take this.” He thrust the pebble into Jurgen’s hand, turned and vanished into the darkness.

Jurgen frowned, and glanced down at the stone. On its surface was a roughly shaped rune – Algiz. Protection. He pocketed the stone, looked around the deserted camp one last time, and spurred his nervous mount into following Ælrik. The horse needed little encouragement – it was keen to leave this place. It could smell them coming. It could sense them on the breeze...

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