Jason Lewis - Phoenix Rising

Wulf’s grin grew wider. He liked Sigurd, the man stank of fish — although thankfully, each day the odour lessened — but that was nothing to hold against him; Wulf had smelt a lot worse. The fisherman understood something of the honour and traditions of his people. Sigurd’s folk even worshipped the gods of sky, wood and earth, except that they had the tempestuous god of the sea, Sessus, at the head of their pantheon rather than the true King, Alarus, god of the sky and bringer of thunder. He was sure that there must be kinship between Sigurd’s fisher people and his own people of Wickland.

“It is no problem, my friend. My home is far behind me and forgotten by the world. This is my home now.” Wulf grabbed his chains in his fists and rattled them gently. “This is a comfortable home.” He shrugged half-heartedly.

Metrotis began to speak again rapidly. He repeated the same words as he spoke as if to reassure himself.

Wulf concentrated hard to understand. He would be asked about the reason for his people’s migration again, the reason they had come north.

“He wants to know who the enemy is,” Sigurd relayed. “He says that he does not believe that the enemy are fire giants riding aurox and wielding whips. He says that he knows you are playing with him and that he is tired of the children’s stories that you are feeding him.” Sigurd paused and motioned gently towards Metrotis. “He says there are no such things as giants and you know it. His uncle is growing impatient for progress and if there is a threat to his people he must know what it is.”

Sigurd paused, a dejected look on his face. “Wulf, please. I have a wife and three children living in this city. I know you do not love the Adarnans and I do not blame you. But I am not Adarnan, my children are not Adarnan.” He glanced nervously at Metrotis, perhaps wondering if the man knew what he was saying. “If the nomads have united and are moving north, please tell me. I give you my word I will not tell this man. If my family are in danger, I need to know. Perhaps I can get them out of the city, go back to the Basking islands, go back to my home. I know the nomads will not cross water; we will be safe.” He paused again and looked at Metrotis, who was clearly growing impatient. “I cannot leave my business unless it is serious. Please, Wulf. Our people are kin — you know this…”

Metrotis interrupted. He seemed to be questioning Sigurd on what he was saying, but Sigurd just shrugged and pointed to Wulf, perhaps making an excuse. Wulf couldn’t be sure though — the exchange was too quick to keep track of.

Wulf let his head drop and looked at his hands. They were calloused and worn from their constant battle with the chains that bound him. He wondered how he would feel if his own family was in Sigurd’s position, then realised that they were in the same position, if not dead already.

“Sigurd!” Wulf snapped his head up. He had not meant to speak sharply but his frustration was rising. “Take your family home. Get back to your islands, but I cannot say they will not come to you there.”

Sigurd turned sharply to look at him, ignoring Metrotis completely for the moment. “They?”

“If they come for this empire of Adarnans, then it is done . Take your family and leave, my friend — whilst you can.”

A shout echoed from the corridor outside — it sounded like one of the gaolers — followed by a clash of blades and a heavy thud.

Metrotis’s mouth dropped open and he looked at Wulf and Sigurd, his eyes wide with fear and surprise.

There was silence from the corridor.

Wulf stood slowly. This could be your chance . Hope was dangerous, yet he allowed himself to think there might be a realistic prospect of escape. Perhaps the remnant of his people had come north in force to take the city, perhaps they had not run and hidden as Metrotis had always maintained.

Sigurd turned to Wulf and nodded slowly, his eyes darted nervously towards the corridor. The fisherman moved gingerly to the door and stretched out his hand for the latch.

The door burst open.

A dark figure materialised beyond Sigurd and rushed towards him. Sigurd raised his hands reflexively for protection. It was to no avail; the tip of a sword burst through his back, and sprayed a fine mist of blood across Wulf’s face.

Wulf’s body responded on instinct, his arms shot up and he rushed forward. Pain erupted in his wrists as the chains binding him snapped taut. He strained against them, fire burned in his shoulders, but the iron did not yield.

Metrotis let out a yelp and scampered away from the carnage towards Wulf. He crossed the line on the floor — and the safety it represented.

As Metrotis retreated, the attacker — a hooded man dressed in grey — withdrew his sword from Sigurd’s twitching body and stepped into full view. Sigurd hit the floor with a thud, his head cracking on the slabs as his body juddered feebly, his life quickly fading away.

A second, shorter man dressed the same as the first, long blond hair stuck with sweat to his forehead, entered the cell. Sigurd’s killer turned and whispered something to his comrade, and the second man moved back into the corridor and disappeared from view.

A woman’s scream pierced the air, distant and muffled but long and forlorn. Wulf guessed there must be more attackers nearby. Disappointment flooded his body as he realised his people had not come to find him. This was an attack on the Adarnans. His own involvement was an accident.

Metrotis stood frozen to the spot in front of Wulf, staring at the assailant, his arms outstretched in supplication. “No!” he shouted. “No, no, please.”

Wulf reached out, grabbed Metrotis and dragged him backwards so fast that he lost his balance and landed in a heap on the cot. He looked at Wulf and raised his hands defensively before his face, abject terror shining in his eyes.

“Metrotis,” Wulf snarled. “Stay.” He had often heard Metrotis using this command with the man — who Wulf was certain was also a captive — in what he assumed must be another cell nearby.

He turned towards the hooded killer, bared his teeth and smashed his fists into his chest three times. The frenzied rattling of chains echoed in the cell. “Come. Come to Wulf!”

The man moved forward cautiously. He drew a small, wickedly pointed knife with his left hand. He gave his sword two practice swings as he approached, loosening his arm for the fight to come.

From the man’s movements, Wulf felt certain that he knew how to fight.

He stepped back, letting the chains hang loose to the floor. The killer would make his move — a straight, sword-led charge or a quick lunge and retreat. His sword was short in the fashion of the Adarnan men and Wulf thanked the gods for this: his reach would not be long.

Heart pumping, blood coursing through his body, Wulf tried to force himself to relax. The battle rage rose. Grasping tendrils of berserker fury fought for control of his body, pleading with him for release, but he forced them back down into the pit of his stomach. This was no time for rage; he needed his wits about him.

When the hooded man made his move, it was fast. He feinted right. Wulf’s body reacted without thought, responding even as he realised it was a trick, a feint. He cursed himself for the miscalculation.

The attacker switched his footing with practised speed, aiming a stab with his knife, directly at the heart.

Wulf twisted to avoid the blow. He whipped the slack in his chains forwards, they were not long enough to reach the hooded man’s face, but his head flinched backwards instinctively nonetheless.

It was all the distraction Wulf needed. He grabbed the man’s sword arm below the wrist, then twisted him around with all his strength and clutched him by the throat from behind. With a great heave, he drove the man’s own sword through his back, up under the ribcage. The man let out a gurgling scream as the blade clove his heart, and then slumped, heavy and lifeless in his arms.