M. Lachlan: Fenrir

The wolf stared down at Aelis. ‘I will not kill you.’

‘There will be no need,’ said Aelis.

‘I have loved you.’

‘And I have loved you, but this destiny is too terrible. If I live again, Jehan, you must never come near me.’

‘I will find a way to come to you in safety.’

‘There is none.’

‘Our destiny is death, torture and suffering, again and again, into eternity,’ said Svava.

‘No!’ said the wolf and drove its teeth towards her. She threw out her girl’s arms to fend off his jaws but he caught her by them, pulling her forward, tearing off both limbs and then snapping her body in two with a bite.

The runes came shrieking in, filling Aelis with delight. She saw fire and battle, smelled grave earth and rot, heard the creaking of hangmen’s nooses, felt the cold skin of the dead on her fingers, tasted the ashes of funeral pyres in her mouth, and all these things seemed wonderful to her. She pulled the spear from her body and held it above her head. Magic filled her in waves of ecstasy. With her free hand, she tore out her right eye.

The chamber had gone. She stood on a burning plain full of the battle dead, surrounded by numberless flies. The spear was in her hand; she wore a hauberk and helmet and carried a shield. To her side lay an eight-legged horse, dead and torn. The runes were around her no more; they were her, who she was — she was just an expression of their unity.

‘Brother has killed brother — the prophecy is fulfilled. Now I fare to fight with the wolf,’ she said and advanced upon the creature.

The wolf fixed her with burning green eyes. ‘I am Fenrir, devourer of the gods.’

‘And I am Odin, one-eye, master of poetry and magic, who you exist to kill. This is our destiny — let us honour it.’

Aelis charged towards the animal, her spear forward. She ran the creature through its breast, but the wolf could not be stopped and was at her throat.

For an instant Aelis and Jehan saw each other differently — they were lovers on a mountainside; he was not a wolf and she was not a god.

‘I will find you,’ he said.

‘Do not seek me,’ she said.

And then Aelis was quiet, limp and broken in the jaws of the wolf.

Ofaeti had Hugin in his arms. The sorcerer was lying on a slope of rubble, his head just out of the water. The man was mortally wounded, his bowels exposed and much of one side torn away, though he still held his sword. Around them soil poured into the pool from the ceiling like a black waterfall.

‘Let me die here,’ said the Raven. ‘Return me to the water so I might go quickly and not face a rotting death.’ He pressed the sword into Ofaeti’s fingers. ‘The time is now. This will kill him. It is poisoned with the nightmares of witches, so the wild woman told me.’

‘I can get you out.’

‘No. This is my destiny. The prophecy must be fulfilled. I will go now to be surer of meeting her again next time. Kill me.’

Ofaeti let the Raven sink into the water, then leaned on his chest. The sorcerer gave an instinctive moment of struggle but then controlled himself and lay still. When Ofaeti felt the grip on his arm fade, he picked up the Moonsword and moved away. The Raven did not rise.

Ofaeti advanced on the wolf, only his head and his shoulders clear of the water. It was massive, twice as tall as a man, its teeth and snout red, its eyes wild and green. It was panting and shaking, its head low to the water.

The creature lifted its head and stared at Ofaeti.

The big Viking, wading through the freezing water, trembled for the first time in his life. ‘Are you to kill me too, fen dweller?’

Jehan, the confessor, living saint and paragon of Christ, faced down the animal inside him and spoke: ‘My senses are red and I am minded to murder, though I am enough of the man I was to resist it. I am Christ’s. I am for Jesus. Though I go to suffer the damnation of hell, I would spare my brothers the bane that I am. I am ready to die.’

‘I am ready to do you that service. You killed many of my kin.’

The wolf turned its great head away from him again. ‘Strike hard and kill me,’ it said, ‘for you will not get a second blow. I am a slave to my temper and will kill you if you do not kill me.’

It lowered its head into the pool. Ofaeti steadied himself, lifted the sword high in two hands and struck hard. The creature was half beheaded and died almost as the blade fell, its blood drenching the Viking.

Ofaeti had no time to ponder what had happened. He looked up at the remains of the cavern roof. It seemed very unstable. He needed to see if Aelis, whom he had vowed to protect, was by some miracle alive. He pulled himself out of the pool and onto the rock shelf. Nothing was recognisable as Aelis — it was just meat and bones — but in the grey light he saw something on the floor — a stone, the pendant the Raven had given to Aelis on the corpse shore where the vala Munin had died. He picked it up and tied it around his own neck as a keepsake. Then he dropped back into the pool.

In later years he would say it was a good job he was a tall man. Standing on the rocks and earth that had fallen from the roof, he could just reach the root he had used to swing down. He pulled himself up into the hole the wolf had dug on its way down and, bit by bit, edged his way to the surface.

It was midday and the mist was clearing. The day was still and the snow of the land was sparkling under the new sun. He looked across at Aldeigjuborg, that marvel among towns, tucked into the elbow of the river. He had seen many marvels that day though, too many, and was sick of them. When he had stood to face the druzhina he had been sure he would die. But he had shouted to them that he had Loki’s luck, and so it had proved. The ice, which had seemed so sturdy around the ship, had suddenly given way, a black fissure opening from bank to bank, sending men tumbling into the killing cold of the river. He hadn’t stopped to see how they fared.

He was freezing in his wet furs and needed to find shelter and a fire. He couldn’t go to the town, he knew — some of the druzhina might have survived and be looking for him. What did he have? Flint and tinder, soaking wet, the Raven’s sword and some rings. He needed to get a ship to get back to Francia and liberate that gold he had buried. But how? He looked east. It was March and the rivers south would be thawing. He could pick up a boat and go to Kiev. There he would be just another northerner looking to make his fortune as a fighting man.

He felt a rumble through his feet and guessed the cavern roof had finally fallen in. He thought of his friends down there. They had died good deaths, deaths that would make them legends. He was sad for them, but no one could have hoped for more, he thought. He almost envied them. He would not die such a fine death.

So east then. He’d survive in the sun but by nightfall he’d need a fire. The trouble was that the forest, where he would be safe from any patrols of vengeful druzhina, was a day away. He needed a horse. Ofaeti heard something behind him. The wolf had dug an enormous hole, scattering snow everywhere and leaving the grass exposed. Unseen and unheard, the mule had approached and was now munching on the grass.

‘Come on,’ said Ofaeti. ‘Team up with me and I promise you adventure. The east, no snow, grass as high as your ears.’

The mule just looked at him. Ofaeti walked over and took its halter. He mounted.

‘Part of the bargain is that you have to carry a heavier burden than before, but you look after me and I’ll look after you. What do you say? I have a tale to tell to honour a great warrior and I’ll practise on you. Here goes. The gods in their schemes…’

He turned the animal east, past the barrows and towards the woods.