M. Lachlan: Wolfsangel

The wolf snarled, muscles bubbling on its body as its brother’s blood dripped from its lips. It was transforming, not so much physically this time, but magically, the witch could sense. That was the key, as the rune Loki had given her had shown — the two brothers becoming one. It was all in place, all ready for the final stage.

The witch reversed the spear shaft, wedged the butt on the floor and leaped forward, impaling herself so that the point came out of her back.

To Adisla, reality seemed to fall apart.

The witch was a little girl again, lost in her first memories. What were her first memories? The dark and the cold, the faces of the women smeared with their ghost paint, the weak light of torches and the damp smell of the caves. They say with spells in tunnels dark As a witch with charms did you work And in witch’s guise among men did you go Unmanly your soul must seem.

The voice, the witch queen knew the voice. If was him. Who? Him. The mocker. She giggled. Yes, the mocker who was not so clever as he reckoned. Loki, the liar, who thought he could stand apart from the affairs of the gods and laugh. Not so. She had hooked him in and made him play his part too. Did he think those fetters just held his body and that his mind was free to wander the worlds as a man? No. He was snared and trapped and pinned and tethered, shackled and bound in every movement of his thoughts. She had done for him, that red-haired fellow, that night caller, that smirker and snickerer and enemy of death.

Had the women of the Troll Wall known who she was? They had made her their queen when she was six. She had all the runes, all of them, as no mortal ever had before. Had they known?

The truth had been obscured from the witch, but as the spear sent its energy of pain throughout her body, she saw what it was. She had killed them, every one, the girls, the boys and her sisters; she had slipped into their minds at night to whisper suicide; she had strangled, drowned and burned them in their trances and she hadn’t done it to weaken herself, as an extreme measure to preserve the magical gains of the sisterhood, but because she was a fearful and jealous god who despised them for their power. She had hidden her intent from herself, afraid that her earthly form might rebel and try to avoid its fate. She touched the triple hanging knot at her neck. One thing hidden inside another inside another. She had thought she had hidden the wolf from himself to hide him from the god. In fact, she had hidden him from herself. Now the deception unravelled and she knew who the wolf had come for. It had come for her.

The spear seemed perfect, and the position she lay in on the floor perfect too, an illustration of the rune that had guided her. She had made a Wolfsangel of her own body.

She was everywhere, controlling; she sensed every mind on earth and could influence and touch them. In the moment of her greatest pain was her greatest magic.

She said her own name: ‘Odin.’ Her voice was cracked from years of disuse but the force of the god’s will pushed the sound through the reluctant throat.

The body of the witch was bleeding, blood spreading in a wide pool. The wolf put down his head to lap at it. Adisla could not take her eyes off what was happening in the cavern.

The witch stood. She pulled the spear from her belly and looked at the wolf, who looked back at her.

‘I have called you here to do this,’ she said.

The wolf drew back its lips, exposing its teeth.

‘It was this way, and it will be this way for ever,’ said the witch, ‘though it will never be easy for you, Fenrisulfr.’

To Adisla, it seemed that the caves no longer existed. She was at the centre of a huge blackened plain, where the shadows of ravens seemed to sweep over her, where smoke tinged the air and the cries of a dying battle could be heard.

The witch too was different. She was dressed not in that bloodstained shift but in man’s armour. She was carrying a shield and in her hand was a cruel spear.

‘I am Odin,’ said the witch, ‘all hater, all seer, lord of the hanged, lord of the slain, lord of madness, wisest in magic and battle bold.’

The wolf began to keen.

‘Come, Fenrisulfr,’ she said. ‘You are the slaughter beast, my enemy and my accomplice.’

The wolf sprang as the witch forwarded her spear and stabbed. Then the wolf had her by the throat, shaking her body like a dog with a doll until her feet came off the floor. Adisla saw strange bright shapes scatter from the witch, some fizzing to the ground, some melting like snowflakes on warm land and others hitting her. A sense of flow and current seemed to go through her, then a frozen feeling as cold as the north wind, then something that stamped and steamed and breathed was in her mind. Finally, a smell like fresh grass came to her and a sense of warmth like a spring day. These were runes, she knew, each with its separate power. They told her so. They spoke.

The witch had dropped her spear and was beating uselessly against the wolf’s muzzle. The animal did not relax its grip but tightened its jaws ever harder about her. Adisla saw rain showers, sunshine, a great tree that seemed to stretch up to the heavens, horses, a hearth. All the witch’s magic shook from her in the animal’s jaws.

Then the scene faded; the walls of the cavern returned. The wolf stood over the witch, guzzling her flesh.

Adisla felt the power of the runes and was restored and strong, all mysteries peeling away. Now, she knew, the magic was complete. The witch was Odin. The god had achieved what it wanted — death, its own and the queen’s, which were the same thing. The knowledge-seeking god had deepened his knowledge of death by experiencing it. The runes it had shed as its earthly self died seemed to burn within Adisla, offering insight and unhappiness.

The wolf fed, consuming the witch’s flesh in snaps and gulps. Then it shivered and coughed, shook, and finally lay down.

Adisla took up the Moonsword.

The wolf looked at her and spoke. ‘Do not. I cannot command myself if you do.’

Adisla raised the weapon above her head. It felt unbalanced and unwieldy. Feileg had hit the creature with all his strength, and though he had cut it, he had not killed it. She would not stand a chance.

‘I am ready for death,’ she said.

‘Not death,’ said the creature. Its voice was low and rough, the human words forced through the wolf throat and mouth.

‘Is it you, Vali?’

‘Her death has freed my mind from the bloody swamp. It is me.’

‘You are the worst of marvels,’ she said.

‘I am afflicted, but this was an ending. There are sorcerers. We can find them. There is a way back for me.’

‘At what cost? How many have you killed, my love?’

‘I do not want to kill any more.’

‘A wolf kills, Vali.’

‘No, Adisla, no.’

‘I have seen the truth. Feileg was your brother and you killed him.’

The great animal bowed its head. ‘The wolf killed him.’

‘You are an enemy of the gods. I have seen. This is your purpose.’

‘I will be myself again, Adisla.’

Adisla shook her head, tears cutting bright lines through the dirt on her face. ‘But I will never be me. We have loved outside our station; we have offended the gods. I want to go from you, Vali. I want to die.’

‘If you die, my love is so strong that it will call you back from the halls of the dead.’

‘I will live again, Vali. When the god died, a sharp magic entered me and I am certain that it means rebirth. But I will live again without you. You are hated by the dead god.’

‘I am part of his plan, as I saw on the field of the slain. He needs me to fulfil his destiny. I am his enemy and his helper.’