Wolfsangel

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1 White Wolf

  2 A Mercy

  3 Night Caller

  4 The Troll Wall

  5 The Loss of Sons

  6 Wolfsangel

  7 What Was Lost

  8 Fury

  9 Varieties of Darkness

  10 The Dead God’s Bride

  11 An Invitation

  12 Enemies

  13 The King’s Men

  14 The Prince and the Wolf

  15 A Captive

  16 An Engagement

  17 Strange Meeting

  18 The Raid

  19 Endings

  20 A Hard Road Forward

  21 The Drowning Pool

  22 Magical Thinking

  23 Running Wolf

  24 Trial

  25 Escape

  26 Into the Unknown

  27 Haithabyr

  28 Bargains

  29 The Drum

  30 Politics

  31 A Plan

  32 The Wine Road

  33 An Explanation

  34 From the Fog

  35 A Wolf’s Treat

  36 The Blood Mire

  37 The Hunters

  38 What Is Within

  39 The Nature of Magic

  40 Wolf Hunt

  41 Werewolf

  42 Success for the Sorcerer

  43 A Sacrifice

  44 For Love

  45 Buried Treasure

  46 From the Dark

  47 Descent

  48 The Pool of Tears

  49 Manifestation

  50 Alone

  51 Reward

  52 King and Queen

  53 The Battle in the Hoard Cave

  54 Tracking

  55 Fenrisulfr

  56 The Dead

  57 Travellers’ Tales

  Acknowledgments

  Wolfsangel

  M. D. LACHLAN

  Orion

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  A Gollancz eBook

  Copyright © M.D. Lachlan 2010

  All rights reserved.

  The right of M.D. Lachlan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Gollancz

  The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  Orion House

  5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane

  London, WC2H 9EA

  An Hachette UK Company

  This eBook first published in 2010 by Gollancz.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  eISBN : 978 0 5750 8962 4

  This eBook produced by Jouve, France

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  To my son James

  Prince you cannot

  talk about me

  like that,

  scolding a

  noble man.

  For you ate

  a wolf’s treat,

  shedding your brother’s

  blood, often

  you sucked on wounds

  with a cold snout,

  creeping to

  dead bodies,

  being hated by all.

  FIRST POEM OF HELGI HUNDINGSBANI

  THE POETIC EDDA

  If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being - and who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?

  ALEKSANDR SOLZHENITSYN

  1 White Wolf

  Varrin gripped the shaft of his spear and scanned the dark horizon, fighting for balance as the waves rocked the little longship. There, he was sure, was the river his lord had described, a broad mouth between two headlands, one like a dragon’s back, the other like a stretching dog. It fitted well enough, he thought, if you looked at it with half an eye.

  ‘Lord Authun, king, I think this is it.’

  The man sitting in his cloak with his back to the prow awoke. His long white hair seemed almost to shine under the bright lantern of the half moon. He stood slowly, his limbs stiff with inaction and the cold. He turned his attention to the shore.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘this is as was revealed.’

  Varrin, a giant of a man a head and a half taller than the king, touched an amulet he wore at his neck at the mention of prophecy. ‘We wait until dawn and then try the river, lord?’

  Authun shook his head.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Odin is with us.’

  Varrin nodded. Normally he would have regarded it as very unwise to negotiate an unknown river in the dark. With his king at his side, anything felt possible. Authun was a Volsung, a direct descendant of the gods and was a vessel for their powers.

  The tide was slow but with the boat, and the crew were well rested from the favourable wind that had carried them for a couple of days and eager to get to the oars. Everything was going well, and no wonder with the king on board. His magic, Varrin felt sure, had blessed their journey.

  The men bent their backs pulling through the waves, propelling themselves at speed towards the river. The ship was more stable under oar than under sail and its sudden steadiness seemed to reflect the purpose Varrin felt as he heaved the boat through the surf. They were going into a fight, no question, and Varrin was ready.

  Ten warriors crewed the ship, only ten including the king, but Varrin felt no uncertainty, nor scarcely any nervousness. He was with his lord, King Authun, victor of innumerable battles, slayer of the giant Geat, Gyrd the Mighty. If Authun thought ten men were enough for their task then ten men were enough. It was a trick of the gods that such a man had not produced an heir. The rumour was that Authun was descended from Odin, the chief of the gods. That battle-fond poet felt threatened by his fierce descendant and had cursed Authun to sire only female children. He could not risk him producing an even mightier son.

  Varrin shivered when he thought of the consequences if Authun did not father a boy. He would have to name an heir, with all the trouble and bloodshed that would cause. Only Authun’s name held the factions of his kingdom together. Without it, there would be slaughter and then their enemies would pounce. He glanced at the king and smiled to himself. He wouldn’t put it past him to live for ever.

  Varrin looked into the black hills and wondered why they had come to that land. It was more than just plunder, it seemed, because their ship had slipped away from a quiet beach a day up the coast from their hall, no kinsmen to bid them farewell, no feasting before they left. Only the war gear, the bright heads of the axes, a shield decorated with a painted wolf’s head, another with a raven, spoke of their mission. The images bore a clear message to their enemies: ‘We will make a feast for these creatures.’

  They rushed upon the river’s mouth but slowed as the water became more shallow. They did not stop for soundings; Authun just made his way to the prow of the ship and leaned out over the water, directing the rudderman. Varrin smirked to the man at the oar opposite as the ship slid into the river like a knife into a sheath. The other oarsman, a young man of seventeen or so who had never travelled with Authun before, grinned back. ‘You were right - he is incredible,’ his expression said. They were proud of their king.

&nb
sp; The flood tide took them up the river. The channel became perilous and narrow, split into the land between sharp cliffs and hard boulders, but the king found the course. An hour inland with the dark tight about them, their only light a pale slice of moon high in the sky, the push of the current began to fade and the rowing got harder. In front of them a sandbank loomed midstream and Authun signalled for the boat to beach upon it. The small ship was designed for just such a landing and grounded with a slight judder.

  Authun turned to his men and spoke their names in turn.

  ‘Vigi, Eyvind, Egil, Hella, Kol, Vott, Grani, Arngeir. We are kinsmen and sworn brothers. There can be no lies between us. None of you shall return from this journey. Only Varrin will come back with me to the coast to steer the ship. By the time the sun rises you will all be feasting with your forefathers in the halls of Odin or Freya.’

  The men largely received the news of their impending deaths without expression. They were warriors, raised with the certainty of death in battle. A couple smiled, pleased that they would die at their king’s side.

  ‘I would die with my kinsmen,’ said Varrin.

  ‘Your time will come soon enough,’ said Authun.

  He looked at Varrin, the nearest he had to a friend. The giant would be needed to get the boat back into the river and to help him with whatever perils they faced back down the whale road to their home. After that he would let him die.

  ‘I have no responsibility to tell you why you must die, other than it is my will that you should. But know that they will sing tales of your deeds until the world ends. We are here to take a magic child, one who will secure the future of our people for ever and one who will be my heir.’

  ‘What of the child your wife carries?’ said Varrin.

  ‘There is no child,’ said Authun. ‘It is a deception of the mountain witches.’

  The men drew in breath. Authun was a good king, fair and generous, a giver of rings. He had never even killed a slave in drunkenness, as kings were wont to do. This was shocking news, though. The men despised liars and this was very near to a lie. Also, it bore the mark of magic, and women’s magic at that.

  The warriors shifted in their seats. Death did not scare them; they found it as companionable as a dog. But the mountain witches terrified them. Only the king, half a god himself, could speak to the witches and even he had to be wary. Their advice had proved true in the past but the sacrifices they demanded were terrible and always the same - children: boys for servants, girls to continue their strange traditions.

  ‘The child is a captive in the village here, taken from the sorcerers of the far west,’ said Authun. ‘He is a son of the gods and will lead us to greatness. These farmers do not yet realise what they have. We will part them from it before they do. The village is defended only by farmers but there are warriors not two hours’ ride away.’

  He looked out into the dark. Somewhere in the distance the sky was taking on a soft pink glow.

  ‘Their beacons are lit,’ he said. ‘We can expect opposition. We will find the child with a priest of their god. The building is marked like this, as their holy places are.’ He made a cross with his fingers. ‘Follow me as we fight to their temple, then we cut our way back to the boat. By that time the tide will have turned and I will leave you to your glory. You will be heroes and your fame will be everlasting. The village is five bends of the river away. Prepare.’

  The men nodded and went quietly to their work. Spears were unstrapped from the rear of the ship, helmets and thick tunics taken from barrels, war axes unpacked and tied to their backs. Varrin and Egil had the honour of dressing the king, helping him into his precious mail hauberk - a byrnie, as the men called it - and placing the golden wolf helm, symbol of his family, onto his head. The helmet was the best that could be made, open at the face save for shining cheek guards that made it look as if a giant wolf was swallowing Authun’s head from the rear. From a distance, in the splendid helmet, his eyes blackened with soot, the king would appear as a terrifying wolf-headed man. The warriors placed rings on the king’s arms, tied a golden belt at his waist, took off his sea cloak and put on one of golden thread.

  Varrin passed the king his shield with its snarling wolf’s head. Then it was time to take out the sword, the only one on the boat, in its white-jewelled scabbard. As Varrin took it from its storage barrel, it caught the moonlight. It was a sword unlike any other. The Norse blades were short and straight, useful for hacking close up in conjunction with a shield. This sword though was long and thin with a pronounced curve to it. It was stronger than any straight sword and, though lighter, had cut through enemy weapons many times. Authun had bought it for a fortune from a southern merchant who said it came from ‘beyond the dawn’ - by which Authun had supposed he meant the east. Wherever it came from, Authun knew it was enchanted, forged - as the merchant said - by magical smiths in the legendary kingdoms of the sands. The merchant had named it Shamsir, and Authun had kept the name as it seemed to contain the stir of the desert winds, or at least how he imagined they would sound. His men called it the Moonsword.

  The king was ready. In his war gear he looked terrible and splendid, a god. In fact, compared to his kinsmen, Authun had little taste for ornamentation. The display was for a reason - to inspire awe in his foes. Varrin looked at the king. The West Men would need their courage, he thought. Before long the others were ready too. Authun filled their drinking horns himself.

  ‘To the endless feasts in the halls of the slain,’ said Hella.

  ‘To the endless feasts in the halls of the slain,’ replied the rest of the men, under their breath in case the enemy should be nearby. They all drank a deep draught, and then another. The horns were refilled and refilled as the boat was prodded by oar from the sandbank and got under way again, rounding the bends towards their prey. As Authun had noted, they had been seen. The West Men were no fools and kept watch on the mouths of the rivers. Already, even before the village came into view they could see the flickering lights of its warning beacons filling the sky. They would have to be quick, to strike before a body of men could be mustered to face them. No matter, they were used to that.

  The final bend was taken and Varrin had the impression of a village already being sacked. The beacons were blazing all along the beach and up a hill. The fires revealed what Varrin considered a very large settlement of twenty houses leading up to a building with a cross on its roof. Well, at least they knew where it was.

  The West Men had been clever. The beach was backed by cut staves on top of a cliff the height of a man. There was only one entrance to the settlement from the river, a gap you would struggle to fit a cart through. It would have been easy to defend had the defenders been proper warriors. Even from the boat in the flickering firelight Varrin could see by the way the men held their spears and shields that they were more used to tilling fields than fighting. There were gaps in their shield wall and a couple of spears pointed at the moon. They would have been better advised to direct their tips to the invaders, because the moon wasn’t going to cut off their heads.

  The king was the first off the boat, splashing into the knee-deep water and walking up the beach at the pace of a man carrying a basket of mussels rather than a warrior facing his enemy. The troop followed him, three behind, then four in a shield wedge. Two remained on the boat to guard it.

  Twenty yards from the enemy, Authun stopped and his men began to rattle their weapons on their shields, to bay and howl like beasts. Those who still had drink finished it and cast the horns aside. Four horns a man, enough to be courageous, not enough to be clumsy. Authun stepped forward, unsheathing the Moonsword, the torchlight turning its metal to fire. His helm too seemed to burn, the jewels of the wolf’s eyes sparkling out a bloodlust.

  The king lifted his sword high and screamed, ‘I am Authun the Wolf, king of the sword-Horda, sacker of the five towns, son of Odin, lord of battle! No man has ever faced me and lived. See the plunder I have taken!’

  He waved the swor
d again, its blade bright in the light of the moon and the fire. The torches caught the jewels on the wolf’s eyes, turned the rings on the king’s arms to burning snakes, made the scabbard of his sword dance like fire itself. His cloak seemed alive with sparks and even his mouth, the teeth inlaid with tiny red sapphires, seemed to burn. Only the space where his eyes should have been seemed dead, dead and pitiless.

  To the West Men, Authun seemed a strange, glittering eyeless alien, and they knew there was only one place you obtained wealth like that. In battles, and plenty of them.

  The enemy understood only a word or two of what the king said but were cowed by the force of his delivery. It could have been a spell and, even if it wasn’t, the meaning of his message was clear: prepare to die. Imagination blended with fear and, to some of the West Men, it seemed that the king really did have the head of a wolf, that his wolf banner, held high by Vott, did snarl and snap in the breeze. A couple of boys fell away and ran. Three men at the rear melted off to go back to their wives and children and get them away. From somewhere a bowman, his aim made unreliable by fear, landed arrows into the sand ten paces away from Authun’s feet. The king didn’t move. The arrows had dropped quite softly, meaning the bow was at the limit of its range and, even if the archer improved his shooting, Authun thought himself well covered on that side by his helmet and shield. His impassive posture terrified the West Men. A spearman in the front rank ran, dropping his shield, and the others, paralysed by the sight of the sparkling, fearful king, did not move to close the gap. The raiders charged.