SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

Jurgen sawed at the reins and growled again at the skittish horse. “Aye. Just this damned animal. Never known it to be so unruly.” Jurgen knew the horse was simply picking up on his own rising panic, and he inwardly chastised himself for his weakness. He was a soldier, damn it. Soldiers didn’t get spooked by faerie tales and campfire exaggerations about men who could change into wolves, commanded by an ice giantess who could bring the very gods themselves to their knees. Without thinking, he slid his right hand into his pocket and curled his fingers around the runestone the Pict priest had given him. It wasn’t much, but somehow its smooth, hard surface reassured him. He was careful not to rub it, though – doing so would remove the delicate charcoal symbol and turn it from a runestone into nothing more than, well, a stone, really. He let the runestone drop back into the depths of his pocket and focused on the here and now, rather than superstitions and magical talismans.

“Nearly there.” Ælrik pointed to the horizon and the flickering lights of the garrison in the distance.

Jurgen managed to bring the prancing horse under control and shuffled alongside his friend. “You do know we’re being followed.”

“Yes. We have been ever since we left the Pict campsite. They’re good, I’ll give them that. No matter how many times I turn around, they’re staying just out of sight.”

“Isn’t that strange, though?” Jurgen frowned. “Norse raiders would have been on us like a swarm of bees by now. Why are they holding back?”

“Perhaps they’ve taken one too many blows to the head.” Ælrik laughed.

Jurgen wasn’t convinced. “Or perhaps they’re waiting for us to get to the garrison and the rush the gate when it opens?”

Ælrik’s smile abruptly vanished. “And this is why I chose you as a companion, Jurgen. Not because you speak a dozen languages, but because you’re a natural strategist.” He patted the younger man on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. They’ll get a nasty surprise if that’s their little plan. The garrison is fully manned right now.”

“No, it isn’t. I told you. The main company rode out for York yesterday. The King marches against the Norsemen. There’s only a handful of men defending the place.”

Ælrik spun around in his saddle. “What?”

“With so many Norsemen on the move, the King had to summon the entire garrison. That’s why I was sent to call you back from Edinburgh. We were due to march with them, but our delay by the Picts means we’ll have to defend Berwick with just a company of the walking wounded and a few peasants.” Jurgen shrugged.

Ælrik cursed loudly, and backhanded the blond man across his mouth, knocking him from his saddle. “Damn you! When exactly were you going to tell me this?”

Jurgen pushed himself back to his feet and glowered at Ælrik. He spat a globule of spittle and blood onto the ground and wiped the red trickle that ran from the corner of his mouth. “Do that again, and I’ll leave you to the mercy of my fellow Norsemen and their demons! I told you last night at the King of Alba’s table! Or were you too befuddled by ale to understand the urgency of our return, you damn fool!” Jurgen grabbed his horse’s reins and swung back into the saddle. “Perhaps it would be best to have the safety of the walls at our backs before we argue this out again, what say you?” With an angry shout, Jurgen spurred his horse towards the dim lights of Berwick.

Muttering profanities, Ælrik followed his friend, regretting his hasty reaction and determined to regain the Northman’s trust and favour once they got back to the garrison. Jurgen was right. He had drunk too much ale the night before. It was his weakness. It helped to dull the blood-soaked memories and the dreams sent by the Devil himself to torment him.

As the prey cantered away, snuffling and snorting filled the ridge and a cluster of black forms shimmered into view, staying just below the skyline and hunched against the gorse and heather. One, its form indeterminate and fluctuating from man to beast and back again, came across the globule of blood. It sniffed at the blood and recoiled, pulling his lips back and baring fangs that were neither canine nor human. A shadowy form walked among them, and with every step frost spread out like a fungus, crackling and entombing every blade of grass, every leaf and every prickle, with ice. She looked down at the spittle and frowned. “This one carries the protection of the All Father. He is not to be harmed as long as he holds that mark. Even if he is a traitor to our people and rides at the enemy’s side.” Her ice blue eyes looked towards the distant lights of the garrison. “The Saxon and his kind, though, are yours.” She turned her face to the sky, just as the last cloud slipped away and revealed the shimmering, silver disk of a full moon.