SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

Ælrik shook his head. “No. Leave the fighting to us. The three of you get the wounded to the keep. If they breach the outer gate, that will be our only chance. Move!”

The monks scuttled away, leaving the soldiers to face the gates and the hellish creatures that lay beyond them. Time and again the beasts threw themselves with renewed vigour at the oak, and time and again it managed to repel them. But slowly, surely, the wood was starting to weaken.

“Ælrik! Look!” Jurgen pointed to the top of the gates. White frost was starting to creep slowly down the surface of the wood. Deep, penetrating fingers of ice crackled and snapped, plunging deep into the timber and pushing its fibres apart. The ice giantess’ touch was sending permafrost deep into the solid oak, splitting it like a woodsman’s axe would go through soft pine.

“Damn it!” Ælrik could see they had moments before the gates fell. “Fall back! Fall back to the keep!” The soldiers turned and ran, the more able supporting their wounded colleagues.

Jurgen stood motionless, watching the frost creep down the wood, mesmerised by the glistening patterns. His Norse blood pulsed. He knew he was in the presence of one who had seen the halls of Asgard, who had stared into the eye of the All Father himself. One who had defied the gods and chosen her own path. Could he deny his heritage any longer? Could he sit and listen to the burbling of the Fisher King’s priests, knowing now what stood before him just beyond that gate?

He had abandoned his people. His kin. He had turned traitor and ridden at the side of the enemy. He deserved Skadi’s wrath. His sword clattered from his hands and he dropped to his knees, bowing his head, waiting for the wolves.

“Jurgen! What in God’s name are you doing! Run, man! Run!” Ælrik started to move towards his friend.

The gates gave way, exploding in a shower of ice crystals and deadly splinters. The thirteen beasts stood snarling and slathering at the threshold. Slowly, Jurgen looked up and opened his arms, welcoming the wolves at the door, inviting them in. In his right hand was a small, round pebble. It was just possible to see the mark of Algiz – the rune of protection. Smudged. Smeared. Incomplete…

A wolf, massive, muscular and with one ruined and bloody eye socket that still seeped sticky vitreous fluid, moved forward slowly. He stood in front of the prostate man. The lips of his muzzle were pulled back to reveal two rows of gleaming, savagely sharp teeth – teeth designed for tearing flesh and crushing bones. He reached out and batted the worthless pebble out of Jurgen’s hand, a low, rumbling growl vibrating in its massive throat.

The pebble clattered onto the cobbles and rolled away. Jurgen looked into the golden eye of the beast. A single tear rolled down his cheek. “Take me. Spare the others. I am your kin. Take me.”

The beast studied the prostate man for a moment, its hot breath blasting onto Jurgen’s cheek. Then it turned, looking back over its shoulder and waiting for permission from its mistress to begin the carnage by feasting with the one who had carried the mark of the All Father. The one who now kneeled, defenceless and unprotected, believing foolishly that his sacrifice would protect the others.

It wouldn’t.

In the darkness a figure, massive and imposing, nodded once. The beast turned back to Jurgen and its muzzle wrinkled in a savage snarl. The massive maw opened and with a roar the beast fell on the blond man. The others, taking their cue from their leader, swarmed through the ruined gates and, snapping and snarling at each other, tore Jurgen to pieces.

“NO!” Ælrik screamed defiance and rage at the savage slaughter of his friend. “You foul demons! No!” Screaming in fury with every step, he charged towards the beasts as they ripped into the flesh of his comrade. He could see Jurgen’s leg protruding from the melee of writhing bodies, twitching and jumping as every savage bite tore another lump of flesh from his body. The poor man was still alive. The beasts were prolonging the agony. Finally, Jurgen’s screaming was cut short as one wolf tore off his face, ripping the skin from his skull as one would peel the fur coat from a coney.

His men saw the savagery of the beasts, and despite their injuries the warrior instinct filled every single one of them. With a roar, they charged towards the beasts, determined to cut them down and avenge Jurgen’s horrific death, or die like soldiers in the attempt.

The silver light of the moon dimmed.

In mid-feast, Skadi’s Wolves stopped and looked up as a cloud slid across the face of the moon, shielding her rays and plunging the courtyard into gloom. The moon vanished and the beasts howled in unison. The men of the garrison watched in horror as their enemy struggled to find a form.

“Now! While they’re weakest! Attack now!” Ælrik charged forward, hacking at the writhing bodies with his sword. His men followed suit, stabbing and slashing at anything that moved.