Time of the Wolf (2 page)

“He is defenseless,” the monk stuttered.

“Good.” Hereward angled his sword above the mail shirt and drove it into the man's chest until the tip protruded from his back. The Northman gurgled, eyes frozen wide in shock. When Hereward withdrew the blade, hot blood trailed from the body where it had been opened to the air.

“You did not have to kill him,” the monk said, aghast.

“He would have killed you without a second thought. And he helped slaughter all of
them.”
Hereward nodded to the pile of villagers' bodies.

Croaking, the dying warrior tried to call out to his comrades. Hereward hacked off his head with one blow and picked it up by the hair, studying it with contempt for a moment before hurling it deep into the forest.

“What are you?” the monk said in disgust.

“Your savior.” Hereward felt the ecstasy of the kill already begin to ebb, and the resonant voice inside him called out for more blood. It throbbed in his head, in his very bones, the hungry urging of the thing that had lived with him since he was a boy. For a moment, he listened for the sound of approaching feet. They were hard and cold like their northern home, these mercenaries, he thought, and seasoned by battle. They would not be deterred by sentiment or fear. He had ghosted out of the trees to kill the stragglers when they put the village to the torch, glimpsed by the others only in passing, and he knew that a one-on-one fight would be no contest. But if they came in force, he would be at a disadvantage. “They'll find us soon,” he murmured, trying to pierce the dense smoke. “I counted another four here. Probably more on the way.”

“Yes … there are.”

“Then you have a choice: stay here and be food for the ravens, or come with me.” He could see that the monk found both options equally abhorrent, and with a shrug he prowled into the frozen wood. He hadn't gone far when he heard the sound of the monk scrambling to catch up.

“Tell me you did not murder any of the villagers.” Anger laced the monk's voice, but he was fighting back tears of grief.

“I did not.”

“You are not from Gedley. What fight do you have with Redteeth's band?”

“Redteeth? That is their leader's name?” Hereward shrugged, wiping the sticky drips from his brow. “I am a man of Mercia. I was resting here in the village on my journey to Eoferwic. When the Northmen started their slaughtering, they made the error of trying to kill me too.” Hereward thought back to the moment when, bleary-eyed from sleep, he had emerged from the house into the din of the attack. The raiding party roamed among the blazing houses, cutting down anyone who crossed their path. His first thought had been that the men who had pursued him from the court in London had finally caught up with him. Then, as he prepared to run, he had glimpsed a woman crying out as an axe split her skull, a small child sobbing at her side. The vision had disinterred memories of two other women lying at his feet, their dead eyes staring blankly up at him. In an instant, his murderous rage had boiled up, and after that he remembered only the iron scent of blood, the crack of bone, and the throat-rending screams that followed the dance of his sword.

Away in the fog of burning echoed the sound of running feet and a cry of alarm, quickly answered. The Viking's headless body had been discovered, Hereward surmised. He grabbed the monk by the arm and hauled him on. “Battle with your conscience when you are not in danger of having your head removed.”

Alric stumbled along behind Hereward on weary legs. “They will not give up until they find us. Harald Redteeth can track a man through woodland far thicker than this—”

“Quiet,” Hereward snapped. “If you are planning to babble all the time, I will leave you behind.”

The monk glared at him. “Harald Redteeth will not rest until we are dead.”

“And I will not rest until
he
is dead. Choose your side now. Only one of us will be left standing when this business is done.”

With the angry bellows of the raiders drawing closer, Hereward darted among the tangle of oaks and ash trees without waiting for a response. Cutting round a rocky outcrop that would hide them from their pursuers for a while, he plunged down a bank into a freezing stream, the exhausted monk struggling along close behind. The warrior felt his feet turn to ice in his leather shoes, but the discomfort was a small price to pay to ensure that no trail would be left to mark their passage.

As they splashed along, the monk gasped, “My name is Alric. My home is the monastery at Jarrow, but I have journeyed far and wide to spread God's word.”

“God seems to have forsaken this place.” Hereward could see that the monk would be a burden in the coming battle. He weighed the advantages of clouting the cleric unconscious and leaving him for the hunting party to find.

“What are you thinking?” Alric wheezed.

“Ask me in a little while.”

Where the stream cascaded down a tumble of rocks, the warrior grasped a branch to lever himself out of the water. He hesitated, studying Alric for a moment before reaching out to help him. Stooping to cup his hands in the icy water, he swilled some of the blood away to reveal streaks of long blond hair and a strong jaw. His eyes were a piercing pale blue. As the caked gore sluiced off, the blue-black marks of the warrior were uncovered on his upper arms, spirals and circles made by punching ashes into the skin with an awl. He saw the monk eyeing the gold rings of a man of status round his forearms and biceps, but he was not about to satisfy the curiosity he discerned in his companion's eyes.

The monk relaxed a little when he could see that Hereward was not the devil he had first perceived. “You are not a common thief. You have had some tutoring,” he remarked. “I can hear it in your voice.”

“No questions.”

“I would know what monster I accompany,” Alric said defiantly.

Hereward turned and pressed his blade against the monk's neck. “Any more, and I will gut you with my sword Brainbiter.”

“You would kill a man of God?”

“I would kill anyone.” The Mercian fixed his pale eyes on Alric.

“You do not scare me,” Alric said, blinking away tears.

Ignoring him, Hereward glanced back along the stream. He absorbed the thinning light and the intensifying blizzard and knew that without shelter they would soon freeze to death. “They will be here soon,” he said, turning to look into the darkening depths of the forest ahead. “How far to the next village?”

“Half a day, at least. We will never survive the night.”

“Is there any other shelter?”

Alric hesitated. “There is a woman who lives alone near here. She is
wicce.”

“Which way?”

“No!” Alric protested. “She carries out necromancies and enchantments and divinations. She is a heathen who denies the Paternoster and the Creed.”

As the shouts of their pursuers began to follow the path of the stream, Hereward grabbed Alric's shoulders and shook him. “We do what we do to survive. You would rather die than break bread with a heathen?”

Snapping from the strain, Alric launched himself at the warrior, punching and kicking, spittle flying from his mouth as he raged. “None of this matters. They will pursue us until we drop from exhaustion! We are already dead!”

“Yes. We are. All of us.” Hereward swung his fist into the monk's jaw and knocked him cold.

Dragging his companion across the snow and rocks to a broad oak tree, the warrior stripped off his own blood-sodden woolen tunic and leggings and used them to bind the monk to the bole. Once he was done, he tucked his leather pouch containing coin and a knife behind a rock. Naked, he flexed his muscles so that the blue whorls that covered his torso rippled in the fading light, and then he bellowed. A moment of silence ended in an abrupt crashing in the frozen undergrowth as Redteeth's men raced toward the sound.

Hereward bounded off into the growing gloom.

The monk must have come round in time to see him disappear into the trees, for the warrior heard Alric roar, “Monster! You
are
the Devil!”

From his hiding place, Hereward watched two of the Viking mercenaries skid down the snowy bank to arrive beside Alric, one clutching an axe, the other a spear. Two more followed, wearing helmets and well-worn mail. “It is only the monk,” the one with the axe said. “The other has fled.”

“He left me here to slow you down!” Alric shouted. “Pursue him! He is only a moment or two ahead!”

Hereward spied the two helmeted raiders following his trail; their time would come first. The Viking with the spear turned to Alric. “Your debt can only be repaid with blood.”

“Harald will want to take that payment himself!” Alric replied bitterly.

“I will take your head back to him. He will be pleased with that … and reward me fully.”

Hereward saw Alric close his eyes and call on the Lord to save his soul. As the prayer whispered out on the wind, the Mercian was already circling round the two men trudging along his trail. When they separated to widen their search, he struck, allowing one blood-chilling scream to echo among the trees.

The monk's two remaining tormentors laughed. “Your friend is dead,” one of them said.

“He is not my friend!” Alric snapped. “He is nothing but a beast.”

Nearby, the dead man's companion crashed through the undergrowth, each guttural curse a testament to the fear he now felt. Once again, Hereward struck with efficiency, delaying the killing blow just enough to draw out another cry. It rang above the gale whipping through the branches.

Slipping back to where he could observe the monk and the two remaining raiders, Hereward saw that the Vikings' faces were drawn; their humor had drained away. The mercenary with the axe made to venture into the trees, but his comrade caught his arm to hold him back.

Letting his chin fall on to his chest, Alric whispered, “He is the Devil.”

Ignoring the cold, Hereward waited, watching the fear rise in the two warriors. They raised their weapons as they circled the monk, searching for an attack from any direction. Long moments passed with only the howl of the wind and the blast of the snow. The darkness slipped among the trees and enveloped them.

Finally, Hereward moved from his hiding place. Knotted together by their long hair, the heads of the two Vikings arced from the shadows, twisting and turning to crash into the snow with a splatter of blood at the feet of the raiders.

Overcome with rage at the slaughter of his comrades, the raider with the axe roared his battle cry and raced forward. The warning from the other Northman came too late.

Spectral in the gloom, Hereward stepped from behind a spreading oak and swung his sword into the back of the raider's neck. Before the Viking had even hit the ground, the naked, blood-streaked Hereward bounded toward the final mercenary. Hereward felt the rush of his bloodlust engulf him. The world diminished to his opponent's eyes and the dance of blades.

The Northman ducked the first strike, though it drove him back. A storm of iron, Hereward's sword hacked right and left: high, for the shoulder blade; horizontally, toward the ribcage. Struggling to stand his ground, the wild-haired mercenary dodged each blow and tried to bring his own weapon to bear.

For several minutes, the two men battled around Alric, fighting to keep their feet on the treacherous ground. Lost to his wild passion, Hereward failed to account for the deepening snow. Cursing, he went down on one knee. The mercenary saw his opening and thrust his spear.

Hereward threw himself to one side, bringing up his left fist into the warrior's groin. As the Viking doubled over in agony, the English warrior jumped up and rammed his knee into his opponent's face. The mercenary crashed backward, unconscious.

Hereward heaved a deep breath. As his vision cleared, the whispers in his head fell silent and his rage subsided. He moved to release the monk.

“They could have killed me! You did not know I would still be alive when you returned!” Alric shouted.

“No, I did not.” The warrior waved a dismissive hand as if swatting a fly. “You seem to believe that I care whether you live or die.”

Once Alric was free, Hereward stripped off the unconscious warrior's mail shirt, tunic, and breeches and dressed in them. His arms and legs felt numb from the cold, but the feeling would return soon enough. Using the blood-soaked garments that had secured the monk, he tied the naked mercenary to the tree.

Alric slumped onto a fallen trunk, head in hands, repeating a short prayer in a tone of wrenching desolation.

“Do not pray for me: I am long since damned,” Hereward muttered as he checked the tightness of the knots.

“I am not praying for you.” With red-rimmed eyes, the monk leveled a haunted look in the direction of Gedley.

The Mercian could see that his companion was troubled by more than the deaths of the villagers. “Who pays the Northmen? And why are they hunting for you?”