SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

Skadi’s Wolves Kirsten Cross

Dozens of unblinking eyes were watching every move Ælrik made. It was impossible to see the rest of their blue-stained faces in the shadows that clustered around the perimeter of the campfire. Only the whites of their eyes shone like malevolent stars in the darkness. The fire sent up greasy plumes of smoke, and every so often the resin that seeped out of the pine branches reached boiling point and erupted in a violent fizz and crack that sounded like condensed lightning. No matter how many times it happened, it never failed to make Ælrik flinch.

Flinching was something you didn’t want to do in front of the ‘Painted People’. These damn Picts saw any indication of fear as a sign of weakness — a sign that would instantly draw a violent and bloody response.

So the fact they were so frightened of what they called ‘Skadi’s Wolves’ that they were even talking to Ælrik, a soldier and messenger of the hated King Æthelstan, without hacking him to pieces in the process was all the more astonishing.

The warlord and his priest squatted opposite Ælrik and his companion, a tousle-haired Dane named Jurgen. The lad was only in his nineteenth year, but already he had the mind of a far wiser and more experienced statesman on his young shoulders. If he lived, he’d go far. If he lived. His sword-arm was strong too, and in these times of turmoil that was probably much more useful than all the pretty words any silver-tongued envoy could pour onto the unimpressed heads of the Painted People — heads that bristled with lime-hardened spikes of white hair. To Ælrik’s eyes they looked for all the world like hedgepigs that have rolled into a ball to defend themselves from the attentions of an over-curious wildcat.

The priest had spent the entire time muttering and drawing symbols into the dirt with a charred stick. His rotten teeth caused him to slur and stutter, but Jurgen could just about make out the guttural noises and interpret them into words. He translated the gibberish for Ælrik. “They come when the moon is full, he says.”

“Who do?”

“Skadi’s Wolves.”

“Yes, I keep hearing this name. Who is this Skadi? Is he some kind of warlord?”

Jurgen shook his head. “Skadi is an ice giantess. She is one of the most feared of all the northern queens. She is the one who punished Loki for his crimes.”

“Ah, right. So a myth, then.”

Jurgen snorted. “As real to me as your mythical Fisher of Men is to you, my friend.”

Ælrik rounded on the young Dane. “Blaspheme against the name of our Lord one more time and I’ll kill you myself, understand?”

“Your lord, Ælrik, not mine. Anyway, I thought you Christians were supposed to forgive us simple Pagans?” Jurgen raised an eyebrow. “And perhaps this is a conversation for another time and not one we should indulge in now?” He gave an almost impercievable nod towards the Picts and lowered his voice. “They’re nervous enough as it is of our presence, Ælrik. One wrong move and we could find ourselves skewered and roasting over this very fire. They eat people, you know. They really do.”

Ælrik snorted. “No they don’t, you young fool. But I agree that perhaps our spiritual debate can wait for another time. Continue.”

Jurgen shifted uncomfortably. The Picts may be happy to squat for hours in front of a fire, but he had become used to the relative comforts of the Berwick garrison and, in particular, cushions. “According to the priest, Skadi’s Wolves single out warriors. Anyone with a sword is fair game. They leave the villagers and farmers alone, unless, of course, they can’t find any warriors. Then they’ll feed on anyone they can run down.”

“So what we actually have is a bunch of Norsemen raiders, dressed as wolves and led by a woman, and spoiling for a fight.” Ælrik rolled his eyes. “Jurgen, you’re a soldier. Do you honestly believe this nonsense about ice queens and men that shapeshift into wolves?”

“Says the man who asks some dickless monk to give him absolution every holy day, and then promptly goes out the next day killing and slaughtering. Be wary of what you make jests towards, my friend.”

Ælrik stared open-mouthed at Jurgen. “You cannot possibly be telling me that you actually believe that some ice goddess—”

“Giantess.”

“Whatever. Some ice giantess is hunting down soldiers with a pack of slathering, demonic wolves? Can’t you see this is just a matter of simple campfire stories made up by a bunch of backward fools who still believe that painting their skin blue will make them invincible in battle?”

Jurgen shifted again. “Hush, man. Watch your tone. Our hosts may be ignorant, but they’re smart enough to know when you’re mocking them, even if it is in a language they don’t understand.” He twitched again, the merest of suggestions towards the warlord and his mumbling priest. The Picts scowled back. Ælrik held up an open hand in apology and indicated to the priest to continue.

Mumble, mutter, mumble. The priest scribbled in the dirt, the lines forming glyphs and symbols. Jurgen strained to see them and nodded. He pointed. “This one is Algiz — the rune of protection and concealment.”

“And that means?”

“It means we are dealing with a hidden enemy. An enemy that uses the darkness to hunt its victims. But tonight it also means that we, too, are protected by the clouds that conceal the moon. Without bathing in her shining light, the beasts cannot take on their true form.”

“So they can be killed when it’s a bit cloudy? You jest, surely!”

“This is no jest, my friend. These are not ordinary wolves.”

“Yes, I thought we’d already established that, Jurgen. These are not wolves at all! These are men dressed as wolves. And men, whether they wear the skin of a wolf, a bear or a flea-ridden alley-cat, I can kill.” Ælrik stood and gave a stiff bow to the Pict warlord. “Jurgen, tell them we thank them for their hospitality and their information. I will inform our commander that we have a rogue band of Norsemen wandering around the countryside, and we’ll hunt them down as we would a wild boar for a feast.” He bowed stiffly again and turned to walk away from the fire.

A hand rested on his shoulder and he spun back, the warrior instinct immediately kicking in, his sword half drawn from his scabbard before he’d finished turning. He stared straight into the cracking blue woad and wild eyes of the priest. The smell of rotting meat rolled forward in blasts from the decrepit old man’s mouth. Strands of putrid venison stuck between the stumps of his decayed teeth. The man’s breath could have knocked down Hadrian’s Wall itself.

“She comes. For you and your warriors. Her wolves come. They will devour you all!” The last words were snarled and filled with utter hatred. Damnation. The priest had understood every word, the foul little runt! Ælrik was tempted to draw his sword from the last half of the scabbard and run the disgusting little man through. But if he did, he knew he’d get no more than three steps before the entire tribe of blue-painted lunatics would be on him and tearing him apart. He had enough to worry about knowing there was some rogue Norse raiding party wandering the countryside between here and Berwick garrison, without having a horde of angry Picts chasing them through the badlands as well.

He sheathed his sword slowly, making damn sure the priest could hear the metal sliding back into the scabbard and know just how close he’d come to feeling the cold kiss of English steel in his belly. His eyes never left the wild, staring orbs of the priest. White foam collected in the corners of the Priest’s mouth. The old man panted heavily, sending waves of foul breath washing over Ælrik. It was all the soldier could do to stop himself vomiting in the priest’s face. He glanced at the taloned hand of the priest that still gripped his shoulder, and then back to the Pict. His eyes narrowed and he snarled at the vile little man. “Unhand me. Now.” The authority in his voice — a voice used to giving orders — made the Pict retract his hand reluctantly and withdraw a pace. Ælrik could see him vibrating with anger, and sensed that the mood was spreading throughout the tribe. Angering a priest amongst these heathens was never a good move. The mood around the campfire was turning ugly. Time for a tactical withdrawal.

“Jurgen, the horses.”

Jurgen sprang up, said a few hasty words of thanks to the warlord, assuring him they would be on the lookout for Skadi’s Wolves as they journeyed back towards Berwick.

The warlord laughed. “You’ll be looking for them? Northman, they already have your scent! You’ll meet them soon enough!” He laughed again and, kicking dirt over the fire to extinguish the flames, barked a command at his followers. In a heartbeat they had melted back into the darkness. All except the priest.

The old man stood motionless by the smouldering embers and watched as Jurgen and Ælrik mounted their jittery horses. Ælrik gathered up his reins and, with one last dark look at the old priest, dug his heels into his mount’s side. The horse leapt from standing start to flat gallop in just a few paces.

Jurgen paused, his hand on the pommel of his saddle. He turned and briefly bowed to the priest. The priest shook his head sadly. “You are a warrior. They will come for you too. I cannot give you protection. You have made your choice.” The priest paused, and then picked up a pebble. With the burnt end of a stick, he scraped a shape onto the surface and held it up to the young man. “You are of the North. Perhaps Skadi will forgive you more readily than she will that Saxon dog. Take this.” He thrust the pebble into Jurgen’s hand, turned and vanished into the darkness.

Jurgen frowned, and glanced down at the stone. On its surface was a roughly shaped rune — Algiz. Protection. He pocketed the stone, looked around the deserted camp one last time, and spurred his nervous mount into following Ælrik. The horse needed little encouragement — it was keen to leave this place. It could smell them coming. It could sense them on the breeze…

Eyes, surrounded not by blue woad but by coarse, short hair, watched from the darkness. These weren’t eyes full of fear, but shining golden orbs with elongated pupils. Eyes full of blood lust. The shadows twisted and writhed, as if the owners of those cold, gold eyes couldn’t quite decide which form to take. The darkness rippled and contorted. A mouth twisted into a muzzle and curled back to reveal teeth that gleamed like polished walrus ivory. A low, throaty snarl rumbled slowly through the forest. It was joined by others, each one singing the same song, calling to their mistress to unleash them, to let them run the warriors down, to hunt, to chase, to feed.

“No. Not yet. We wait for the moon’s light to shine upon you. Then you may hunt.”

The darkness had a fractured, broken voice full of ice crystals and venom. A voice of the north, where the green, flickering lights of Asgard rippled and danced across the night sky. A voice that wrapped revenge in warm fur skins and set it loose across the frozen wastelands. The voice of a giantess with a heart that had no mercy for her enemies. Had she not challenged the gods themselves, and won? Had she not tormented Loki with the dripping toxin of a viper until he begged her to release him?

She knew no fear. And she knew no mercy, either. Mortal warriors like these two were nothing to her. They would lead her to a far greater bounty, a bounty that would generate more and more of her children until they grew into an army that would sweep the hated Saxons from this island — an island she claimed as her own. Then she would bring the ice, and a hundred winters and a hundred more…

Ælrik slowed his horse to a walk. A flat-out gallop through the darkness was foolish in the extreme. It would take just one tree root or one rabbit hole to send his horse crashing to the ground, screaming and snorting as its leg snapped. Then he’d be forced to either ride two-up on Jurgen’s horse, or run the last few miles to Berwick garrison. And if they really did have a band of Norsemen, or demons, or whatever on their tail, then trying to outrun them would be just as foolish as galloping a horse along a trail in the dark. He’d never make it.

The horse puffed and blew, tossing its head up and down. Its ears flickered, flattening against its skull. It was spooked by something only it could see or smell. Ælrik patted its neck and made soothing, cooing noises. “Settle, shush, settle.” He watched as Jurgen reined in his own horse and fell into step. His beast was just as nervous as Ælrik’s, if not more so. The damn things scuttled and danced stiff-legged, rolling their eyes and snorting.

Something in the darkness was following them. Ælrik could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Whatever it was — whether they were Norsemen or wolves — was keeping just out of sight, merging into the shadows and harrying them relentlessly. But just beyond the crest of the next moorland plateau was the warmth and safety of Berwick and the garrison. Thick stone walls encircled the town — a settlement that had been fought over for generations by Norsemen, Picts and Saxons alike. The Romans had regarded it as their most northerly frontier town. Even the women could wield a sword in this embattled place. The locals, bitter from years of bloodshed and violence, had faces as hard as the granite stone that formed the walls. They didn’t like strangers, and they didn’t like anyone or anything that hinted at Pagan filth and their degenerate beliefs. They knew the Lord looked after His own — and their swords would do the rest.

Once they were back in the safety of the garrison, Ælrik knew they could rest up, and then tell the commander of the potential threat in the morning. Then he and Jurgen could ride out with a company of cavalry and hunt these damn Norse wolfmen down. No fuss, no bother. A band of Norse warriors dressed in skins was nothing to worry about unduly. They’d need to be an army to go against the Berwick garrison, and from what the Picts said there was only a small band of these wolfskin-wearing bastards to deal with.

Ælrik wasn’t concerned with anything except making it back to the garrison. Out here, and with only Jurgen for company, he was vulnerable. With his men behind him, he’d be invincible.

They reached the crest of the ridge and looked down into the valley. Ælrik could sense Jurgen behind him, growling rough commands at his increasingly nervous horse. He twisted in the saddle and looked at the young man. “You all right?”

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.

With a howl, the shapes finally settled on a single form. Bones cracked, broke and reformed, sending the morphing creatures into spasms of rage and agony. Thirteen men became thirteen raging, slavering wolves — bigger, faster and more vicious than any pack that ran through the wilds of the northern lands. These were Skadi’s Wolves — feared not only by mortals and their mothers, but by the Gods themselves. The Christian Fisher King’s mewing men would be no match for their fury.

Baying and howling, they looked to their mistress to release them. She smiled, petted the largest — a massive, black-furred, golden-eyed monster with a maw that would swallow a baby whole — and raised a glistening, frost-covered hand. She curled all but one finger into a fist, ice crystals dropping from her skin, and pointed at the garrison. “Feast, my children. Feast!”

With a final group howl, Skadi’s Wolves were unleashed…

“What in God’s name was that?” Ælrik skidded to a stop and spun around in his saddle.

“That was our doom calling us! Ride, you fool, ride!” Jurgen kicked his horse into a gallop, no longer concerned by possible tree roots or rabbit holes. They had just a mile to go before they reached the garrison. He knew his horse was almost at the end of its endurance — he could see the vein in its thick neck pulsing frantically. Damn it, the blasted creature’s heart was close to exploding through sheer exhaustion and terror. “One mile, damn you, one mile!” He kicked the animal in the ribs, urging it on. If the wretched creature collapsed at the gates then it was of no matter. But they needed to get to safety before the Wolves descended upon them.

Ælrik scowled. “No man howls like that…”

The demonic, blood-curdling howling screamed defiance, vengeance and a lust for blood that only the beating heart of a terrified, dying man would slate.

“Lord God Almighty, protect us!” Ælrik kicked his heels against his horse’s ribcage and the creature leapt into a gallop with no further encouragement.

One mile.

That’s all.

Just one mile…

The garrison at Berwick was almost deserted. A few lame and injured soldiers, still beaten, bloodied and bruised from recent running skirmishes with the Norsemen, were all that were left. One cook, one stable boy and a couple of guards to protect the gate made up the company. It would be a pitifully weak defence against anything that may come from the north. But the Garrison walls were three feet thick in places, and the gates were made of solid English Oak that age had hardened to the strength of iron. Besides, all the problems were to the south, where York was now the focus of King Æthelstan’s attentions.

Every man who could fight had marched with the King. All that was left in Berwick were those who would have simply slowed the column and become a burden to their comrades. Three monks had volunteered to stay and tend to the sick and the wounded, raining muttered benedictions and blessings on those who could not escape their pious mumbling. The monks did nothing except remind the dying soldiers of their impending mortality. Their poultices stank and stung, the bandages were merely sack cloth cut into strips, and the gruel they slopped into wooden bowls would not have sustained a child. Yet here they were, these monks with their tonsured heads, their filthy brown robes and their stinking, dirt-caked skin — and large, solid silver crosses swinging from their waists. The grubby, once-white cords that held their robes in place each carried a silver cross so large that, if melted down and beaten into coins, would feed and clothe a family for a year. Many of the soldiers, who were still struggling with their faith, felt a jarring at the juxtaposition of supposedly penitent monks displaying such ostentatious wealth so flagrantly. No wonder the men of the North constantly raided their shores, if they knew that such riches were on open display and there for the taking!

Many of the northern soldiers blamed the monks in no small measure for the violence that had plunged their land into such black and bloody turmoil. And now the sanctimonious bastards had the audacity to tell them to be grateful for God’s bounty of watery gruel and stale bread? Damn them all! Damn them and their Fisher God…

The gate guards were roused into slothish movement by the sound of pounding hooves and shouting. “Open the gate! Open, in the name of God and the King!”

A screaming whinny indicated a horse that had finally given up and collapsed, its heart now just a flapping, bloody mess of torn muscle in its chest.

The gate guards rushed to the observation point to see who demanded entry at this hour. “Who goes there, calling by the name of the King?”

“Ælrik and Jurgen! For the love of God Almighty, man, let us in! We’re under attack!”

The gate guard turned to his colleague. “Sound the alarm!” One guard nodded and sprinted off along the battlements towards the alarm bell, while his compatriot slid down the wooden ladder and ran to the gate. With a grunt, he heaved the heavy oak bar out of its resting place and hauled on the handle.

When there was just enough room to squeeze through, Ælrik stumbled his way in, spun, grabbed Jurgen by the scruff and hauled him through. “Shut it! Shut it now!” The guard slammed the gate shut and Jurgen helped him lift the oak beam and slot it back into position.

The clanging alarm bell brought the few mobile occupants of the Garrison scurrying out into the courtyard. Limping soldiers on crutches, those with bandages around their heads or with their arm in a sling, stood bleary-eyed and confused. The three monks scurried out like brown rats, twitching their noses and scuffling their sandals through the horse-shit and mud. “What’s this? What’s this?” The eldest of the tonsured fools scuttled up to Ælrik. “Are we under attack?”

“Why do you think my men have sounded the alarm, you dolt? Of course we’re under attack! And by something unholy too, Father. So we may have need of your skills and machinations before this night is through!” Ælrik glowered at the monk, his instinct to backhand the damn fool battling with his reverence for the supposed authority of a priest.

The oak gates shook violently as a force slammed into them from the outside. The beam held. Just. Another violent judder shook the entire gate. Small flakes of stone and mortar floated down. From the other side of the gates came snuffling and growling — deep, guttural and primeval. Claws scrabbled and dug at the wood, scraping and scratching into the oak planks.

Ælrik, Jurgen, the guards and those men that could stand and move stepped slowly back, drawing their swords and readying themselves. The gates were strong, but would they be strong enough? Another shudder shook the gates as the beasts on the other side threw their weight at the oak.

“What manner of attack is this?” The oldest of the monks stared at the shaking gates and crossed himself frantically.

“Demons, Father. Demons with big teeth and a taste for Christian blood!” Ælrik snarled at the monk. “Vile hounds from the north. They delight in the name of Skadi’s Wolves.”

“God preserve us!” The monk wailed. “Not here, not again!”

Before Ælrik had a chance to ask the monk what he meant by ‘not again’, the gate juddered violently. A sliver of wood broke away from one of the planks, and a single golden eye filled with menace and evil peered through. The owner of the eye snarled and growled, a long, low rumbling that lasted several heartbeats. Taloned fingers, part human, part animal, curled through the small gap and started to worry and scrabble at the planking.

Before Ælrik or any of his men could respond, a monk leapt forward. The silver cross that usually hung from his grubby, knotted cord was in his hand and pointing straight at the beast’s golden eye. The monk, yelling for the power of God to protect him, plunged the long shaft of the cross deep into the wolf’s orb.

The screaming was horrific. The beast disappeared from view and continued to howl in agony, the silver cross still embedded in its eye. Thrashing and snarling came from beyond the damaged gate, as the injured beast yelped again and again like a kicked puppy. The smell of burning flesh filtered through the gap in the wood; an odd, acrid smell that stung the back of the men’s throats.

Above the animal sounds rose a scream of absolute fury that stopped every living creature — man and beast — in its tracks. The sound of a furious ice giantess. “NO! You dare defile my children? You dare? Kill them! Kill them all! Spare no one!”

The gate shook violently as the beasts launched a barrage of attacks. The sound of splintering wood sent the men back further. Ælrik had a nasty feeling that English steel, while it may have been good for skewering Pictish priests, would be no match for these hellish creatures and their furious mistress. “Priest! How is it that your man’s cross had such an effect?”

“As much as I’d like to say it’s the power of our Lord God Almighty that smites them, it is the silver. They cannot bear its touch. That and the touch of the sun’s rays.” The monk held up the cross that dangled at his waist. “See this?” He indicated to the main shaft that tapered down into a point. “Have you never wondered why our crosses are shaped so? It is because we know of these beasts.”

“Then you know how to fight them.”

“Normally? Yes. But they’re too great an enemy for us to fight, soldier. We must flee.”

“You do and I’ll cut you down myself!” Ælrik snarled. “We have just an hour until dawn. We hold them off. We fight!”

The monk shrugged. “Then we’ll die. I suppose it is God’s will that we die alongside you and your men.”

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.

The cobbles became slick underfoot. Blood and guts mixed with shit and the slippery ice crystals from the shattered door. Yelping and howling filled the night — the roar of an unholy battle between ancient demons and terrified, enraged men.

Men died. Badly. The beasts, torn between the agony of transformation and the injuries the soldiers were inflicting on them, still fought with a ferocity that was matched only by the fury of the soldiers they tried to slaughter. It was a vile, bloody stalemate.

In the darkness, a huge figure stood and watched impassively, a cold smile playing around thin, hard lips. What the mortals seemed to forget was that clouds were transient. They drifted like snow on the wind. Skadi looked up. A twinkle of a frosty star and the silver edge of the moon’s glow indicated the cloud was passing. She looked back at the melee. The mortals believed they were winning as her twisting, writhing children howled and bayed, falling back under a barrage of sword strikes.

Then the cloud drifted on.

The moon blazed forth in all her glory.

Skadi threw her head back and let out a roar that was heard in Valhalla itself.

Ælrik watched as the beasts writhed and twisted back into demonic hounds full of golden-eyed fury and snarling rage.

“Oh, God, no…”