‘Go well, friend.’
Wulf nudged his horse into a walk.
Over the coming weeks, his new neighbours became intrigued by and then accepting of the man called Wulf. With him, to his lodgings where his horse lived at ground level while he slept in the hay-insulated loft, he had brought a rolled cloak full of brooches and torcs, combs of carved bone, and similar lightweight trinkets that he could sell at a profit. He also bought such goods off travellers he met at the local inns and in the nearby market. The reputation he built up was one of fairness, never taking advantage of a wounded soldier down on his luck, nor selling at too high a margin to a love struck thegn eager to impress the maiden of his dreams, or perhaps her parents.
In the mornings he would ride out to exercise the horse, though for half the time he would run alongside her – of all the beasts in the Middle World, none could outlast a man provided he was fit: not a mare, gelding or stallion, neither a dog nor a bitch, not even a wolf.
He missed Brandr, his faithful war-hound, long dead, but would not dream of getting a replacement.
Maybe if I settle.
Even here in teeming Lundenwic, the notion of settling down seemed a strange and distant fantasy for a man who had wandered so far and seen so many things, and carried so much blood on his hands.
Part-way through his daily run, he would work his strength by lifting, pulling and pressing boulders and stones, and by throwing them hard across muddy meadows. And there was weapons practice, of course, for without daily discipline the skills would grow dull, and then he would be unequipped if violence fell upon him. Then he would die embarrassed, deserving to be carried off to Niflheim, ignored by Óthinn’s Death-Choosers.
Or whatever gods ruled here.
Perhaps none of the stories are true.
Except that the Norns clearly ruled men’s lives, and when he woke in the mornings he sometimes, just for a moment, held on to a fragment of a memory from the dreamworld; and in those times he was convinced that both Valhöll and the preparations for final war, for Ragnarökkr, existed for real.
When his stock of trinkets threatened to become large, too much to carry with him when he left his lodgings, he had a choice to make. Surprising himself, he hired two local men to alternate guard duty on his place. Osmund and Cerdic seemed honest enough, though not warriors he would trust in battle, not comrades; but some twenty days after they began working for him, he returned from his morning training to find Osmund poking around the lodgings, looking puzzled, while Cerdic was gone, along with the lightest and most valuable of Wulf’s goods.
‘I saw him walking, hurrying’ – Osmund gestured – ‘and wondered what was wrong, so I came here.’
‘Stay on guard,’ Wulf growled.
Osmund nodded, fast.
Wolves excel at tracking prey.
*
There were courts for justice, but not in Wulf’s world, for men could lie and how could a stranger tell which one told the truth? So Wulf trailed Cerdic, and watched him hide up among stacked coracles on a mudbank, clearly thinking he was safe, and planning to slip out when darkness fell. But Wulf stood in shadow for the remainder of the day, unmoving, until the sun grew large and scarlet, low in the grey sky, and then diminished.
Cerdic headed away from the crowded, muddy alleys, and Wulf followed.
The moon was already high, her light shining stronger as darkness grew, and Cerdic was close to the old Roman walls when Wulf fell on him from behind and that was that: Cerdic’s soul was gone to Niflheim.
All you had to do was not betray me.
Wulf had retrieved most of his goods from the body, wrapping them in scraps of leather one by one, and slipping them into the new pouch he wore at his right hip, when a whimper sounded from beyond the walls.
The old stones were the colour of bone in moonlight, and his sword came free of its oiled scabbard in silence as he heard the low laughter of men, and the single cut-off cry that had to be a woman. She would be one of the toothless whores who worked close to the ruins, snatched by a gang who could not be bothered to spend even the pittance she sought.
My reavers did worse.
But he would not allow this, all the same. There was no sound as he slid among dark gaps in the ruined walls, yet still they stopped, six grey figures, though the bundle on the silvery grass continued to struggle; and then Wulf laughed softly, knowing the effect it would have on them.
Six dead men, although they did not know it yet.
Now.
He howled as the berserkergangr came upon him, and then it was a turbulence of death, joy in chaos as he whirled through bodies in the night, killing by feel more than sight, blood soaring until it was done, tides of triumph in his veins, chest heaving, as he pushed down the urge to kill because only the woman was left and she deserved to live.
Calm.
And cold, like a dropped cloak as the madness fell away.
There it had been eight of them, it seemed, but the woman had used her daggers to good effect before they subdued her, leaving two corpses in the mud-strewn alley where they trapped her, while at least two of the men Wulf had killed bore wounds from her blades.
‘My name is Sunngifu,’ she told him, standing straight despite the tremble in her voice. ‘My father will reward you, if you see me safely home.’
Wulf had cut the ropes from her arms – they had bound her thumbs together first, not tying her ankles because of what they had in mind. The surprise was that they had snatched her in a decent part of Lundenwic, perhaps believing they might ransom her if she survived the rape, and even if she did not, so long as the family believed her alive.
‘I don’t need—’ Wulf began.
One of the men groaned, and Sunngifu whirled, dropping to one knee as a flash of silver descended to a wet thud, then silence.
‘—payment,’ he finished.
He checked again, this time making sure they were all dead.
‘It’s that way.’ Sunngifu, pale beneath the moon, pointed out the direction with one of her daggers. ‘You won’t mind if I keep my blades unsheathed?’
The first thing she had retrieved after Wulf cut her bonds had been her pair of daggers.
‘So long as you don’t sheathe them in my liver’ – Wulf grinned at her – ‘I’ll be happy to have you guarding me. My name is Wulf, by the way.’
Sunngifu stared at him, then: ‘Good name.’
Which did nothing to prevent her from keeping a dagger in each hand as they walked, but that was fine by Wulf. He talked softly, telling her where he lived now, and a little of his travels over the years, minus the killing. As they drew close to her home, they were clearly among rich folk, for rush torches burned in iron holders set on staves in the mud, bringing light to those who walked in the night.
Wulf’s thump on the door, and Sunngifu’s calling out: ‘It’s me,’ prompted the sound of two heavy beams being hauled sideways, and then the door swung open, a heavyset woman standing there, gaping. Then she turned to one of the young men further inside, grasped his tunic in her substantial fist and said: ‘Run and tell Swithhun she is found. Run fast and do it now.’
‘Er . . .Yes, mistress.’
‘Now.’
Then she turned to Wulf and added, ‘You have brought our daughter home, warrior.’
‘Er, yes.’
She dragged both of them inside, then hugged Sunngifu hard, raising her off the ground.
‘Your husband is out searching?’ asked Wulf.
‘With half the city guard.’
That was impressive. Wulf liked the guards he knew, but had not thought them dedicated enough to search Lundenwic at night, not with the manifold dangers that darkness brought, especially to someone who had already worked through the daylight hours.
Then he saw Sunngifu’s face properly for the first time.
She’s . . .
His heart stopped, just for a moment. Her face was long and evidently strong, her eyes were pale grey and staring at him without fear or shyness, and he could not take his gaze from her. The big woman, Sunngifu’s mother, whose name Wulf had not learned, looked from one to the other, and back.