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…”
Semper Gumby
Steve Coate
Robert Neidermeyer grabbed hold of the straps securing him in the back of the C-130 Hercules. He felt a jolting impact with each turbulent shudder of the aircraft’s hull. Around him, the other members of his squad paid no heed to the rough and tumble ride. Neidermeyer straightened in his seat and willed his hands to release the straps holding him in place. It was his first active-duty mission and he wanted to impress the others in his squad.