The Way of Wyrd (14 page)

‘At this very moment, I could tell you when you will die, where you will die and how you will die. Would you like me to tell you?’

My throat went dry. I did not believe him, for no man can have such knowledge of God’s will. But I could not hold his gaze and dropped my eyes.

‘If you do not believe me, then the information will mean nothing to you,’ he said coolly. ‘ So there is no harm in my telling you the circumstances of your death.’

He spoke with sureness and conviction, yet I knew that he was attempting to bully me into submission, frustrated because I was not instantly converted to his vision of death. It was a cheap ploy and I had every right to call his bluff.

But he sat and gazed at me with eyes like slits and I realized with awesome certainty that he knew about my death: he had foreseen it.

Wulf opened his mouth to speak.

‘No!’ I gasped, reaching out a hand as if to stop him ‘No, I do not want to know.’

He regarded me for a moment. ‘Very few people wish to be given that information,’ he said at last.

I felt ashamed, horrified at what I had done. My legs still trembled with fear.

Wulf leaned forward and spoke almost in a whisper. ‘To encounter the spirits and enter their world, the sorcerer enters the realms of his own death. The soul is like a shadow and the sorcerer is able to detach the soul from the body and journey amongst spirits. You will have to do the same.’

The fire spluttered and then crackled into life as a fresh piece of firewood succumbed to the flames. I watched it open mouthed, paralysed by the impossibility of Wulf’s claim. I did not want to pursue it; I desperately wanted Wulf to turn the conversation away from the darkness of my own death.

‘Death as a resource seems a long way from the murder of the warrior, Wulf.’

My voice sounded small and far away. I drew my knees up into my chest, dreading another statement directed at the ending of my life.

Mercifully, Wulf sat back and shifted the focus of the discussion.

‘As I told you, the greatest mistake we can make is to become attached to our shield-skin and to treat it as something we wish to preserve for ever,’ he said, suddenly cheerful as if he were discussing a change in the weather. ‘Trying to preserve the shield-skin merely dams up the flow of life-force. The shield-skin is a temporary existence; life-force flows like a stream and the shield-skin should be the valley through which it flows, not a stagnant pool blocking its movement.

‘As I have told you, the mightiest warriors use death as a resource. And yet their enemies often do not realize the resources of a warrior until it is too late. I knew a brave and noble warrior who lived very near this settlement. He was no ordinary thane, drinking, boasting and fighting at every opportunity. Instead, he had come to terms with his death and therefore lived fully every instant of life.’

Wulf paused to crouch in front of the fire, adding more wood. Then he sat back on his bed and started telling his story, very quietly.

‘This mighty warrior no longer fought for any army. Instead he lived on the edge of the forest, looking like any woodland dweller: brown and weather-beaten face, dressed in shaggy old skins. But he still had the special physical gifts of a great warrior. In particular, he had extraordinarily keen hearing; his ears were set high on his head and he could identify all the sounds of the forest by day or night. In fact, his only vulnerable area was his throat.’

Wulf made a cutting motion under his chin. ‘He always kept his throat covered for protection and on the one occasion I saw it uncovered it was white, untouched by the sun. He lived a careful existence, for he had many enemies. He hunted for food at night and the few people who ever saw him say he ran swiftly, up on his toes.’

I was totally engrossed in the story already and relieved that the conversation had turned to lighter matters. I was impressed by the warrior; he sounded strange and fearsome and I reasoned that he must have lived in the woods because he had been exiled from a royal hall. I was about to ask Wulf, but he resumed the tale:

‘He built a fortress into the side of a hill, where he lived with his family. Several times his enemies tracked him down to his hiding place and challenged him to come out and fight, but he never heeded them. Their haunts and threats did not lure him into battle, for while he stayed in his stronghold he was particularly impervious to attack. Once his chief rivals even broke into the main part of his fortress with trained hounds to catch him, but he escaped along secret tunnels cut into the hill behind his dwelling and emerged from them safely on to the hillside.

‘His retreat convinced his enemies that he was a coward. They reasoned that if they could catch him by surprise and unarmed, they might be able to follow him to his stronghold and kill him with ease. This was a serious error.’

Wulf paused and cocked an eyebrow at me melodramatically. I was well and truly ensnared by his story-telling.

‘One fateful night, his enemies lay in ambush, but somehow he knew they would be coming for him and he had prepared. They saw him tracking animals, apparently unarmed. He hurried back to his fortress with them in close pursuit and scurried off down one of his escape tunnels; they followed him, crawling on their bellies, staying close behind him right to the point where the tunnel emerged on to the hillside. Breathless, the warrior scrambled out on to the hill and his enemy closed in to attack. But the warrior had weapons at the ready and suddenly he whirled around and hurled scores of spears from close range, wounding his enemies terribly. He was deadly accurate. Never again was he attacked in the forest.’

Wulf chuckled with delight. Obviously the story had ended—a strange, heroic saga. Out of curiosity I asked Wulf the name of the warrior.

‘The warrior was a hedgehog,’ he replied, looking at me and waiting for my reaction. The expression on my face must have satisfied him, for he howled with laughter. I laughed with him. He had narrated the tale with consummate skill, full of drama and humour.

Still chuckling, Wulf heaped ash on to the fire to slow down the burning, then stretched out on his bed. I sat watching him through the darkness. He was a bewildering person: a man of mead-hall singers’ word-hoard, of warmth and laughter which could turn to ice in a twinkling. He seemed happy to tell me of his beliefs and to spend hours trying to fashion images which would help me to understand. Yet he constantly hinted at dark and dangerous events to come, in which I would encounter the spirits at risk to my life. He attracted and repelled me at the same time; I liked him as a man, but was terrified of him as a sorcerer.

Suddenly, Wulf raised himself up on one elbow and looked over at me.

‘There is something I forgot to tell you, Brand,’ he said casually. ‘The hedgehog was my guardian spirit and the enemies were trying to capture my soul. And they might have succeeded too, except for one thing—I was warned of their presence by the flight of ravens.’

DRUGGED AND dizzy with sleep, I crawled to the door and swung it ajar. Leather hinges creaked, fresh air swept through the open doorway and I collapsed back on to the mattress, my head reeling with the throb of last night’s ale. From outside the shrill cries of an ox-herd pierced my ears and wooden-wheeled carts clattered and groaned as if they were driving through my skull. Then, in the distance, I heard the forge hammers ringing on metal like a clash of swords and the memory of last night’s battle seeped into my memory, painful as a festering wound. I stared up into the smoke-blackened thatch of the guest-house, trying to shake my head clear of the nightmare images.

‘Are you dead?’ Wulf asked loudly, striding into the room and banging the door shut behind him.

He squatted next to my bed, reached inside his tunic, pulled out a small leather pouch, opened it and tipped two gold rings into his palm. He held them close to his face and examined them carefully in the dim light of the room. I struggled up on to one elbow and, still blinking sleep from my eyes, leaned over to look at them. They were fine rings and Wulf nodded slowly, apparently in satisfaction.

‘I have been paid well,’ he said. ‘Come and watch me earn my treasure.’

He grasped his staff and one of the sacks that were piled next to his mattress and stood impatiently by the door. Hurriedly, I tied on my shoes and followed him out of the guest-house into the mid-morning light. I did not know what to expect, but the fact that Wulf had returned to the house to collect me suggested that he had something instructive to show me. As soon as we emerged from the timber porch, two men yoking oxen to a wattle-walled wagon left the animals and followed us. Our path cut between weaving huts and the clatter and clack of activity ceased as small groups of women hastened out to see where we were going. By the time we reached the Western perimeter of the settlement the houses and work huts seemed to have emptied of people and we were surrounded by an eager crowd of onlookers.

The boundary of the farm’s cleared land was marked by a fine stand of beech trees. Beneath them huddled a wattled enclosure and an adjacent timber stable, thatched roof sagging with ague. At least a score of onlookers surged around the fence of the small paddock, but Wulf stood to one side, listening to the animated prattle of an angular, stick-thin man who was tugging nervously at the brim of a hat clutched tightly in his hands. Diffidently, I wandered over to join them.

‘How many days?’ Wulf was asking.

‘Six days. At least six days.’ The man looked imploringly at Wulf, watery eyes bulging from a florid face. ‘If he dies, the master’s wrath will...will...’ His voice trailed away and he swallowed hard at the thought of his master discovering the horse to be dead.

Wulf stood gazing impassively at the horse-keeper, seemingly unmoved by the urgency of the case. I began to feel sorry for the man; it was becoming clear to me that he had paid Wulf the two rings in exchange for some attempt to cure the sick horse, but I had no knowledge of what exactly Wulf was expected to do. Suddenly Wulf turned to me and winked ostentatiously.

‘Come with me,’ he said, tugging at my arm.

Wulf pushed through the crowd of people, hands patting and plucking at us as, reddening self-consciously, I followed him to the stable. The stable door creaked ajar on broken hinges and we climbed through a clutter of forks, rakes and other iron tools to emerge from the stable into the small enclosure. Wulf dropped his sack softly to the ground and propped his staff against the inside of the fence. About five paces distant, facing a rack of scythes and sickles, stood a handsome hunting horse, shaggy-maned and deep-chested. Above the buzzing chatter of the onlookers, I could hear the horse-keeper reciting the horse’s symptoms repetitively to all within earshot. Wulf stood silently, watching the animal closely.

‘Look at his belly,’ Wulf said, turning to me.

The horse’s stomach hung heavy and swollen.

‘What else do you see?’ he said suddenly, speaking loudly. I glanced at the faces crowding above the wattle fence and conversation died away as the people waited in silence for my observations. Blushing again, I swept my eyes over the horse, seeking signs of anything unusual.

‘His flanks are wet,’ I said. ‘And his mouth bubbles with foam.’

I thought I had stated the obvious but Wulf seemed satisfied.

The horse turned his head slowly towards us and shuffled closer to the stable, deeper into the shade of the stable-roof. Mucus hung in a long stream from his flared nostrils and he looked very sick. Wulf padded over to his linen sack, pulled it open, dipped his cupped hands into it and brought out handfuls of a yellow, powdery substance. He approached the animal slowly, almost gliding towards him, making strange, soft, whistling sounds from the back of his throat. Then he pressed his palms to its muzzle, flicking his tongue in and out noisily. I thought at first that Wulf was attempting a cure with some specially prepared herbal or plant mixture, but then events changed dramatically. Still whistling softly, Wulf began to run his palms lightly and quickly over the entire body of the sweating horse, then he stopped and examined a particular spot on the horse’s hide, apparently feeling for something with his fingers. To my amazement, his forefinger seemed to disappear into the horse’s flesh. The animal trembled and rolled his eyes but otherwise did not move. I glanced quickly at the row of wide-eyed faces above the wattle fence; they were watching intently.

Taking a swift step back from the horse, Wulf whipped one hand inside his tunic and pulled out a large knife. It was not the knife with which he had carved runes, but another which I had not seen before. I stared at the knife with fascination; the end of the horn haft was deeply carved with shapes and symbols and three large brass nails hung on leather strips from the finger-guard. Lightly and softly Wulf moved in front of the horse and offered the animal a second handful of the dried plant mixture, held in his left palm As the horse lowered its head to lick off the substance, quickly and decisively Wulf’s right hand flashed out and cut a knife-mark deep into the horse’s forehead. The large animal buckled slightly and staggered back half a step while I went cold with horror. For an instant I thought the animal had been killed by the blow, but the horse stood trembling his eyes rolling. Wulf stalked around swiftly, cutting similar marks on each of the horse’s legs. Blood welled into the slice of the blade but, strangely, did not run openly. Then he bobbed back in front of the animal’s head, reached up high on the animal’s forehead above the bright red cuts and apparently applied pressure. As the horse slowly lowered his head, Wulf gripped the animal’s left ear with his left hand and with a sudden sharp twist of his knife-hand he cut a hole right through the ear. The horse trembled violently and whinnied and the crowd behind the fence stirred excitedly. Wulf bent the ear down, and peered into it as if he was trying to look through the knife-hole. The horse staggered sideways and turned slightly. Wulf hung on, apparently still staring into the animal’s ear, but I could now see that his eyes were closed. Then he began to murmur in a low voice. I strained my ears to hear, but his chanting rapidly grew louder, into a strange, nasal, whining voice: