Chapter 3


Fulvyar fastened tight the shutters of his longhouse as the wind battered against them and wailed through the soot stained rafters above. Everyone else was abed by the witching hour, but the coals of the long firebed still glowed between the benches and rough scrubbed tables. He sighed and scratched vigorously at a raw patch of skin under his neck. His tightly fastened cape, which he had seldom worn in previous milder seasons, was rubbing at him uncomfortably and was starting to pick up the lingering unpleasant musk of heavy use. He knew it would have been a hunter’s moon outside if the sky had been clear. When the black dragon had passed over their lands he had darkened the sky and swallowed up both moon and sun with the filthy miasma of snow laden clouds that had been left behind as a reminder of the doombringer’s presence in the mortal world.

The godkin had given few answers but he could scarcely have expected more. They were ancient and the art of the cold divinities of Vangermark drove many of them close to the brink of madness as they saw beyond a veil which was raised against the sight of most wolves for a reason. But, Fulvyar wasn’t satisfied, and looked with care upon the single possession he had kept since his finding in the unforgiving snows. He’d been left to die with only a ring bound about his infant throat on a frail thong of leather. Gold which shone bright once polished, with a stone of fiercely blazing jasper set as its signet. The device was of a raven close to flight and there were none in his adoptive family, or the rest of the village, who recognised the mark. It had been a subject of some speculation for some time but as the years marched on and the mewling foundling grew into a big strong wolf the speculation ceased and the mystery was left unsolved and close to forgotten. But, Greshka’s words rekindled Fulvyar’s imagination and, looking at the gleaming red stone, he wondered who his true sires might have been. Perhaps not kings, as no wolf had worn a crown in close to a hundred years, but the descendants of the rulers of old were not entirely absent from the present tribes and petty fiefdoms of the wolves. Large and valiant, as though marked by heaven, they were reminders of the times long past, when heroes had walked the earth, godblessed and fell in purpose. Could he truly be so arrogant as to claim a place among that hallowed pantheon of demonslayers and warchiefs? No, he told himself firmly. Though he carried many flaws in his character, a surfeit of pride was not among them. He had set himself upon a path not driven by a need for glory or a desire for recognition. He had enough of both among his tribe to please him. His resolve was pure and his courage came from a need to protect those he loved. Surely the gods must see this and approve? If Fulvyar had ever been worthy of help from the strange powers that guided the courses of his frostbitten world then it was now and he was determined to head into peril with eyes as clear as possible.

With this in mind he headed to a cramped store behind the kitchens, where meat hung in salted rolls from the ceiling hooks and the root vegetables peeked out from wooden crates under sideboards, still red with the stains of the previous day's butchery. These weren’t what interested him but rather the bin of refuse where the stringy offcuts and mottled growths from parsnips rotted and stank. But, in among the sickening detritus were hard black ormer-shells, the underside of which shone like living quicksilver. He gathered up as many of these as he could find and stole back to his own room where a single brazier burned low in a carven alcove. He looked at the shells and admired the patterns on their rough exteriors and bright insides before casting as many as would fit into the fire.

At first nothing happened but Fulvyar was patient and used the delay to focus himself, sitting cross-wise on the hide floor-covering and letting his bulging muscles slacken. The smoke thickened and was like a white ghostly haze, rising between the iron gratings. He took a single deep breath letting the acrid odour invade his nostrils before inhaling once again making his head feel light and his vision blur. He hoped that was a sign that it was working.

The breathing of such incense was often a dangerous affair and a practice seldom attempted by lay-folk. It was well known that those who were weak of mind or, for whatever reason, considered unworthy by the gods of the hunt would be broken by the experience and lead the rest of their lives as gibbering lunatics unable to care for even the most basic of their needs. But, Fulvyar was strong in heart, mind and body. As the smoke rose in questing tendrils about him he recited the words of invocation and called upon the master of the Hunt.

‘All-Father, One-Eyed, Sun-Slayer, Demon-Bane, King-of-Poets, Wolf-Master hear me in my prayer. What value I have I offer in the pleading of my soul. Take joy in my yearning for battle, my need for the fray. Give quickness to my eyes, and make fleet the feet beneath me. Strengthen my arm and fill my spirit with your wisdom. I am purposed for battle and my heart is set on war. All-Father, Prince of all battles lend me aid that I may win your favour as the winter chill and flowing fire, arm me now…’

He kept up the litany until he could not have told what his own mouth spoke. His vision was swimming into strange regions with the sloped roof above evaporated into an endless, starless night. He could hear the baying of hounds and the jingle of harness. Out of the shadows the Hunt Master rode on a shaggy elk dwarfed by the great grey wolf’s own massive size. He held a spear in his hand with the head set upon a knotted branch of elm. The single yellow eye as empty as a full moon looked down on the awe stricken Fulvyar who didn’t grovel or blandish before the war god but rather fell onto a single knee with his head raised proudly and both bright blue eyes looking with challenge and inquiry. He had no sword to draw in salute so rather he raised his right paw in a fist by way of welcome.
‘Hail All-Father,’ Fulvyar said. ‘Hail King of all the Gods below!’

The one eyed rider gave a craggy smile and laughed in a single raucous shout which made Fulvyar think of victories won and the spoils of war overflowing at the feasting table. The god’s voice had a cadence to it that was melodic and the lord of all poets spoke in a manner that was truly lovely to hear. Fulvyar was enraptured as he listened to the melody which seemed as old as the roots of the mountains.

‘Fulvyar, war-ender, oathmaker, farseer.
‘Beloved of gods, champion of wolves.
‘Empires shake at thy passing, shout hosannas at thy coming.
‘Knowledge of glories gone speed thy way.
‘Days of duty done give thee strength.
‘Know thyself as thou art and worship at the springs of Yggdrasil, for I have word for thee.
‘Footsteps speak to the hard earth, sprigs of rue waken from the frosty plain.
‘Where mounts ride hard to the covers of the heavens and the saplings and the stags blossom with the flowers of Vanarsil.
‘The stars surmount thy head as the crowns of thy kin, as the foresires of thy lost name take up steel to cleanse the dross of the tarnished earth.
‘Love company and you will devour the roads with the footfalls of a giant rejoicing in his cups.
‘Take on the wings of the morning until the sea wakes in forests of swords and showers of spears.
‘Break the heads of titans, their scalps shall sunder well beneath thy bloody fist.
‘At day’s end take thy rest by the laughing brook and sleep, for thy repose is well earned.’

And then he was gone. With the blast of the horn and a loud halloo the All-Father left Fulvyar alone in his small room where he sat alone now, with the ash and embers burning low.

He found that his confusion had deepened and that now his temples were strained in tension. He lay down on his bed hoping that the morning would bring a clearer understanding of his vision and an end to his sudden headache.

*

When morning came his head no longer ached yet his vision seemed no clearer to him, and the remains of the incense had left a foul odour clinging to the walls and his bedlinen. He sniffed unhappily, almost retching at the acidic reek. Despite its cryptic nature the message it had been one of encouragement, and he was relatively certain that the gods smiled upon his endeavour. He could not be certain what wise advice might be buried in the peculiar prose of the Hunt Master, but he had gleaned some meaning from a couple of the verses. If his understanding was correct, then he was indeed of noble blood and, far more importantly, his path would lead him to fame and many victories that would earn his name praise. Whether he would cast down the Nidhogg wasn’t stated outright but neither had it been denied. As to what the world tree, or the fabled isles of paradise, had to do with his wyrd he could not say but it seemed that it was the sort of thing that could be addressed if, and when, it became important. He decided that the dark rider had blessed his quest and he stole away from his bedchamber in the quiet hours of the morning in a fairer mood than he had been in the previous day.

He had no desire to wake any of the others before he left. He didn’t know how he could begin to explain his mission to his frail mother, and he was certain that his foster brothers would insist on coming with him. Heaven knew that their presence would be a welcome distraction as they were an outrageous and merry sort of crew, but he knew, at least in part, the danger he faced and that to pursue the black dragon was almost certain death. He could not bring himself to put his family in harm’s way. Far better that they stayed, and when the time came, helped the tribe move itself southwards when the north wind finally blew too harshly for wolves to bear it.

He quietly opened the door to the armoury and inspected the dust covered blades and armour that hung on the walls. Some of them were truly ancient, eaten away by rust, more trophies now than weapons. His eyes scanned across the hooks until he saw one that his arm knew well. It had a bronzed cross-guard engraved with serpents and a hilt bound in leather the colour of red earth. Once he had blown upon its surface the leaf shaped blade shone silver and he smiled to see that the edge was still keen despite being long without a paw to wield it. He snatched up the blade and its wooden scabbard, fixing them to the braided leather of his belt and turned to the other wall where long spears with broad tips were laid one on another as though in hoard. He let his paw caress a stocky shaft of ash and held it firm by the runnels of its grip. It was well balanced and could be thrown a good long way by a strong strong shouldered wolf.

Satisfied with his acquisitions,, he left the longhouse and padded through the deep snow. He set his face south with the bracing gale blowing his ears forward as he began his march to Havvasted where there were ships and, he hoped, passage to Telos where men had their dominion.