Wolfsangel Read Free

the raiders came through them.

    ‘You promised us death, lord!’ shouted Eyvind. ‘These cowards will keep me waiting for ever to begin my feasting!’

    ‘You will be drunk with your father and his father before the night is out!’ shouted Authun.

    The church - though the Norsemen didn’t know it by that name - was a squat wooden building like the rest in the village, though a solid one. Authun tried the door. It was shut fast. He nodded to the roof. Sigur and Egil crouched, their hands improvising a stirrup. Young Eyvind ran at the side of the building and the two bigger men thrust him up onto the thatch. In three bounds he was at the smoke vent, his formidable axe free from its strap.

    ‘Kill no children!’ shouted the king.

    Eyvind disappeared from view through the hole at the apex of the roof. Ten heartbeats later the door was open and the other raiders were inside.

    Authun looked around, his eyes almost blind from the transition between the blazing village and the dark of the church. He could see virtually nothing until Varrin came in with a brand.

    It was a large windowless space with the hearth that had allowed them access in the centre and an altar at the back. Behind the altar cowered two of the enemy holy men, trying to make magic by gesturing from their foreheads to their chests. One was clutching one of their precious books inlaid with jewels.

    ‘Find the boy,’ said Authun. ‘He will be here - it is foreseen. ’

    Varrin made a quick circuit of the room with his torch but found nothing. The only people in there were the cowering priests, who seemed determined to die like children rather than face their enemies as men.

    ‘He has to be here somewhere,’ said Authun. ‘Burn the place and see who comes out.’ He’d hoped to avoid this simply because it would take too long.

    Varrin walked to where the thatch met the wall. As he applied his brand there was the sound from above of a child crying. Authun looked up. Hanging from the rafters was a basket secured by a rope tied to a post.

    ‘Get it down,’ said Authun.

    The rope was untied and the basket was lowered to the floor.

    Authun looked inside the basket, expecting to see the destiny of his race. He was unprepared for what was within. There, pressed together, were two naked baby boys, each with a wisp of dark hair exactly as in the vision of the witches. But he had only seen one boy. This was something the king had not counted on. The boys were clearly twins - small, dark and wiry, almost identical. Which one was he supposed to take? Would it matter to the prophecy’s fulfilment if he was to take both? Still, Authun was a leader and knew that any decision is better than none.

    ‘Take them both,’ he said.

    Authun killed the holy men and took their book. He didn’t have time to prise the gems out of it right there so he tucked it under his shield arm. Then he had his second surprise. Close up, he could see the altar was just a table covered with a sheet. Authun lifted the cloth. He thought he heard a noise from inside, though he could see nothing without a light.

    ‘Varrin,’ said the king, gesturing for the big man to come forward. He did and passed the king the brand. Authun peered beneath the table. Shrinking away from him was a small woman. The king had seen her race before on raids. She was a Celt, from the furthest reaches of the West Men’s country. She was beautiful, pale and dark. He pulled her to her feet. Even though he wasn’t seeking slaves she would command a reasonable price, he thought, after he had tried the goods himself. But as she stood up, he took a step back. Only the left side of her face was pretty; the right had been burned terribly, and an awful scar ran from her brow to her chin. Authun, veteran of so many battles, was taken aback by her eye. It was terribly swollen with a pinprick pupil just visible in the torchlight, the rest blood red where it should have been white. It seemed to bore straight