of the way home.
He didn’t know what to do, so he just stood wondering why he been brought to such a desolate place and what he had done to offend the people he considered his family. Presently his feet began to feel cold and he decided it would be good to find shelter. The days were short and already the sun was low in the sky.
Feileg had never been treated as a child and so had never thought as a child. He had hunted almost from when he could walk and had been expected to sharpen weapons, cook food, make fires and clean himself from the moment he had been able to understand what to do. Raised to self-reliance, he came up with a plan. He would do what his father did when caught by a blizzard — dig a pit beneath a tree, build a platform of branches within the pit and sleep there. The next day he would head down and see if he could find someone who would take him, maybe even sneak home and tell his mother he was sorry and beg to be taken back.
He went back down the slope and found a suitable tree near a small cliff that he thought would provide wind protection. He had been scraping away with a rock for about half an hour when he heard the howling. A single wolf, somewhere above the trees, towards the sinking sun, he thought, but it was difficult to tell in the mountains. He checked his spear was near and carried on digging. An answering call came from down the valley. He carried on digging. A third call, this time closer. He looked up to see a large white wolf, much bigger than he was, sitting on the ridge above him. The animal was just visible against a large rock. A heartbeat later it had moved, vanishing into the snow. Feileg kept digging. Life with the berserks had taught him never to think too much on consequences. He needed a shelter; it was getting late; he had to dig. If the wolves came for him, he would die. If he was outside without a shelter, he would die. Climb the tree and die, so dig and hope the wolves do not come.
But they did come, soundlessly assembling on the ridge. The howls had been to locate each other. There was now no need for any more noise, no need to alert rival packs. As the weak sun dipped behind the ridge and the dusk turned the sky to a metalled purple, eight wolves watched the digging boy. As soon as the first one moved, Feileg grabbed his spear and gave a shout.
The largest wolf was darker than the first he had seen. It had dirty red and grey fur, was as tall as the child at the shoulder and looked much heavier. It halted halfway down the slope at Feileg’s cry. The berserk had been right. Wolves in the wild are scavengers first, killers second and fighters only as a last resort. In the snowy woods getting injured means limited mobility, which means starvation and death. Like all animals, humans included, wolves prefer their prey weak, preferably defenceless.
Feileg fixed the animal with a stare and forwarded his spear. The light was dropping and flattening the perspective. His vision swam and he fought to maintain concentration on what was in front of him. From the corner of his eye he saw a wolf insinuating its way around to his right. A glance to his left confirmed the same was happening on the other side. Feileg wasn’t scared.
‘I am deserted and ready to die!’ he shouted. ‘Which one of you, my lords of the forest, wants to do the same? When I am in Odin’s halls and you are at his feet, how I shall kick you!’
One of the wolves was behind him now, he could sense, and more were filing left and right. Still he fixed the dirty red-grey wolf with his spear. That was the biggest and would die, which would make a good tale at the feast table in the all-father’s halls.
The big wolf ambled towards him through the floating light. For the first time Feileg felt fear rise in him. There was something strange about its movements, something wrong. The other wolves had seemed to glide on the snow. This one, he could see, was very powerful but more uncomfortable in its gait. Was it injured? The dusk was falling, vision difficult. What was wrong with it? It was huge. What he had thought was merely a large animal he could now see was of truly terrifying proportions. It was as big as a man, bigger. His father was the biggest man he had seen but this creature was taller by a head.
Ten paces away, the wolf stopped and looked at the boy through the greying dusk. Feileg, who had been raised to regard his life as a trifle, to believe that the noblest destiny lay in death in battle, who coveted that fate like others might covet gold or a fine house, began to tremble. This wasn’t an ordinary wolf, he was sure, but a creature of myth.
The animal lowered its head to the snow. ‘Kin,’ said the wolf.
The word seemed to judder into Feileg’s mind. He looked into the creature’s eyes.
Then he realised — it was a man, peering out from under a wolf skin. He was huge and powerful, and awfully weather-beaten with frost in his blond beard. He had no fur on his arms and legs, just a long reindeer coat of the sort you could see on any winter hunter, though he carried no bow or spear and wore no snowshoes or skis.
Suddenly all the fear that Feileg had been holding in flooded over him, and he felt terribly cold. The night seemed to collapse upon him and the stars awoke like the eyes of a million wolves all hungry for his blood.
‘Help me,’ said Feileg, unable to stop his tears.
The man said nothing — as he would never say anything again — but turned and walked up the slope. The boy followed him, with the pack trailing behind. The berserk had done as the witches had asked — given the child over to Kveld Ulf, the Evening Wolf, the shape-shifter of the hills. He was not a werewolf as Feileg would later come to understand it, but a man who had become by instinct and thought half animal.
The boy grew up as much in the dark as in the light. This was not the solid, tomb dark of the witches but the northern dark that bristles with stars and is shot with stripes of light, where morning brings mirages of cities floating in the distance and evening falls under a wide silence. There was no fire, just a cave den and the bodies of the pack close about him. He would warm his hands by plunging them into the carcass of a reindeer the pack had taken, use the moon for light and learn to love the taste of uncooked meat.
In the short days of winter he fed well — animals were weak and easy to catch. Summer was the spirit time, perpetually light and the pickings more scarce. Feileg would push on in fruitless hunts, hardly sleeping, never speaking, his thoughts freeing themselves from the anchor of language in years of silence, his mind ever more animal, his body ever tougher. In the weak dark of the summer night Kveld Ulf would beat his drum and sing discordant chants. They would cut out the bladders of reindeer that had eaten strange mushrooms and drink the piss, and the boy would be transported to the spirit kingdoms where he ran through dark passageways and dripping caves, drank from subterranean streams and felt the darkness of the underground world widen his mind. He had a sense, as powerful as the smell of reindeer musk, of something alive in those tunnels. The caves, he thought, were hungry.
When he came back to himself it seemed his body could feed on the dreams, making him unnaturally strong and fast. By the age of twelve he could kill a reindeer with only his hands, his spear having long since broken and Kveld Ulf refusing to allow him another. At fourteen he began raiding, but not as Vali did. His prey were travellers through the land, merchants heading north with goods for the Whale People or the king’s men travelling south on sleds and skis with tribute taken from them. He and Kveld Ulf stole from them as they slept and attacked them if they woke to challenge them, tearing flesh with their teeth and nails, breaking limbs and snapping necks, dashing swords to the floor and pulling spears from hands. He still understood the cries of the men in the camps but their real meaning — of fear, anguish, longing for loved ones — was becoming lost to him.
They kept the plunder in their dens high in the mountains. It meant nothing to Feileg — you couldn’t eat it and it wouldn’t keep you warm — but Kveld Ulf knew that the fine walrus ivory combs, the gold arm rings and good swords would one day be useful to the boy. He would be going back to the witches, and it would not hurt to have some gifts for the witch queen. Kveld Ulf knew from his own dealings with the witches that a gift of some sort could distract the sisters long enough for them to remember that he wasn’t an intruder and they had, in fact, sent for him.
By the age of fifteen Feileg saw as a wolf and thought as a wolf, his body hard, his teeth a weapon. The mountain winds tearing through his mind, past-less and future-less, he lived caught in the moment with no more thought than a snowflake on the breeze. That summer the hunting was thin, and he found himself down in the foothills, ghosting around the farmsteads to try to take a duck or a pig. He was wary of being discovered because the farms were a tight network. One blow on a horn could very quickly bring twenty or thirty armed men.
That was when he had come to the ruin. It was a small longhouse, the roof broken in by the weather. It was raining and he decided to seek shelter there. He went inside. Scavengers — animal and human — had taken everything of value, but there were some signs of the former occupants — a broken distaff on the floor, a worn-out shoe, even a small rickety stool. There was better shelter at the back of the house but he decided to stay near the centre, next to where the smoke vent would have been. He didn’t know why but instinct made him pick up the stool and sit on it — something he hadn’t done in nearly ten years. And then he saw them in his mind: his sisters by the fire, his father, massive and silent on the bench at the back of the room, drinking, his mother patching clothes. It
