plains and the mountain passes were nothing, nor fjords or swamps, valleys or cliffs. He took them all in devouring bounds, eating the distance between him and the girl, racing to the source of her cry at a pace no human, no horse, not even a bird could hope to match.
The resonance of her agony was his guide, a stream he could follow to its source. The frozen night of the far north melted into a pale dawn; farmsteads and sleigh trains flashed by; he flickered through forests, scattered herds of reindeer on wide plains, dropped from mountain peaks like a falling star and flew on towards his target as a warp in the light.
The caves slowed him. He forced his body down through the tunnels, only the power of his will strong enough to push him through. He didn’t think where he was going; Adisla’s scream called him on. In the shove and squeeze of his descent Vali came to himself, although it no longer seemed unusual to him that he had the form of a massive wolf, nor that the caves glittered with a million scents. His memories came back to him but they only increased his pain. The woman he loved was suffering terribly and the only meaning of his life was to find her and take her agony away.
Then he was standing before his father, Authun, in a cave full of gold. The king was terrible in his war gear. Vali tried to tell him that Adisla was in danger. He knew that his father would not understand his concern for a farm girl but he wanted to implore him to put that aside and help him. Then Authun had struck at him, and it was as if Vali was an unwilling passenger in his own body, his protests useless as the wolf drove forward to attack.
Again the voices crowded in on him, again the dreadful howl of the wolf echoed through his head, a sound that he knew was as much part of him as his love for Adisla. He was losing his way, surrendering to the fury of the animal he had become. Authun was down, his shield shattered, his weapon gone and the wolf was on top of him, Vali fading away like a drowsy rider on a hot day surrendering direction to his horse.
‘Help me.’ It was her voice.
Authun was hitting him with something. He felt nothing.
‘Help me.’
Vali was reaching out, trying to make the wolf’s body answer her call.
‘Help me!’
The wolf paused its attack and stood panting over the old warrior. Authun didn’t stay still. He rolled from under the wolf and made for the hoard pile, pulled out a jewelled sword and spun to strike at the animal’s back, plunging the weapon down with two hands.
The sword dug into the wolf’s spine and snapped, Vali felt nothing. He sent Authun sprawling to the floor with a back-handed blow from his forelimb.
‘Help me!’ Finally Vali had control over his movements. He broke from the combat and made his way down the passage following Adisla’s call.
55
Feileg was sick with the pain now and had to pause. After four breaths he limped on again. There was the smell of fish oil. Someone had a lamp down there. Yes, he could see the glow. He pressed on towards the light, the tunnel narrowing to a crack. He breathed in and slid sideways through.
The cave was no bigger than the inside of a longhouse, the ceiling falling to the floor at one end and forming a wedge of jagged rocks like an animal’s jaws. Adisla was there, lying bound on the sharp stones, soaked in blood. Feileg’s heart leaped as he saw her.
The witch, her face a mask of blood from a ruined eye, was standing staring vacantly into space, a broken spear shaft in her hand. She had a piece of rope around her neck, tied with an elaborate knot at the front. Feileg recognised it as a hangman’s noose, Odin’s symbol. The wolfman was terrified of the magical child, appalled by what had happened to Adisla, but he forced himself to speak.
‘Lady,’ said Feileg, speaking to the witch but limping as fast as he could to Adisla, ‘we are on an errand of great importance. A friend is bewitched and has taken the shape of a wolf. He is here, in the tunnels. We need you to use your arts to cure him. I have gold and can pay.’
Adisla was shaking and Feileg could see she had lost a lot of blood. She was tied down by leather cords secured to rusty pins in the rock. Feileg used the Moonsword to cut them. Then he held her to him and kissed her on the forehead. She was weak, scarcely able to move but she was saying something. Feileg bent his ear to her mouth.
‘I have seen her mind,’ she said, ‘I have seen her mind. Run. Feileg, run.’
Feileg shook his head.
‘I couldn’t run if I wanted to, and I do not want to,’ he said. ‘I will stay here with you. It’ll be all right. She will do what we ask, won’t you, lady?’
Still the witch said nothing. There was a thump from the top of the tunnel.
‘She put me to those rocks, Feileg. I have been cruelly treated.’
‘Then she will make amends or she will die. She will cure him.’
‘No, you don’t understand.’
‘She is all we have. We must make her do as we ask.’
‘No Feileg, no.’ Adisla was shaking and sobbing.
The wolf, Adisla sensed, was an expression of some huge and terrible magic. Gullveig imagined herself as manipulating this force, but Adisla, allowed into the web of the witch queen’s mind, had seen with saner eyes. Something that was part of Gullveig but — at the same time — external to her and much more powerful was bending her to its own will. The thing, whatever it was, felt cold and hungry. It looked for death in the jaws of the wolf, and that death was linked to Adisla’s own and to those of Feileg and Vali, again and again in an endless cycle of rebirth and slaughter, all that carnage expressed by the pulsing of that rune.
‘He will kill her again and again, for ever and ever, and us too. I have been in her mind; I have seen this thing happen. You must kill her before he does. He will act out the prophecy and we will be doomed.’
‘I will not allow him to kill her,’ said Feileg.
‘How can you stop him?’
‘This sword cuts him,’ said Feileg. ‘I will drive him off. No wolf wants to bleed.’
He tried to sound confident, but he put more faith in the witch’s powers than he did in his own sword skills.
There was another thump, closer now, and a terrible howl. The witch turned her head in its direction. The tunnel was too narrow, Feileg was sure, for the wolf to get through. That would allow the witch to work safe from its jaws.
Feileg looked down at Adisla. ‘You will have your prince back,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No. I have seen. I have seen. Kill her, Feileg, kill her before it is too late. We can fight a monster; you cannot fight a god.’
‘She is our salvation.’
‘She is our death, eternally and again and again, you and me, Bragi and more, torture and horror without end. Always she looks for death in the jaws of the wolf. Kill her. Kill her before he does.’
‘Adisla, my love,’ he said, ‘the wolf is here. He has come. He could keep us in here for ever. I am no swordsman, and already a mighty warrior, a man brought up to arms from his earliest years, has proved no match for him. The witch must help him. Can you speak to him again? Can you calm him and allow her to work her magic on him?’
‘He is death, always death. He was a breath from killing me in the north. Do not bring him here, Feileg, do not bring him.’
‘He is here,’ said Feileg.
Adisla gave way to terror and just shook in his arms.
The noise was still closer, a deep and angry growling but coupled with something else. Feileg, who had eaten countless times with his wolf brothers, recognised it. It was the sound of tearing flesh, of joints coming apart, of
