embarrassed the scholar and said, ‘It is a way of showing he is not a straightforward god. He’s many things to many men.’
‘Most gods are,’ said Loys, surprising himself with his cynicism. He offered an inward prayer as an apology.
‘Not Thor,’ said a Varangian. ‘He’s a smack round the head to many men.’
‘Well,’ said Vandrad, ‘let’s find old wolfboy and honour him in a way that god would like.’
Mauger held up his hand. ‘Silence from now on in,’ he said. ‘If he’s anywhere he’s down here. He’ll know we’re coming no matter what we do — the lamps will give us away — but let’s try to keep the warning to a minimum. When we find him we’ll try to take him alive. That might be possible — he’s been a long time down here with no food so he could be weak. However, I’ve encountered sorcerers like this before. They’re tricky bastards and hard ones too, some of them. If it gets too tough let’s make sure it’s him who dies and not one of us.’
Grim nods, a couple of muttered words of agreement and the men went on, Mauger first. The passage quickly became very steep and then narrower and steeper still. It split into two tunnels, both dropping. Mauger threw a pebble into one. A long pause and then a splash. In the other tunnel the pebble rattled down. That one then.
The descent was precipitous and there was no way to hold a lamp. Instead Vandrad waited at the top of the shaft with a light. When all the others were down, Mauger lit a lamp at the bottom, then Vandrad extinguished his and climbed down. A long low tunnel stretched away in front of them. They crawled along it until what Loys had feared happened — the tunnel dipped into water.
Mauger tapped Loys on the shoulder and beckoned him forward. Loys crawled around the Viking.
‘Someone has been through here,’ said Mauger in a low voice, ‘both ways. Look.’
In the flickering light Loys saw a muddy hand print on a rock near the water.
‘So?’
‘We can go through. Or try,’ said Mauger.
‘It’s a brave man who will go first,’ said Loys.
‘That’s you,’ said Mauger. ‘You are the one who most needs this wolfman. You can take this risk.’
‘The crawl could be any length,’ said Loys.
‘We will tie a rope about you. If you fear you’re starting to drown give three sharp tugs on it and we’ll pull you back.’
‘And if I make the other side?’
‘Just draw the rope through. Can you find a way to keep your tinder dry?’
‘I have a box,’ said Loys.
It was his one valuable possession — a small box in worked pearwood, so tight-fitting it was proof against damp weather. Would it keep the tinder dry underwater? Perhaps.
‘Go through, and if you can light your lamp then give five tugs on the rope,’ said Mauger. ‘If you can’t we’ll need to turn back.’
Loys prepared himself, checking his bag — his bread and cheese were going to get soaked so he quickly ate the bread. His lamp and the spare would likely be all right — their wicks were soaked in oil. The tinderbox was in God’s care. He put his knife in his belt.
‘Are you ready?’
Loys shrugged. He tied the rope around one leg — Mauger said he would get stuck if he put it around his waist. Then he took three big breaths and crawled down into the water. It was horribly cold and drove all the breath from him as he went in. He floundered and gasped, gulping in water. In four heartbeats he had returned to the surface, spluttering and coughing.
The Vikings greeted him with contempt in their stares. He lay panting on the floor, the men silent around him. When he had recovered, he tried again. This time he went under properly. Panic gripped him once more but he fought it down and clawed his way on. He floated up. White light flashed in his eyes as he banged his head on the ceiling. He flipped onto his back, pulling himself along by gripping the uneven rock above him. He desperately needed to breathe. He couldn’t go on. Panic was overwhelming him. He gave three sharp pulls on the rope with his foot but it was slack. He had to continue. Finally he could feel no ceiling above him and he kicked up, not knowing if he had reached the end of the tunnel or just some drowned chimney of rock that led nowhere. He didn’t know if he had reached air but he had no choice: he had to breathe in.
He gulped air into his lungs, casting about with his arms for dry land. Then the rope tightened and he was pulled back under. The Vikings clearly thought they had detected a signal and were pulling him back. He plunged back under the water, thrashing and scrambling to get purchase on the bank but it was no good, they were hauling him backwards. Horror made him find his knife and he slashed himself free of the rope.
He surfaced again and his hand hit something. He kicked towards it and felt around. Yes, dry rock. He carefully pulled himself out of the pool, wary of hitting his head if the ceiling was low. It wasn’t.
The dark was terrifying. Loys imagined the massive weight of rock above him, bearing down like a giant’s hand ready to crush him. He breathed in deeply, trying to summon up his courage. He reached into his bag. He had to be careful not to soak the tinder, so he put the box down carefully. Then he squeezed dry the wick of the lamp and made sure it was soaked in oil. He found his flint and tinder, struck — and screamed.
No more than an arm’s length away crouched the cadaverous figure of the wolfman. Even in the brief instant of the flint flash he saw he was filthy and nearly starved, indeed like a wolf, or a corpse come back to life to answer a sorcerer’s call. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes dark pits and his body sinewy, terribly lean.
‘You’ve returned.’
The words were in Norse. Loys heard only the voice. Once again he could see nothing. He backed into the wall, desperate to hide from that horrible man.
‘You were with my brother.’ The voice was just as near.
Loys held his knife out, praying his eyes would adjust to the dark. They did not. There was no light, none at all.
‘Calm yourself,’ said the wolfman. ‘I have no reason to kill you. Why are you here? I took steps to make sure I was not followed.’
‘I’m looking for you,’ said Loys. No profit in lying.
‘For what reason?’
‘This sky, the deaths, the emperor’s affliction…’
‘What deaths?’
‘In the streets above people are dying all at one time, falling to lie cold on the ground where a moment before they stood living as you and I live.’
‘He is coming,’ said the wolfman.
‘Who? Christ?’
‘Does it matter to give the god a name? He who hung on the tree, wounded by the spear, chilled by the stars and blinded by the moon. The god who is three, he is coming here.’
‘A demon then?’
‘Who is the one who killed the guards, the one you took from here?’
‘He is a monk of the Norman lands, as am I.’
‘How do you know him?’
‘He was my friend. He came here to save me.’
‘From what?”
‘Assassins sent to kill me.’
‘And why are you so important?’
‘I am a scholar. Loys of the Abbey of Rouen. I ran away with the lord’s daughter.’
‘He is not coming to help or to kill you,’ said the wolfman; ‘he comes for a purpose that he might hide even from himself.’
‘What purpose?’
‘He is instrumental in everything you see, the sky, the deaths. He is a killer.’
‘Who would he kill?’
‘A god, the one who is here now. Odin, present in the three tiers of runes, Odin, king of the dead.’
‘How do you know this? It’s superstition, it’s…’
‘There is a woman.’
