THE KEEP

PAUL CAVE 

Books by Paul Cave

Cold Light of Day

Dead Until Dawn

Something of the Night

For Everything a Reason

Deep and Dark December

The Horror Collection

www.paulcavebooks.com

Copyright © 2006 Paul Cave

The right of Paul Cave to be identified as the author

of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that no part of this book is to be reproduced, in any shape or form. Or by way of trade, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser, without prior permission of the copyright holder.

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

992AD — outside the village of Nosgrov, Northern Russia — the time and place of Viking rule.

***

A thick mist hung heavily to the ground, hazy blue tendrils snaking out in every direction, seeking out hidden secrets and gently caressing them with gluttonous glee. The forest swelled outwards, as if this strange mist had the strength and power to force thousand-year-old trees to bend by will alone. The light from a nearby campfire set shadowy apparitions dancing in maniacal fashion, they stretched and shrank, in tune to the crack and splutter of burning lumber.

“They’re devils!” a voice said in a thick slur.

“Quiet, or you’ll wake the Devil himself!” another voice warned.

The fur-clad warrior leaned closer to the campfire, and in an attempt to ward off the winter chill he warmed his battle-scarred hands. Tall, lean, with a face that had only just grown accustomed to the lightest scattering of facial hair, the young warrior glanced disapprovingly at his companion.

The light from the fire cast deepest shadows across the older guard’s face. He took another long gulp, staggering closer to the fire as he did so. Then he stopped suddenly. Had something shifted out there in the darkness just within the periphery of his vision? His face turned serious, as bleary eyes studied the surrounding woodlands. He shivered now, even this close to the warmth of the fire. Darkness and fear of the unknown were working their way into his bones.

“You haven’t seen what they can do,” he said, drunken words spilling from loose lips.

“I don’t want to see, that way I’ll live longer than you — friend,” the young Slavic warrior told him.

The drunken guard joined his companion nearer to the blazing fire. He handed over a flagon of brew. “It’ll warm the bones,” he said.

Taking a long swig from the flask, the warrior felt the hot liquid instantly burn the inside of his throat - the intense heat before him forming itself into a conflagration of liquid flames.

The guard watched his comrade’s face twist itself into a look of discomfort. A humourless chuckle escaped from between rotten teeth.

“Take it!” the young warrior growled, handing the flagon back.

“They only come at night,” the guard slurred then, swaying dangerously close to the campfire.

“Quiet now!” the warrior commanded in a hiss.

In an anxious whisper, the guard said, “Some say they appear from out of the forest like ... phantoms.”

The warrior pulled a dark pelt tighter around his broad shoulders. “If you don’t be quiet, maybe they’ll come for you!” he cautioned, before offering his companion a stern look.

With a look of drunken horror on his weathered face, the guard staggered up to the warrior. In a nervous whisper, he added, “Me? Why would they come for me? I haven’t done anything.”

“You‘re supposed to be guarding the camp. Look at you, you can hardly stand,” the warrior admonished.

“Stand! Stand! I’ll cut you in half,” the guard warned.

He reared up and reached for his sword. However, before the sword withdrew from its scabbard, a tight grasp closed around his hand, holding the blade firm within its sheath.

“Save your fight for the Norsemen, brother,” a deep voice said.

The guard looked up at a dark and hardened face. He recognized the newcomer at once and his body tensed with fear. “V-Volok ...” he stammered.

Volok, a battle-hardened veteran, released his grip from the guard’s wrist. Shoulders broad enough to split the night in two moved away from the guard. The warrior giant placed his huge hands on his comrade’s shoulders. “Come, young Nikita, they have arrived,” Volok said.

The young warrior nodded. He tipped his eyes momentarily towards the drunken guard, surveyed the nearby woods - only darkness prevailed - then quickly followed the larger warrior away from the safety of the campfire. 

The two warriors walked side by side. They moved into the darkness of the forest where they travelled in silence under the black canopy of intertwined trees. The young warrior’s hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword - an unconscious gesture that betrayed his otherwise confident demeanour. Tales of untold horrors worked their way to the forefront of his mind - stories of demons and creatures, soulless entities - that feasted on the essence of men. 

They entered a large hollow, having neither succumbed to the terror of unseen beast or the curse of malevolent spirits.

Once a small lake, the hollow dipped slightly towards its centre, cutting a natural basin within the hard scab of frozen earth. Tall trees surrounded the opening, which offered a natural shield, allowing the encampment the merciful luxury of  campfires. Now in the grip of winter, the land around them had become a drab, barren landscape. 

As the two warriors stepped out of the thick brush they both immediately sensed the unease of the hushed camp before them. Nikita hastened to keep pace with the older warrior. He heard muffled whispers come from worried camp members.

They strode through the camp, passing makeshift tents that were occupied by battle-hardened soldiers. Each soldier they passed carried forged steel. Dressed in worn leather armour, breastplates and helmets, they looked ready for battle. Most of their armour carried battle scars, deep ruts cut into metal, some of which continued onwards, finishing in bright, livid scars found on grizzled faces or mighty hands.

A couple of the soldiers moved over in an attempt to speak, but were instantly warned off by Volok’s raised hand. The towering warrior weaved his way through the camp with the younger warrior in tow, making his way towards a large pavilion.

They arrived at the entrance to find two gigantic, armour-clad guards there. Both guards recognised the young warrior at Volok’s side. They stepped aside and allowed both to enter. As Nikita pushed through the tent flap, both guards nodded in silent acknowledgement.

Inside, hanging from the wooden framework, were bright oil lamps, which illuminated the sparse contents found within. Although the tent was large, there were little more than the basic furnishings and utilities to be found.

“Nikita, Nikita,” a voice said with affection.

At the centre of the large tent stood a formidable-looking warrior. Dressed in dark fur skins and with huge forearms spread apart, the warrior looked as if he alone could fill the entire tent. His broad face split with an affectionate smile. He walked over to the young newcomer to deliver a crushing embrace.

“Nikita,” the warrior repeated.

“Father,” Nikita greeted.

“Come, Nikita, we have guests,” the warrior chieftain said.

Together, the small party headed toward the rear of the tent. A partition was pushed to one side as they entered the chieftain’s private quarters.

Stooped over a huge, impressive table were three people. One was clad in animal furs and leather armour, like his counterparts, while the other two were dressed in dark, exotic silks. All three raised their heads as the small party entered.

Nikita caught a glimpse of dazzling brown eyes and he quickly looked away in adolescent self-consciousness.

“Rublev,” said one of the darkly dressed figures.

“Ah, my friends,” the warrior chieftain said, trying to hide his unease. The chieftain and the dark figure gripped each other’s forearms in greeting.

“I bring good news, Rublev.”

Although as tall as the chieftain, this guest was of a slighter build. He had braided black hair, which fell to his broad shoulders, and a pair of intense green eyes that were fixed within a handsome but ashen face. “How do you enjoy these freezing winter nights?” the pale face mocked.

“The Norsemen’s vile steel does not cut as deep as this damned chill,” the chieftain replied dismally.

With a smirk spread across his handsome face, Jonus said, “Do not worry, my friend, you will soon be free from this accursed land.”

“Then we move soon?” Rublev asked.

“All in good time, my friend.” The visitor released his grip on the chieftain’s arm. He gestured to his smaller companion. “Come. You remember, Anna?”

Turning to the second visitor, the chieftain looked upon the face of a beautiful woman.

Dressed in similar fine materials, the slim woman bowed her head slightly in respect. Like her comrade, she had long black hair, although hers fell in beautiful waves to the middle of her slender back. Her eyes were brown and bottomless, and the skin of her face was the colour of a golden sunset.

Anna moved over to the chieftain. “I am honoured to be in the presence of such a great warrior,” she said in a thick Slavonic accent. She leaned closer and whispered into his ear. “The years have been kind to you, my friend.” Then she turned towards the chieftain’s son and, with a mischievous look in her eyes, she simply acknowledged him as — “Boy.”

“Forgive me, where are my manners?” the chieftain said, after a moment’s pause. “Come, let us rest. You must be tired from your journey.”

Unlike the rest of the tent this section was lavishly filled. There were richly carved furnishings with many exotically woven materials laid out over them. With the huge table at the centre, the room looked like that of a successful merchant’s.

The party moved deeper within the room to seat themselves amongst the fine riches. Volok remained standing, however, positioning himself close to the chieftain. With his arms folded across his broad chest, he repeatedly caressed the hilt of his broadsword. The remaining fur-clad warrior stayed stooped over the table, otherwise distracted. He was of slim build, ropey, his face a ragged range of pointed features and hollowed eyes.

“How is Prince Vladimir?” Rublev asked.

“He sits in Kiev surrounded by Christians,” the ashen face spat.

“He is a fool!” Anna declared.

“Unfortunately, I must agree,” the chieftain conceded remorsefully.

Nikita said, “He bargains with the Norsemen for his own personal gain. He thinks nothing of his own people or land. The barbarians have already taken Novgorod and control the river Volkhov, and soon they will control the whole northern territories. And who then will stop them marching into Kiev?”

“The boy speaks beyond his years,” Anna told the chieftain. “If we stand and fight now, there may still be hope for our beloved homeland.”

“The prince thinks the Norsemen will bring stability to our lands,” Rublev expressed.

Anna countered, “How? By selling him riches taken from his own soil, or enslaving half of his people? The prince is a coward. We must send these barbarians back to their vile lair.”

“Father, she is right. If we do not stand now, then it will be too late. We have fought our Slav brothers for centuries, now is the time to unite,” Nikita said.

“Unite? The northern clans would sooner cut our throats than fight alongside us,” Rublev moaned dismally.

“Then we buy their allegiance,” Jonus announced.

“How?” Nikita and Rublev said in unison.

The ashen face broke into a wide grin. “With silver!”

Anna turned to her companion and her face mirrored the group’s surprise.

Jonus took a step towards the seated chieftain. He reached inside the deep folds of his dark clothing, withdrawing something that reflected the lantern’s glow across its polished surface.

Before Volok had time to react, a pale hand threw the metal object directly at the chieftain’s chest. The object spun through the air, blinking in brilliant, glittering bursts. The stocky chieftain jumped to his feet to snatch the object from the air. Volok descended upon the grinning apparition.

“Wait!” Rublev ordered, opening his hand.

A silver coin sat on the rough plane of his palm. Depicted on the coin — perched purposely on a mighty throne — sat the Viking war god, Odin. Rublev turned the coin over to find a similar detailed drawing of a Viking longboat. Sitting in the ship were tiny oarsmen who battled tirelessly against a sea of silver waves.

“You have more?” Rublev asked, holding up the shiny token.

“Enough to buy ourselves an army!” Jonus told him.

Surprised by her companion’s theatrics, Anna moved over to the chieftain. With an elegant hand she took the coin. She turned to her companion, and, like the rest of the group, she waited for an explanation.

“Do you think patriotism will be enough to secure the northern clans’ allegiance?” Jonus asked the group. “There is only one thing that can buy a man’s soul, and that’s silver!”

“We’ll need more than just one coin to fund an army large enough to take back the northern territories,” Nikita said.

“Then you shall have it!” the exotic guest told him.

Rublev questioned, “Even if we double our ranks, we will stand at fifty men only! What chance do we have against an entire Viking army?”

The warrior at the table spoke for the first time. “A small one,” he said.

Nikita stood. “Lieutenant Rajk, you have an idea?”

Lieutenant Rajk beckoned the group over. The gesture was a simple wave of his hand, yet the movement had grace and speed, and long dexterous fingers danced briefly in the air, enticing, like the bobbing head of a cobra.

Once they had all gathered around the table, Rajk pointed to one of two maps laid out across its surface. “Here,” he said, indicating the outline of a fortress.

The map showed mainly forest and mountain ranges. Running through the centre, cutting the map in two, was the river Volkhov. Dotted along the banks of the river were large, detailed drawings of Viking-held strongholds or villages.

“West of Nosgrov is the fortress held by the Viking Chief Ragnar,” Rajk told them.

“These maps are useless! Ragnar must be dust by now,” Nikita muttered in disgust.

“Silence boy!” Jonus warned. “I stole these very maps from his keep not more than three nights ago!”

“Nikita speaks the truth. Ragnar must be over ninety years old!” Rajk commented.

“It is possible that Ragnar is a successor,” Anna offered.

“Explain,” Rublev said.

She elaborated. “Ragnar must be a different person masquerading as the original, maybe a son or close relative to the first Ragnar. He’s tricking those who fear him into thinking he’s immortal or even godlike.”

As the group absorbed this information, Anna and her companion communicated in an almost unnoticeable shift of eyes. Impressed by his comrade’s skill, Jonus nodded in respect.

“That would make sense,” Rublev acknowledged.

“So we agree Ragnar is alive in one way or another?” Nikita asked.

One by one the group nodded in agreement.

“Then we also agree that this stronghold will be manned by a legion of soldiers!” Nikita added.

With dismay clear in his voice, Rublev declared, “So even if we double our ranks, we will still be out-manned four to one, assuming we breach the fortified walls.”

“Then we go through the wall, not over it,” Rajk said, silencing the disgruntled group.

As one, the sea of faces looked upon the lieutenant. He placed one elongated finger on the map, directly over the fortress. “We go through the front gate!”

Chapter Two

With only two hours till dawn, the group finalised their plan, and, after agreeing it should remain within this small assembly, they began to disband. The small party moved outside, then dispersed one after the other, including the armed guards, leaving the chieftain and his two visitors alone.

“If we follow this plan through, we could all hang for treason,” Rublev told his two remaining companions.

“It is Prince Vladimir who should hang!” Anna spat.

Jonus said, “If we follow this plan through then we will become liberators. Once Ragnar kneels before us then the rest of his foul brethren will soon beg for mercy.”

“It is a bold move we make, my friends,” the chieftain said.

Anna declared, “It is bold indeed, but not foolish. With luck on our side we can drive this hateful disease back across the waters before winter ends.”

“Then it is done. We meet again in two days’ time?” Rublev asked.

“I’ll be back soon, my friend,” Jonus said. “And with me, I’ll bring an army that no one can repel.”

Rublev and Jonus exchanged a brief farewell. Then the warrior chieftain turned to Anna. “Ride safe, fair one.”

Anna embraced him and looked into his hardened eyes. “I am honoured to be fighting alongside such a great warrior.” Bending slightly, she placed a kiss onto both of his weathered cheeks. Then, in a whisper, she added, “Again.”

The two visitors disappeared back into the surrounding darkness. The woods accepted them, two liquid shadows, which slowly merged into the larger body of darkness. In a matter of moments, the two riders had vanished, reclaimed by the night, disappearing fluidly and silently, like when they’d first arrived during the onset of dusk.

Left alone now, the once great and powerful warrior bent slightly. He sighed heavily. And, with the weight of an ensuing battle all but crushing him, he returned silently to the confinement of his tent.

***

The figure leaned in his saddle and slapped the side of his mount’s neck. A few nervous snorts emitted from flared nostrils before the horse settled under its master’s command.

“She feels the camp’s unease,” Anna observed, herself sitting high on her own dark, muscular beast.

“How did you know they would choose to strike Ragnar?” Anna finally asked, once safely away from the camp.

The pale face split in a wide, humourless smile. “I did not.”

“What if they’d picked a different target?” she asked him.

“Then I would have persuaded them otherwise,” Jonus said, and tapped an elongated finger to the side of his bleached skull.

“Will Ragnar expect us?” she asked.

“I think not,” he replied.

“But the maps and silver, they are his — yes?”

“The maps were his, and the silver still is, if there is any.”

“But the coin?”

“Something I took from a travelling merchant. He had no use for it once I’d taken his soul,” the pale face said with glee.

“This plan had better work. I do not care about the one named Ragnar. I wish to spill all Viking blood, until every last drop has been drained from their putrid bodies.”

“We shall both have what we want — soon.”

They rode side by side and in silence for a short while.

“There is still time to hunt,” Jonus finally said, looking up at the bright stars that glittered through the canopy of branches.

“We need all the men we can get. Tonight, we should resist our hunger,” Anna warned her companion.

“Maybe we could share just the one. Perhaps the young warrior?” Jonus said in a mocking tone.

“Leave him be. He will prove useful in battle,” she responded, trying to hide her concern.

A slight chuckle escape from her companion. “My beautiful Anna, why do you care for such inferior creatures?”

After a moment’s pause, she answered: “I do not care for them, but I do care for my beloved homeland. They are born of this land and so in some ways they are like my brothers and sisters. The Norsemen are a vile plague spreading across this beautiful land and, if I must stand and fight, I do so with blood and flesh born from the very soil we tread on.”

“They would tear you to pieces if they understood what you were,” he warned her.

“Yes, perhaps you are right. But I intend to remain elusive,” she said.

“Be careful, my friend. Man is no longer an infant. He grows stronger in mind as well as in numbers.”

“Then why do you form an alliance?”

This time he paused. His answer came from peeled-back lips. “I believe some day the world will become so small it will require just one leader, a great king who will be revered like a god! With my power and knowledge, I believe I can become that leader and rule this world as my own!”

“A hard task considering you’ll have to rule from the confines of these shadows,” Anna said, now mocking him. “Strange you would want to lead such inferior beings.”

They rode in silence for a mile or so before Jonus asked, “Do you think Ragnar is one of us?”

“Possibly,” she answered. “Although how does he rule from his own shadows?”

“What if he doesn’t rule from these shadows?”

“Explain,” she said.

“What if he isn’t bound by the stars or moon?’

“You mean a day-walker?”

“It’s possible, yes?”

“I don’t know. It’s something I thought impossible, but maybe?”

“You and I have different strengths and weaknesses, so who is to say one of our own kind couldn’t survive in daylight?”

“An interesting notion. But even if he can survive daylight, what good does that do us?” Anna asked.

Jonus shifted slightly in his saddle. He turned to his companion and his face split to reveal sharpened frontal incisors. “What good indeed?”

The woods began to thin out as the two riders eventually reached a natural crossroads within the forest. A steep incline of thick, intertwined trees and dense foliage ran northward, and open fields covered in thick blankets of pure snow ran in all other directions. The blue mist had thinned now, leaving just a feint incandescent hue.

Turning her mount towards one of the fields, Anna said, “Ride safe. In two nights’ time we shall liberate this land!” She kicked her heels against the horse’s flanks and then galloped away, cutting a path through the packed white snow.

The handsome figure waited until she’d been swallowed by darkness. Then he turned his mount and slowly made his way back towards camp.

Chapter Three

The guard drained the last few drops from his flagon, and then moved closer to the warmth of the campfire. The last of the fiery brew warmed his throat. He replaced the empty flagon in the folds of his dark furs. In an attempt to warm his hands, he raised them to his mouth, cupped them together, and blew out a hot, putrid breath.

Then, as he pulled the fur of his pelt tighter around his neck, he sensed someone approaching from behind. He reached for his sword and spun to face the would-be attacker.

In an almost inaudible slur, he asked, “Who is there?”

The flicker of flames sent dark apparitions dancing in all directions. He took a step closer to darkness. “Come out,” he garbled, peering through bloodshot eyes. He raised his sword and entered into the line of the trees.

“Nikita, is that you? I haven’t finished with you...” he grunted.

Silence.

He peered through the near-impenetrable gloom and tinged fog. Phantom-like vines wrapped themselves around the twisted and warped trunks of ancient trees. In this, the deepest part of the forest, even the night seemed to retreat, leaving behind instead a deep and depthless darkness, which was both sinister and terrifying.

The guard lowered his sword ready to head back towards the safety of the campfire. He took two steps only before walking into one of the macabre trees. He staggered back, shook his head in an attempt to clear away the numbing effects of the brew, and then raised his eyes.

What he found turned his blood cold with fright.

The tree possessed a hideously grinning face. Then a greater darkness formed as a ghostly figure stepped from the shadows of the tree.

“My God!” the guard cried.

Before he could raise his sword, the apparition reached out with powerful claws, pinning his arms to his sides. The face split unnaturally wide to reveal two rows of razor-sharp teeth.

And through these tiny daggers of death, the face spoke. “When you see your god, tell him Jonus has sent you!”

Jaws snapped around flesh and blood. The guard took a final step backwards and, in doing so, he entered absolute darkness.

Chapter Four

The wagon trundled along, and the sky began to swell and darken, drawing the night closer towards the three cloaked travellers. Pulled along by a tethered horse, the wagon lurched forwards, slowly, cutting the distance between itself and an impressive fortress.

“We will soon see if the Prince’s name holds any strength,” the oldest of the three told his two companions.

“This may be the shortest of battles,” Anna said with a hint of mirth.

“These clothes wouldn’t fool a blind pig!” the young warrior moaned.

“Quiet boy! Or we’ll be feeding YOU to the pigs,” Anna warned.

All three were dressed in intricately woven materials. Each had a thick, insulated cloak pulled around their shoulders, and woollen pants tucked into the tops of leather boots. With one or two items of jewellery purposefully left on show, the group resembled a travelling merchant and his small entourage.

The rear of the wagon was open to reveal fine, exotic cloths, which were wrapped in tight rolls and bound at either end by long strips of leather. Hidden in the material were newly sharpened blades and swords, which were temporarily held in their scabbards. Tied to the back of the cart were numerous pieces of ornate wooden furnishings.

As the wagon neared its journey’s end, the huge fortress loomed up out of the gloom like some colossal wooden nightmare. Towering walls ran from either side of an immense gateway, then disappeared as they led towards the surrounding woodland. The wall was made from giant tree trunks, which were lashed together by vast amounts of leather and vines.

The top of the wall reached almost as high as the adjoining forest and, at the very tip, the logs had been cut into crude spikes. In addition to the wall there were four towers, spaced equally apart, two on either side of the gateway, and, although still at a distance, the small party could see burning torches coming from within.

“It would take an army of thousands to breach those walls,” Nikita said.

“Who or what are they protecting?” the eldest asked.

“We’ll soon find out,” Anna said, as the cart pulled up in front of the huge gate.

Like the wall, the gate was built from tightly lashed timber but, in addition to the leather and vines, iron straps fastened these logs in place. Within the gate was a smaller open doorway with room enough for a single man only.

Around the doorway stood four barbarians, each with a tangled blond or red beard covering his face. From under beaten and dented helmets, masses of matted and twisted hair fell past broad shoulders.

One of the four moved over to the cart. In a thick Scandinavian slur, the barbarian said, “You’re too late. The gate is closed for the night.”

“My friend, we have travelled for many nights and are in need of shelter,” Rajk said.

“I do not care how long you’ve travelled! Come back tomorrow when the gate is open,” the Viking ordered.

As if the colossal gate was not enough, he stood with arms folded across his massive chest, blocking the wagon’s progress.

“The night has a bitter chill. You wouldn’t want the Prince’s favoured merchant to freeze, would you?” the old man asked.

“Prince, what Prince?”

“The great Prince Vladimir, you idiot!” Rajk rebuked.

Stunned by this outburst, the barbarian stood momentarily speechless.

A roar of laughter erupted from behind the mute Viking. Another guard moved over, his face ablaze with red hair. He slapped his fellow watchman hard on the back.

“Olaf, I always said you had goat shit for brains!” he said.

Another roar of laughter erupted. “Tell me your name, old fool, before my friend takes your head!” the newcomer ordered.

“I am Rajk, principal merchant to Prince Vladimir. I have come from Kiev with gifts for your master, the fearless Ragnar.”

“Well, Rajk, principal merchant to Prince Vladimir, you are a long way from the safety of Kiev. Be careful, or your tongue may get you into trouble.”

“Apologies, my good friend. I am weary from my travels and only wish to feel the safety of this great fortress,” Rajk said.

The barbarian nodded his head, accepting this old fool’s amendment, for now. “You have documents to prove your standing?” the watchman asked.

Rajk looked across the cart and at his female companion. “My dear daughter, hand me the Prince’s permit.”

Anna reached inside the folds of her tunic and produced a sealed scroll.

She said, “Here, Father.”

“Wait!” the guard commanded, and he snatched the scroll from the woman’s outstretched hand.

“You take me for a fool, old man? She is as different to you as a bird is to a pig!”

Rajk looked from the woman’s dusky complexion to his other companion’s Slavic features.

“This is my blood son, Nikita, and his lovely bride Anna,” he said.

Nikita nodded towards the guard. “Your vigilance serves your master well.”

Satisfied with their explanation, the guard turned his attention to the rolled-up parchment. He broke the wax seal with a grubby thumb.

Anna reached inside the folds of her cloak. With expert fingers, she took hold of a concealed blade. She sensed slight movements from her comrades as they too readied themselves for the unexpected.

After a moment’s examination, the guard said, “Here!” and handed the parchment to the first Viking.

The big Viking looked down at the open scroll. He scratched at an invisible tick on the side of his head, and then shuffled awkwardly from one booted foot to the other. Eventually, he returned the parchment to his colleague.

“Everything seems in order,” he said.

Releasing a silent breath, Rajk retrieved the document.

The red-bearded guard turned in the direction of the gate. He raised his hand and instantly the furthest watchmen disappeared through the small access.

“Once inside, you will need to seek Ragnar’s council. I trust you can find your own way?” the guard asked.

“My thanks to you,” Rajk said, nodding slightly in appreciation.

The guard stood to one side as he waited for the huge gate to be drawn open.

Confident the guard was out of earshot, Anna whispered, “It seems there is an abundance of goat shit for brains,” referring to the watchmen’s inability to read.

“You play a dangerous game, wife,” Nikita said quietly.

“Hold your tongue, boy,” she replied.

Rajk took hold of the horse’s reins and began to guide the wagon through the huge open gates.

“Wait!”

A large hand fell onto the back of the wagon. The red-bearded Viking asked, “These, what are they?” With a tilt of his woolly chin, he indicated five small barrels, which were laced together at the bottom of the cart.

“They are some of the Prince’s best ale,” Nikita said, with an added smile.

“Show me.”

Nikita reached over and worked a small barrel free. And, with exaggerated care, he handed it over.

The barbarian took the barrel between two clumsy hands. He lifted the small cask to his ear and roughly shook it.

As they heard the liquid inside slosh about, all three companions leaned back and away from the guard and, as one, they held their breath.

Not satisfied with his examination, the guard lowered the barrel to the muddy ground. He took a step back. Like a sudden bolt of lightning, a steel blade appeared — a shock of brilliant white light against the dark background of night, which slipped effortlessly from its greased scabbard. Raising the sword above his head he prepared to break open the barrel.

“Wait!” Rajk yelled.

The sword wavered in mid-air.

The open document was thrust into the Viking’s face.

Rajk said, “I am to deliver five barrels of ale, not four! I am sure Chief Ragnar will be pleased with your thoroughness if he finds himself one barrel short!”

The guard hesitated as he pondered over this information. Finally, he lowered his sword. “I grow tired of your voice, old man.” He bent to retrieve the barrel with his large hands. “Here!” he said, and threw the barrel in Nikita’s direction.

   Nikita clutched at the barrel with both hands - his mouth twisting into a frightful slash of fear. The moment dragged out. Then with a long exhalation of air, and relief, the young warrior relaxed, his heart beating out a steady tattoo, before gently replacing the barrel alongside the others.

Now, as they passed through the gateway, he turned to his comrades and said, “Goddamn fool nearly blew us all to Valhalla!”

Chapter Five

They entered the inner fortress. Behind them the huge gate swung closed, a creak and groan of wood and leather settling into place, which sealed the group inside this wooden behemoth.

A mixture of farmhouses and shabby dwellings surrounded them. Most of the farmhouses had grazing fields out front, separated from each other by crudely erected wooden fences. Even in the poor light the three companions could see the outlines of scrawny livestock – ribs apparent. The animals roamed about lethargically, chewing at the few patches of coarse grass left over by the cruel winter. Squat, stone chimneys jutted out of thatched roofs, crooked and in disrepair, like fallen tombstones, injecting thick, acrid smoke into the cold air. Mixed in with the stench of animal waste the smoke and manure turned the air into an almost un-breathable poison.

As the horse tirelessly pulled the wagon and its three occupants deeper inside this maze of filth, its flanks began to foam with sweat. From within the huts they could see and hear the inhabitants of this dreadful place.

Dressed in soiled rags, most of the village people had hollowed eyes, fixed in faces that were close companions with hunger. And something else. Longing. Fear. Desperation. All these traits appeared present in their hollow eyes. Even the children that were still up at this late hour seemed overly subdued – a youngsters’ natural exuberance erased from their souls, as if something dark and malignant had singled them out, and siphoned this most essential essence from their spirit.

“Not all seems well in Ragnar’s kingdom,” Rajk noted.

“I am beginning to think those gates are to keep people in, not out,” Anna commented. She felt an ache in her chest. As if a hand had wrapped hard fingers around her beating heart and was squeezing it tightly, forcing not only blood – but also hope, away from this vital organ.

The sad structures became more and more sparse, before eventually they dwindled to just a few dark, soulless abodes. Darkness filled in where solid structures faded, yet this empty blackness felt equal in substance, solid, immobile, unbreakable.

Eventually, they came upon another wooden wall, which took form as it cut a lighter strip of darkness, ready to block their advance. Although dwarfed by the outer wall, this smaller barrier looked just as impenetrable.

The cart turned and the party moved alongside the wooden wall, looking for access. They rounded a bend, and the three comrades saw the bright flicker of lights ahead. The wagon drew up alongside another guarded entrance. The party of three had reached the second inner gate.

They flashed the phoney documents at a second set of guards, and again were rewarded with blank faces and a confused demeanour. With a more relaxed examination, the watchmen simply opened the gate and allowed the three traders to enter.

They entered a dwindling marketplace, with only a few merchants trading at this late hour. Most of the market dwellers were dressed in coarsely woven materials and muddy boots made from goatskin. The cart weaved its way through the throng of people, until its occupants eventually reached more hospitable living quarters.

Unlike the shantytown outside, this area was made up of well-maintained wooden and stone structures, which, were connected together, leaving only a narrow pathway between densely populated streets.

This sector reflected a more prosperous habitant and housed a mixture of blacksmiths, carpenters, merchants and other prominent townsfolk.

They found a suitable tavern and unloaded most of their goods. Once these had been stored, they entered the main barroom. Inside were a mixture of off-duty watchmen and soldiers, most of whom were still armed, exotically dressed merchants from different settings and cultures, and even some dirty and ragged drunkards from the poorer quarters could be found here.

Mixing easily within this multitude of people, the party of three eased themselves into one of the darker recesses of the room. They spent the minimum amount of time drinking stale beer required of them to look like just another small party of tired traders. Finally satisfied they had infiltrated this heavily manned fortress unnoticed, Anna signalled to her two comrades.

The offensive was now underway.

Chapter Six

Anna slipped into the safety of a darkened doorway. She waited in silence for the two burly guards to pass by. They marched onwards, oblivious to the danger that lay close by.

Dressed in tattered leather armour and carrying heavy broadswords, both guards walked with an air of self-assurance. The light from burning torches, found scattered along the inner wall, guided them past the doorway, and then beyond. Moving away from the concealed intruder, they muttered to each other in a garbled and alien tongue.

Anna waited until their strange chatter had dwindled, and then she moved into the open. With both soldiers safely out of sight, she continued towards Ragnar’s domain.

She closed in on the black keep, again dressed in dark clothes, appearing almost invisible, with only slightly more definition than the night itself. She carried one of the previously concealed swords and moved with a natural stealth, heading towards the rear of the structure. Now unsheathed, the sword was coated in a thin layer of dried mud, reducing any chance of an unwanted flash of light, reflected by the torches scattered throughout the fortress.

Knowing she would be instantly spotted as an intruder, she had decided to forego diplomacy and opted instead for a more permanent and immediate solution: razor sharp steel!

She ducked under a raised walkway and reached the base of the keep unnoticed. The keep was split into two different portions: its base was circular in shape, wide and about the same height as the inner wall of the fortress. From its centre, a tower jutted upwards into the darkness — it grew from the base of the keep like some giant, skeletal finger, probing accusingly at the night sky. Sat on thick wooden stilts, the entire structure was raised above ground, eight or nine feet high. A stairway led up to the entrance, burning torches acknowledging anyone in their approach.

Anna circled around the radius of the platform. Having to finally give way as the rear of the keep was blocked by the natural overhang of a cliff. A hundred feet below, the sea raged and battered itself against the rock face. Anna crept stealthily to the front of the keep.  Eight armed watchmen protected the wooden walkway, with another two guards at the entrance. She returned to her point of origin and stepped silently out and away from the raised platform. Her face turned up to the bright stars. Light flickered at the summit of the tower, revealing itself through a single window.

From her position, Anna thought the window resembled a hellish mouth, fire and damnation awaiting those who dared to enter. She returned her gaze to ground level and made a quick mental calculation. And, once satisfied with her outcome, she slipped away into the night.

***

“This waiting is unbearable!” Nikita moaned.

“Patience,” Rajk told him, but his own voice failed to hide a growing unease.

Nikita turned his back on Rajk and walked over to his own bunk. He lay down and stretched out on the threadbare cot.

Since Anna had disappeared earlier in the night, the two remaining warriors had waited with mounting concern. Although close to midnight, they could still hear a mixture of boisterous and intoxicated laughter coming from the barroom below.

After Anna had left them, Rajk and Nikita had hired one of the tavern’s rooms for the night in an attempt to complete the façade of travel-weary merchants.

Tense and restless, with an eagerness for battle, Nikita stood and moved over to their piled belongings. He retrieved a small bundle wrapped in waxy cloth. Returning to his cot, he sat and laid the bundle at his side. He pulled on drawstrings to open out the small package. Inside were lengths of loosely wound cord. Like the material that wrapped them, the cord had a sticky substance smeared on its surface. Nikita withdrew two lengths, the first almost as long as his forearm, the other about the length of his hand.

“You think this is going to work?” he asked his companion.

Rajk sat up. “If we’re careful and don’t get caught, then yes.”

Nikita shook his head, not convinced. “All this sneaking around, I don’t like it. Give me an army to control on the battlefield any day.”

“Patience,” Rajk repeated, “you’ll have your army soon enough.”

“Sooner than you think!”

They turned towards the open window and found Anna crouched in the wooden opening. She dropped silently into the room.

“All is as planned. We move now!” she said.

***

Nikita wrapped the waxy cloth back around the white cord. He tied the drawstrings and then tucked the package inside the folds of his tunic.

“So you know exactly what you’ve got to do?” Anna asked.

“Yes,” Nikita replied.

“Remember, you’ll only get a heartbeat’s chance,” she warned.

“I know.”

She drew a deep breath. “Let’s do it!”

As one, the group left the room and descended into the maelstrom of the barroom. They quickly left the tavern and returned to the storage area to retrieve their equipment. Their supplies were divided among them, to suit each individual’s task. They then formed up outside.

Anna took hold of Rajk’s forearm. “Luck be with you,” she said, and offered him a sincere smile.

“And with you,” Rajk replied.

She turned to Nikita and with serious conviction said, “Stick close to Rajk for as long as you can. He’s an old man for one who has seen much battle.”

“Suddenly you care?” the young warrior retorted, full of his own self-importance.

“In your dreams — Boy!”

She turned away from them and slipped away into the darkness.

Nikita lifted his half-filled sack, quickly following the retreating lieutenant.

Chapter Seven

“Keep it hidden,” Rajk warned his comrade.

Sliding the short sword back inside his cloak, the young warrior kept in step with Rajk. He felt his companion’s confidence, and relaxed — a little.

“Remember, don’t move until I say so,” Rajk cautioned.

“I’m ready,” Nikita reassured him.

“Good,” Rajk said, as they descend upon the inner gate.

Caught in torchlight were four heavily armed guards, each a head taller than the two Slavic warriors.

“Where are you two going at such a time?” one of the guards asked in his garbled tongue.

Barely able to understand this towering barbarian, Rajk replied, “My friend and I are traders from the south. We wish to sell our merchandise to the people beyond this wall.”

“Well, I’m Herger from the north and I wish you to go away!” the Viking guard taunted.

A short bout of laughter broke out among the other watchmen.

“My dear friend, we are willing to pay any toll for admittance,” Rajk told Herger.

“It doesn’t matter how much you are willing to pay, there’s nothing you can sell those slum-dwellers that they can afford,” Herger said.

“I’m a very reasonable man, my prices aren’t too high,” Rajk assured.

“You’re not listening, old man. The only thing they’re interested in is deliverance,” Herger spat.

Not exactly understanding what this giant oaf was on about, Rajk continued regardless.

“We have many different items for sale. Come look for yourself.”

On cue, Nikita lowered the sack to the ground.

“What do you have in your little sack? Hope and Freedom?” Herger asked. He slapped his large hands onto his thighs and broke into a tremendous roar.

Impressed by their friend’s wit, the other guards broke into their own foolish laughter.

Rajk remembered the ghostly, undernourished faces of the people beyond, and he realised that the outer wall was designed as much to keep them in, as it was to keep others out.

“Something even better,” Rajk said, silencing them all at once. “Come, take a look.”

Herger strutted over with exaggerated boldness. He stood in front of Rajk. “Show me your marvels, old man,” he ordered.

Rajk bent down and opened the bag.

Herger peered inside. “I see nothing but junk.”

“Here, I’ll help you to see,” Rajk said, reaching inside.

Herger bent forwards to find the old man’s hand had been swallowed by shadows.

Rajk reached deep, continuing to search until his hand closed around something that was both cool and sleek.

***

Anna cut a different path back towards the keep. She stopped alongside an extended narrow structure. With a half-filled sack slung over her shoulder, she concentrated on staying to the side furthest from the fortress wall and away from any guards.

Cautiously, she made her way to the entrance. She pushed open a doorway and peered inside. Dark shapes ran in parallel along both sides of the room. The stench of stale sweat, damp clothes, and worse, wafted out towards her in an invisible, choking wave. Some of the shapes moved about sporadically under thick woollen blankets.

She retreated soundlessly, not wanting to disturb the soldiers and their slumber. She examined the doorway to the barracks. Made from a single slab of hardwood and with crudely chiselled handles riveted on either side, the door looked almost as sturdy as the larger gates of the fortress. The door sat on two solid leather hinges, both larger than her fist. She pulled the door tight, shutting in the platoon of soldiers.

Next, she took a few minutes to arrange a mechanism, using one of the barrels, her dagger and an endless supply of twine. She scaled the barracks, keeping low, and fixed the barrel to the centre of the roof before attaching one of the sticky cords to the end of twine. Now taking out two stones from her sack, she brought them together, generating a spark and, with a wisp of smoke, the cord became a slow-burning fuse. Like an inverted T, the twine ran around the length of the barracks then up onto the roof, where it was threaded through the barrel before finishing attached to the slowly burning fuse.

Anna smiled, then picked up the sack and moved deeper into the fortress.

***

In one fluid motion, Rajk grabbed Herger’s hair. The lieutenant pulled the dagger from the sack and drove the steel blade through the barbarian’s neck. With a savage twist, he ripped the blade across Herger’s throat, cutting almost bone deep.

In an explosion of blood, Herger jolted backward, a look of dumbfounded shock stretched across his bleached face.

Before the other watchmen had time to react, Rajk flipped the dagger over. He held it blade first, and then threw it at the nearest guard. The dagger tore through the night, a bolt of lightning that cut the darkness apart, before plunging deeply into the Viking’s chest.

Nikita stepped over Herger, withdrawing his sword as he went, ready to descend upon the nearest watchman.

Seeing Nikita coming towards him, the guard reached for his broadsword. He managed to pull the sword out of its sheath by half of its length before a gleam of steel flashed across his eyes. The sword stayed momentarily half-drawn before it slipped smoothly back inside its leather scabbard. Cut off at the wrist, still clutching the hilt, was the Viking’s severed hand.

Nikita swept his sword back in a large arc and the blade cut open the Viking’s abdomen, spilling guts. The wounded guard clutched at his exposed intestines with his remaining hand. A torrent of blood spilled out, followed by a ghastly exhalation of foul gases. Then he dropped to his knees before falling face-first into the mud.

The one remaining guard realised that this battle was lost. He turned to flee, but before he had a chance to retreat Nikita jumped forward to block off his exit. Cornered and with no chance of escape, the Viking pulled his broadsword free. With a mixture of fear and madness in his eyes, he stepped up to the young warrior.

“Come get some!” the Viking growled.

Nikita crouched low to make a smaller target of himself. He held his bloodied sword to his side, and waited. They circled around each other, both fighters waiting for an opening.

The Viking saw one first, attacking with a forward lunge.

Nikita sidestepped the attack and brought his sword upwards viciously, cutting through leather armour. The guard ignored the cut to his shoulder and attacked again, this time with a vicious swing to Nikita’s head. The young warrior ducked under the blade, then counter-attacked with a thrust to the Viking’s stomach.

The weight of the swinging broadsword caused the guard to twist sideways, which threw Nikita’s attack wide. Breathing heavily now, the two combatants paused momentarily to gain a breath.

Then, unexpectedly, the guard struck out with a combination of swings, which caught Nikita by surprise. Saved by his own quick reflexes, Nikita blocked the first attack, but the sheer force of the second sent his sword spinning out of his hands and into darkness. The guard released a triumphant roar. He stepped forwards; his sword raised high, ready to attack the defenceless warrior.

***

Anna secured the last of the three barrels, then stepped from under the keep. Unlike the cask rigged above the soldier’s barracks, these three had a simple arrangement. Again, the thick twine had been used, each barrel tied firmly to one of three separate support beams. However, rather than a trigger mechanism, they had a simple fuse attached. All three of the fuses were of the same length and thickness, and so far remained unlit.

Anna slipped back under the platform to quickly recheck all three barrels. Satisfied they were in the correct location to achieve maximum damage, she turned, and was unexpectedly confronted by a hideously grinning face.

***

“NIKITA — DOWN!”

Nikita threw himself clear of the sword. The guard’s huge blade cut through nothing but air. It moved with too much momentum and the tip finished buried deep in the muddy earth.

Rajk appeared from the darkness. He swung his sword in a wide upward arc. The blade cut through the night, catching the barbarian just below the chin. The Viking’s expression went from rage to surprise in a heartbeat. His mouth slipped downward, bared teeth disappearing, as his lips became a macabre slash. His eyes tipped upwards, momentarily, before their gaze faded out beyond where the two Slavic warriors stood. Then, with a bright spray of blood, the Viking’s head fell backwards, leaving the headless torso standing.

In a horrible, twitching retort, the corpse pulled the broadsword from the earth, stood with the blade raised, and then took a step forward. Eventually its brain’s final instruction began to fizzle away. No longer under control, the headless body wavered from side to side, all balance lost. And then, as if finally realising its fate, the body toppled backwards, feet stumbling over the severed head. The sword remained clutched in its deathly grip.

Rajk helped Nikita to his feet.

“Some people just won’t stay dead,” Nikita said shakily.

“Come, help me with the gate.”

They moved over to the gate and found that it was held firm by a large bolt. Nikita and Rajk pulled on a set of hand grips, carved into the wooden clasp. After a short squeal of protest, the bolt began to slide over. Between them, they pulled it far enough to allow one side of the gate to swing open.

Nikita returned to the bloody carnage to collect his sword and the sack. Then he followed Rajk through the open gateway. They found the other side quiet.

Rajk turned to Nikita. “Go and bring your father.”

“You’re not coming?” Nikita asked.

“I must stay and defend this gate.”

“What if more guards arrive?” Nikita asked, concerned for the lieutenant’s safety.

“Then they will feel my steel!” Rajk answered. “Hurry, your father is waiting.”

They quickly embraced, and then Nikita moved over and took one of the flickering torches. He tucked his sword into his belt, then reached inside the sack and took out a single item. Cradling it under his arm and, with the torch held aloft, he began to run along the muddy pathway in the direction of the huge outer gate.

Rajk waited until the torch had dwindled to a distant speck of light, then turned and re-entered the inner fortress. He crossed over to the headless corpse and bent to prise the broadsword from stiff fingers. He returned to the gate. The huge sword rose above his head. And although he knew it would draw unwanted attention, he began to hack at the large wooden bolt.

Chapter Eight

“Jonus!” Anna said, shocked.

“Quiet,” Jonus hissed, placing a finger over his stretched mouth.

He took the finger away to point upwards with it, reminding her of the danger above. Dressed in the same dark clothes of two nights previously, the only thing different in his appearance was his face.

His normally straight nose had been pulled up towards dark eyebrows. Above his eyebrows the skin of his forehead ran back in thick, gnarled ridges, all the way to his hairline. His elegant chin had been replaced now by an exaggerated jawline and his mouth contained rows of needle-like fangs, which included two huge frontal incisors. Pointed ears poked out from the dark surface of his hair.

Unperturbed by his real inner face, Anna stepped closer to whisper, “What are you doing here?”

“I didn’t want to miss all the fun,” he said, his malformed face adding the hint of a hiss to each word spoken.

“But the plan? What about the Northern Clans? You brought them, yes?”

“Yes — yes,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Jonus, what games do you play?”

“Be calm, my beautiful friend, your army awaits you. They are hidden within the forest just beyond these walls. I’m making just the slightest change to our plan.”

“What change?”

“I’m taking Ragnar myself.”

“What?” she asked, surprised. “You fool. We can kill him where he sleeps!”

Jonus released a soft chuckle of pity. “My young protégée, when will you learn your real potential?” His mouth stretched into an impossibly wide grin. “Come, Anna, let me show you your true destiny!”

***

“What have we here?” Olaf asked.

The red-bearded guard spotted a dark apparition running towards them. As the silhouette came closer, they heard its feet slap on the muddy pathway. The shape drew closer to take on a more definable shape. Instantly recognizing the young traveller, Olaf stepped away from the huge gate. He saw a familiar object tucked under the merchant’s arm. A frown creased his broad forehead.

“What is this?”

With the short fuse already burnt past its halfway point, Nikita reached the gate, and, with a mighty effort, he threw the wooden barrel at the huge barbarian.

“HERE, CATCH!” Nikita yelled, before diving for the nearest ditch.

***

Anna ascended the platform in a crouch. Jonus was at her side, short sword in one hand, his other clawed into a deadly looking talon. All stealth had been abandoned now. The guards covering the entrance had gathered as one. They stood as a group, a collective mass of flesh and bone, impenetrable. They did not flinch at the sight of these two intruders once Jonus’ ghastly features revealed themselves; for they, too, were inhuman. Their eyes were bright and feverish, and had a blood-red glow to them.

These were unlike any Viking Anna had encountered. Something ungodly in nature, and testament that what lay inside was equal in malevolence. One of them hissed in her direction, and the sound was frightening to hear. It rushed her then, ghoulish face contorting as it drew near, arms opening outwards, as if to deliver a loving embrace. Only, its razor-sharp nails, sought out exposed flesh, rather than a touch of kindness.

Anna back-pedalled as the thing approached. Claws raked the air where she’d been stood only moments earlier. She brought her sword upwards, in a protective stance, and the thing’s other hand bounced harmlessly off it. She spun in a tight circle, avoiding another attack, and drew her blade outwards, cutting the darkness in two.

The thing abruptly stopped. Its glowing eyes blinked, then turned to focus directly onto Anna. Its mouth opened and a ghastly shriek of condemnation emitted like the sound of a wounded animal. Then, blood began to run freely down its chest. A cascade of dark, fetid liquid that quickly pooled around the guard’s boots. The guard swaggered for a moment before toppling backwards, its head rolling down past the bloodied breastplate, then unsteady legs, before landing with a wet slap at Anna’s feet.

The fevered eyes burned brightly for a second, then petered out.    

Jonus pushed past Anna, his lust for blood clear in his eyes.

“Bastard offspring,” he said, as he descended upon the nearest guard.

Anna paused for just a moment, then she, too, closed in on the next unworldly creature.

***

Nikita landed heavily in the water-filled ditch, and then threw his hands up to protect his head.

Olaf caught the small barrel between large, cumbersome hands, clutching it protectively against his chest, hugging it tight like a loving mother would cradle her new-born infant. A huge smile spread across his dumb face.

“Look, we have ale!” he said.

Seeing the rapidly burning fuse disappear inside the barrel, the red-bearded guard had just enough time to think — Olaf, you really DO have goat shit for brains!

The barrel detonated in a huge ball of fire, which disintegrated Olaf and those stood around him. The resultant shockwave dispersed outwards with such force it dispelled the air, twisting everything in its path, including flesh and bone, before radiating out towards the mighty outer wall. Bending severely, the huge fortress wall managed to absorb most of the energy, until the shockwave rolled on and hit the outer gates. A weak spot found; the blast forced the gates to buckle outwards. Ripped off its hinges, the smaller quarter part of the gate detached completely, and, with an almighty crack, it sailed outwards into the surrounding forest. The larger section of the gate twisted awkwardly, but somehow, amazingly, it remained standing.

Nikita heard the atmosphere sizzle around him. He sucked in scorched air and his lungs and throat burnt with a need for a cleaner breath. Although initially filled with water, the ditch he lay in was now almost completely dry. He turned to a sitting position and watched as an orange fireball climbed into the lightened sky. The noise of the blast reverberated towards him. With thunderous intensity, the noise continued to increase. The ground around him trembled. He clamped his hands over his ears and threw himself back into the ditch. Curled up, he squeezed his eyelids together and waited for the beginnings of Armageddon.

***

Jonus and Anna stood with the remains of the guards scattered about them. Anna’s clothing, already dark, was now coated in layers of congealing blood. One of the guards, the only one remaining, was trying to claw its way down the entranceway. Its left arm ended abruptly where the elbow should have been. The dark liquid that gave these things life was leaking out in great pulsating gouts.

Anna moved to end its suffering.

“Leave it,” Jonus said, turning his attention to the doorway.

Anna watched as the thing toppled over the side of the walkway, disappearing into darkness.

“Let’s go then,” she said, now pushing against the door.

The solid barrier offered no resistance.

It opened effortlessly.

They entered into Ragnar’s domain, silently, like ghosts of the night.

***

Nikita waited as the noise grew to a fierce crescendo. Then he sensed something familiar within the sound: ferocity mixed with a distinct element of fear and anticipation.

He looked up in time to see his comrades swarm through the ruptured entrance. He jumped to his feet and drew his sword.

Then, as he punched it in the air, he took up the thunderous battle-cry.

***

They climbed towards the pinnacle of the tower. They reached the halfway point when the whole tower was instantly bathed in a bright orange glow. Quickly, they threw their hands up in an attempt to shield their acute night vision. Then, as the keep shuddered dangerously on its foundations, the tower lurched sideways, and they were hurled down onto the wooden steps.

The orange light intensified, momentarily, before it flickered out to a more prolonged reddish glow. Finally, the keep swung back into place, righting itself.

Jonus pulled himself up, eager to continue with his climb.

Anna retrieved her fallen sword and gave chase. As she reached her comrade, the stairway opened outward, forming an open antechamber.

Made from five huge arched panels, the ceiling of the chamber swooped upward to a point, but, instead of being joined at the top, the panels stopped short to leave a large circular vent. Wooden torches blazed angrily from fixings in the walls. And in this confined space the noise of the flames could be clearly heard as they popped and spluttered.

Suspended from the ceiling on intricate wooden carvings were exquisitely crafted implements of war. Hanging from one was a silver sword of an impossible size. Almost as large as a man, the sword could serve no other purpose than mere decoration. Held fast on two supports, another colossal weapon could be found. This one was a huge double-edged axe.

Anna looked upon it. She caught herself reflected clearly off its polished steel blades.

Fixed in the centre of the antechamber they saw a dais, and on top of that sat a metallic throne. Forged from solid silver, the throne had remarkably detailed faces moulded into it. And, as the torch flames danced across its brilliant surface, the faces looked as if they were crying out in an eternity of pain.

Poised silently on this dais, and with his head bowed, sat the giant Viking chief.

“Welcome,” said Ragnar to his two expected guests.

Chapter Nine

Jonus and Anna separated as they circled around the platform.

The Viking chief stood, stretching to his full height, towering over the two intruders by a full head. Dressed in a mixture of sculptured silver armour and black leather, he expanded his chest, swelling to an impossible size - his silver breastplate alone the size of a man’s shield. He had bright blue Scandinavian eyes, a wide handsome face and tousled blond hair.

Anna drew her bloodied sword, crouched slightly, and positioned herself ready for battle.

On the opposite side of the dais, Jonus flexed elongated talons that were more deadly than any sharpened steel.

Ragnar turned his mighty head first one way then the other, eyeing these two bold combatants. Then with his massive arm he reached upward to unhook the colossal silver sword. As if the sword weighed no more than a small dagger, he spun the awesome blade in large arcs. The iron buckles that held together his armour clinked and jangled as the giant sword spun in slow, purposeful circles; first to the left, then to the right.

Anna slipped her sword into her other hand, then waited for the next opening. The huge silver sword completed another large arc but, instead of continuing with its circular path, the blade quickly changed direction.

With an almighty roar, Ragnar sliced at Anna. She backed away from the sharpened tip and brought her own blade upward in a protective block. There was a deafening clash of metal as the two weapons struck. A blast of sparks exploded from the two blades as the sharp edges scraped together.

In a blur of motion, Jonus moved in. He struck out with deadly claws, raking them across the barbarian’s back. Leather shredded and deep indents were scraped into the silver armour. Ragnar twisted around to face this dark assailant. In defence, he hit out with the pommel of his sword. The hilt connected with Jonus’ skull. His head snapped back, and he was thrown to the ground.

Anna looked to Jonus, who had fallen limp and lifeless, and willed him to gain consciousness. He lay still. Fear bit at her heart then, as the sudden and unexpected realisation of being alone hit her.

Now with the sword held high above his head, the Viking chief descended upon his stricken foe.

Anna sprang forward, self-preservation, anger and courage shattering the bonds of fear. She drew all her strength together and lashed out at one of the barbarian’s thighs. The blade cut effortlessly through leather armour and flesh. With a sickening crunch the blade stopped deeply embedded in bone. A savage twist snapped the bone in two.

Ragnar roared; agony written across his face. With a desperate backslash, he caught her with the flat of his sword, knocking her backwards.

Hurt now, Ragnar staggered sideways. He reached out to steady himself against the sculptured throne. He looked down at his bloodied and ruined leg and let out another almighty roar.

Reaching down, he took hold of the sword and, before he had time to falter, he pulled the blade from the terrible wound. Ragnar roared again. A thick jet of crimson sprayed from torn flesh, covering the dais in a red veil.

Three or four more spurts of blood were injected into the air.

Then, amazingly, nothing.

The fountain of blood stopped almost as abruptly as it had started. Only a small amount of blood trickled from the wound before it too stopped altogether.

From across the chamber, Anna heard bones pop and crunch. She looked towards the Viking’s leg and saw that the torn flesh had begun to knit together. In seconds the wound was sealed shut. The Viking tossed the smaller steel sword back to Anna and then beckoned her over.

“You think you can kill a god? Come, show me,” he challenged.

“You’re no god,” she said, and took up her bloodied sword.

“Fools,” Ragnar spat. “The world was still an infant when I was old! You think you and your puny friend can steal my soul? Fools! I brought you here to steal YOURS!”

Confused by this giant’s ramblings, Anna took a step back to reassess her foe.

Ragnar read her confusion. He snarled to reveal a mouthful of sharp canines. “You don’t know, do you? This one hasn’t told you about his true intentions,” he said, pointing to the crumpled form of Jonus. “He brought you here to help take my soul, not to conquer an army or take back this land or rescue its people. He cares nothing of you or your comrades, only his own gain. He would have killed you for your own powers once you had defeated me.” Then, with an exaggerated mournful shake of his head, the barbarian said, “It is a shame you will die and never know of your true potential.”

He threw the immense silver sword down and reached up to take the double-edged axe. The reflected torchlight flashed brilliantly across the twin blades, momentarily blinding Anna.

Seizing his moment the giant struck out.

With only a fraction of a second to spare, Anna cleared the pathway of the axe. The huge blade passed to her left to demolish the wall where she had been stood only moments before. She backed away and looked around for a way out. Caught between the massive Viking and the stairway, she found herself trapped, alone, and totally overpowered. She looked towards Jonus, needing his strength now - whatever his intentions might be. However, his body lay motionless, crumpled on the floor.

Ragnar took two steps closer.

With her back against the wall, Anna felt a deep panic well up within her. Her anxiety increased, and her face began a metamorphosis. Her normally elegant and sensuous mouth swelled outward into a protruding muzzle. Jaws opened to reveal sharp canines and incisors. Her beautiful brown eyes retreated under a gnarled brow, and elongated ears broke through her black hair. Long talons now held onto the hilt of the sword.

“Impressive,” Ragnar said, looking at the lupine face. “You have the essence of a wolf.”

Anna dropped the cumbersome sword and flexed her claws, then stepped forward.

Impressed with this foe’s bravery, Ragnar lowered the huge axe. “Let us cast away these crude instruments of war,” he said, “and battle as nature intended.”

The axe fell with a deafening clatter. He reared backward and closed his eyes. Almost instantaneously, his face underwent a similar transformation. His mouth swelled to a wide snout and split to reveal countless jagged teeth. The hair that fell to his shoulders began to recede into his scalp, quickly becoming a tangle of blond fur. Ears melted away before reforming as small, circular nubs. When he opened his eyes, they had change from their normal blue into two small black pebbles. The huge Viking swelled, and his chest stretched the leather and silver armour to almost breaking point.

Ragnar now stood like a hellish combination of man and bear, filling most of the room. Yet his sheer size was what eventually saved Anna from a speedy death.

As Ragnar lunged in towards his smaller foe, she quickly darted away and under his claws. At the same time, she attacked from the inside by raking her own talons across the Viking’s abdomen. Her sharp claws cut through leather to split the soft flesh found underneath. Before Ragnar had time to turn, she cleaved a chunk of flesh from his exposed thigh and another chunk from one muscular shoulder.

All three wounds released streams of blood onto the wooden floor. In seconds, though, the injuries began to heal, stemming the blood flow. Now with a slight advantage, Anna stood in the centre of the room. And, as the coppery smell of his blood hit her nostrils, she shouted, “COME ON! — LET’S END THIS!”

Infuriated by this inferior rival, the barbarian launched himself at her. She stood her ground until the last second. Then she sidestepped to the right, and, with another blur of talons, she shredded away half of his face. A huge bellow of pain erupted from the giant’s tattered mouth. Chunks of flesh hung loosely around his neck, revealing wet muscle and tendons. Bare teeth protruded through pink gums. Another jet of blood spurted outward, covering the throne’s sculptured faces in hot liquid.

Ragnar reached up to pull away loose flesh. He looked down at his hand and at his own ravaged skin there. A cry of pure outrage bellowed from his tattered lips. His heart began to spasm. His own mortality revealing itself, weak and pathetic.

Covered in blood and mess, Anna circled around the gore-splattered dais. She stepped over Jonus and closed the distance between her and the stairway.

Seeing her intended escape, Ragnar stepped forward. With impossible strength he heaved the solid silver throne up off the wooden platform. Huge arms, bulging with effort, lifted the throne high above his tattered face. Then, with superhuman strength, he hurled it towards the fleeing woman.

Anna had just enough time to glimpse a wave of silver and red faces before throwing herself flat against the floor. The throne crashed against wooden beams. Timber split and a giant hole ripped itself through the floor. The throne disappeared through the black hole to crash its way downwards, smashing wood and iron as it fell towards the bottom of the keep. Momentarily caught on the rim of the hole, Anna grabbed for a handhold. Before she could save her fall, she felt a vacuum of air pull her over the edge. Blindly, she threw her hands out and seized a broken beam.

She hung for a second before the impact of the throne hitting the lower hallway shook the chamber violently. The resultant reverberation caused her to lose her grip. She slipped from the beam and dropped into darkness, tumbling blindly in a cartwheel of arms and legs.

Chapter Ten

“It’s stuck tight,” the Viking told his companion.

With both his hands gripping the wooden doorway, the soldier pulled hard against the entrance.

“It must have been locked from the outside,” another soldier said, panic rising in his throat.

The first Viking turned and tried to make out the anxious speaker. Trapped inside his own dark sleeping quarters and, with only the briefest of outlines, the soldier found it almost impossible to make out any distinguishable shapes. Nearly all of the trapped soldiers pushed against him, and he felt as if the darkness was about to crush the stale air from his tightly constricted lungs.

“Stand back!” he ordered, trying to gain some room and air.

With great difficulty, the troop shuffled backwards and away from the blocked entrance. Free to move, the first Viking planted his large hands around the wooden handles. He threw his shoulders back and tugged with all his might. At first he felt nothing. Then, just before his arms gave way, the door moved inwards slightly. Using newfound strength, he pulled until his shoulders gave.

The other soldier said, “I can see light coming through.”

The first Viking did indeed see a faint strip of lighter darkness that ran down the doorway. He pushed thick, cumbersome fingers through the crack and gripped the edge of the doorway.

“Help me,” he ordered.

Another pair of rough hands pushed their way through the tiny crack. Now using their combined effort, the two soldiers pulled at the stubborn doorway. After a brief battle they released a cry of triumph as they pulled the door towards them.

Unable to withstand the strain, the knot that tied the entrance shut finally gave. Slipping undone, as it was designed to do, the knot released one side of the rope and freed the tethered doorway. But the knot that tied the vertical piece of cord held fast, and as the door swung open it activated the fuse mechanism directly above. The fuse connected to the cord was instantly pulled along its intended path. Passing through the half-filled barrel, it sparked off the dark liquid inside.

For an instant nothing happened.

Then, as the liquid ignited, the barrel exploded in a brilliant flash. The flaming liquid burst outwards in a blinding solar flare, which covered everything it touched in a burning embrace. The ring of liquid ripped a large hole through the canopy, showering the trapped soldiers inside with acid rain. The liquid stuck to clothes, wood, metal and flesh. In seconds, skin was reduced to nothing more than unrecognisable black pulp. Finally, the boom of the explosion sounded. A thunderclap of immeasurable fury shattered the night. The explosion ruptured eardrums, and hands that had been stripped of skin clamped themselves tightly to molten nubs of flesh.

One by one, like burnt-down candlesticks, the soldiers collapsed into dark pools of sizzling fat, their deaths both awful and ghastly.

Chapter Eleven

The horde of sweat and blood-stained warriors pushed onwards through the dark, desolate farmyards. Like a wave of human flesh, they steadily pushed towards the inner fortress, tossing Vikings away with disregard. They strode through muddy fields and yards.

Heavier resistance greeted them there, but with the promise of victory before them, the Slavic warriors met any opposition with a scythe of savage ferocity.

“Father, this way!” Nikita yelled.

Rublev followed his son to the second gateway. The warrior chieftain drew alongside his son and found the gate ajar. They forced their way through and entered the inner fortress. Scattered around their feet were numerous bodies. Some appeared merely to be asleep, eyes closed and arms folded as if in quiet contemplation; others had been hacked to death, with limbs or heads missing. Nikita stepped through the carnage, searching anxiously from one body to the next.

“Nikita...”

The young warrior spotted a figure lying in the shadows.

“Rajk!”

As he drew closer, Nikita noticed that the old warrior was covered in blood and grime.

“Are you injur-” His voice caught in his throat. Nikita saw that a terrible wound parted the hairline of Rajk’s head. The skin of the lieutenant’s head had been peeled away to reveal white bone underneath. A jagged line ran across the skull, and at some points the crack opened out to reveal a hint of grey tissue. Through the crack, pink watery fluid leaked out onto the old warrior’s brow.

“Rajk,” Nikita said, with a mixture of anguish and pity.

Through glazed eyes, Rajk asked, “Nikita?”

“I’m here,” Nikita responded, and knelt down in the mud beside his friend and mentor.

“The gate,” Rajk mumbled. “Did I hold the gate?”

“Yes,” Nikita replied, pride flowing through him. “Yes, you held the gate well.”

“Good,” Rajk said. “Now you must join your father in victory!”

“We will be victorious together!” Nikita declared.

A quiet chuckle escaped Rajk’s lips. “This is one battle I will not finish,” he breathed, knowing his time was near.

“No, Rajk! We must end this together!”

With great effort, the old lieutenant raised his fist. He clasped the young warrior’s hand. “Be strong young one, your time is now. Help your father win back these lands.”

“I will,” Nikita said with firm conviction.

Briefly, Rajk’s grip tightened, and then, as his last breath slipped away, his grip faded and loosened.

Nikita lifted the limp hand to his lips. He placed a soft kiss on once strong and powerful fingers. Then, lowering the hand into his lap, he bowed his head in silence. After a moment’s calm, he felt a strong grip squeeze his shoulder. He looked up with tears in his eyes to find his father before him.

“Come on, son, we must go,” Rublev said with sadness.

Nikita reached out across the mud to drag over a blood-splattered sword. He took Rajk’s hand and wrapped the lieutenant’s fingers around the hilt. The sword lay across his chest as a testament to the old warrior’s bravery. Nikita stood. Turned to his father.

“I will not rest until we have cleansed this land of every bastard Norseman!”

Chapter Twelve

Anna found herself on the floor of the hallway, amid chunks of wooden and iron debris. She looked up to see a dark, gaping hole, leading to the antechamber. A flicker of light could be seen at the pinnacle. To her left the prodigious silver throne lay awkwardly on one side.

She raised herself onto her elbow and scanned around this larger and more open part of the keep. There were brightly burning torches fixed along all four walls, which gave the large room ample light.

At the centre of the room, stretching away like a polished glacier, was a massive wooden table. Two equally sized benches ran in parallel on either side. At the head of the table sat a second throne, although this one was carved not from silver but from simple oak wood. There were long, open archways cut into the four walls of the hall, and through these gaps Anna could see distant flames dance as they drifted up towards the night sky.

She turned her attention back to the hall, looking in the direction of the stairway, expecting the massive Viking chief to appear from the shadows with his colossal axe in hand.

She climbed to her feet. Standing too quickly, the large hall spun, making her feel dizzy and nauseated. She staggered over to the overturned throne to lean against it, then reached up and placed the palm of her hand against the smooth skin of her forehead.

Her eyelids shut for a moment as she waited for her senses to return. She opened them and found that the room had regained its equilibrium. On unsteady legs, she staggered over to the main entrance.

She reached about halfway when an almighty crash sounded from behind. A thick cloud of dust swirled about directly beneath the gaping hole. She looked towards the dust anxiously. Like a small whirlwind, the dust blew itself out, leaving behind instead a nightmare of torn flesh and raw bones.

“No...” she cried.

“Where are you going?” the ruined face asked.

The dust broke completely, and the Viking chief appeared with the huge axe in one hand and Jonus’ limp form in the other.

Although the open wound to the barbarian’s face no longer bled, it was still a mass of ghastly tissue, ripped tendons and gleaming bone. But even as Anna stood looking at this hideous visage, she witnessed a new layer of grey skin creep across his exposed bones and muscle, covering them with a thin membrane.

“What an improvement,” she said, nodding at her handiwork.

With effortless strength the Viking tossed Jonus across the hallway, where he landed with a sickening thump. His free hand rose to probe at the hole in his face.

“Bitch!” he spat. “I’m going to enjoy eating your flesh.”

“Yeah? Better be careful you don’t spill your food,” she mocked.

Enraged, Ragnar rushed at her with the double-edged axe.

She threw herself towards the floor, but it was too late. The huge blade caught her across the side, slicing flesh and bone. Pain ripped across her ribcage as the blade cracked bones with an audible snap. She fell heavily to the floor. With urgent fingers she probed at the wound to find rough, broken bone underneath her blood-soaked tunic.

Although the injury was agony, it was not immediately life-threatening. She tried to stand, but the pain doubled her over and she dropped back to the floor. In a futile bid to escape, she pulled herself along the wooden surface, leaving a dark, glistening trail behind her. Little by little, she crawled towards the entrance.

Enjoying her discomfort, Ragnar slowly followed her progress. Nonetheless, with the promise of bloodlust fulfilled, he quickly tired of her struggle and, raising the axe above his head, he readied to strike. The blade was held steady for a moment. Then, in one smooth motion, it struck downwards. With a shriek of anticipation the blade cut towards her throat.

Ragnar saw a dark blur from the corner of his eye. With sickening certainty he knew exactly what it was even before it hit him. The shape crashed against his shoulder, knocking the axe from his hands and sending it spinning away.

The impact from Jonus threw Ragnar sideways and away from Anna.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” Jonus told the barbarian.

Anna turned her head and looked up to discover the dark shape of her comrade.

“Jonus,” she said, and held out her hand.

He looked down at her outstretched hand but hesitated. Then he gripped her wrist and hauled her to her feet.

She leaned against him, slowly straightening her back and testing her damaged side. Although she could not heal as fast as Ragnar, all of her kind had the accelerated ability to repair damaged tissue almost instantly.

She probed her side and, although she could still feel her exposed ribs, the pain was no longer present.

“You fool! You still trust him?” Ragnar asked.

She remembered what the Viking had told her, and she took an anxious step back.

“Is it true?” she asked, looking upon Jonus’ repugnant face.

“Is what true?” he replied, through a mouthful of fangs.

“That you only wish to kill him,” she said, and gestured towards the Viking. “And you care nothing for me or my people.”

Then she realised how outnumbered her comrades must be. “My God! The Northern Clans. You didn’t bring them?”

“Yes ... No ... Who cares?” he answered.

“Jonus, what have you done!”

“Be quiet!” he ordered. “Your puny army waits in the forest.”

Confused, she said, “I do not understand. If you do not care, then why bring them?”

“Because they entertain me.”

“What?”

“These little ... bugs, they entertain me. I enjoy watching them kill each other,” he said, and his hideous grin stretched. “Also, if I’m to become a great leader and king, even I must start somewhere.”

“But these men, they are my flesh and blood. They need our help,” she protested.

“My beautiful Anna,” he said with fake sorrow. “We are your people, not those little weak creatures you call Men. Yes, we may look similar, but we were born to rule this land, not serve it!”

“But if we are the same, then why do you wish to kill him?” she asked, looking at Ragnar.

“Because, my dear, he has something I want.”

“What?”

He looked directly at her with blood-hungry eyes. “His heart!”

Chapter Thirteen

The twenty strong warriors swarmed between tightly packed structures, working their way to the heart of the fortress. They passed countless people as they moved through these confined spaces, but most were too preoccupied to notice as they raced to save burning buildings.

With the tightly populated design of the inner fortress, the explosion from the barracks had spread fire out in every direction, reducing the nearest buildings to ash.

Through the flicker of light, Nikita spotted the dark tower.

“This way!” he shouted over the roar of flames.

As they entered an open courtyard, the warriors gathered together, breathing heavily, the dark tower looming over them like a mountainous ghost.

“The keep — it should have been destroyed by now,” Rublev stated.

Unable to hide his disgust, Volok grunted, “Your friends — I knew they could not be trusted.”

“Something must be wrong. Anna must have failed,” Nikita said dismally.

“Failed or fled?” Volok asked.

“Hold your tongue!” Rublev snapped.

Volok ignored his commander’s venom. “Then why is the keep still standing? She should have destroyed it by now.”

“I don’t know. You’re right, Nikita. Something has gone wrong,” Rublev said.

“She’s in trouble!” Nikita announced.

“What?” Rublev and Volok responded in unison.

“It’s the only explanation,” Nikita said. “Maybe she’s hurt?”

“There is no man alive that could harm her,” Rublev said, surprising his son and friend.

“What?” This time it was Nikita and Volok who spoke together.

“She is like an angel,” the warrior chieftain elaborated.

“Father, you’re not making sense,” Nikita told him.

“There’s no time to explain. Just trust me. Something is wrong here.”

“What though?” Nikita asked, an instant before he realised the answer.

“Jonus!” all three said together.

Then, from behind, a Slavonic voice shouted, “Look!”

From the rear of the huge fortress they spotted countless soldiers heading towards them.

“My God, how many?” a warrior asked, terror clear in his words.

“Forty — Fifty — Sixty!” another voice shouted.

“Where are the Northern Clans?’ someone called.

“Hold steady!” the warrior chieftain commanded.

Moving to the front of the troop, Nikita, Rublev and Volok distanced themselves from the main group. The ground underneath their feet had softened, rain, a slight drizzle at first, had now begun to fall in heavy sheets, turning compact soil into slick mud. The rain distorted everything around them. And the gathering mass of Vikings looked like a single, solid mass. Yet, even this downpour, with its ability to mask everything in a blur, could not hide the fact that a sea of burning eyes – blood-red and filled with unnatural desire – was making its way forward, pushing through the darkness like an unstoppable current. 

“They outnumber us three to one,” Volok pointed out.

“What the hell are they?” Nikita asked.

Rublev gripped his son’s arm. “Men. But not with human hearts. Changed. Cursed. Be careful. Do not let them break skin with teeth or nails.”

Nikita glanced away from the advancing horde momentarily. “Father, what do you mean?”

“They are things between this world and the next. Abominations. Men that have sold their souls. Not for silver or coin, but for a greater need. They seek flesh.”

Volok bent to retrieve the broken wheel of a cart. Mainly intact, the wheel had two or three broken spokes. The rest of the cart was nowhere to be seen, but a deep groove, cut into the earth, snaked out of distance, indicating that the cart had possibly been dragged further into the fortress, horses wild-eyed and nostrils flaring as the beasts ran blindly away from the searing heat all about them. The huge warrior threaded his arm through the remaining spokes, making a makeshift shield out of the wheel. 

“Stay behind me,” he said, taking up a protective position in front of Nikita.

The younger warrior clenched his sword tightly. He took strength from the older warrior’s confidence.

“Remember, do not let them get too close,” Rublev advised.

The warrior chief raised his sword, signalling to the rest of his men. “Fight shoulder to shoulder,” he ordered. Then with a simple nod towards his son and the huge Volok, he yelled, “For our motherland!”

The warriors cried out as one - a defiant call against both the darkness and the darker things that advanced upon them. Then, with a roar, they engaged the horde.

Volok barrelled into the closest group of enemies, ducking beneath the swinging blade of one, and sidestepping the pointed thrust of another. He punched out with his makeshift shield to knock back one of the things, then followed that up as he plunged his sword into its chest. Blood - dark and gluttonous - burst from the wound. The thing’s eyes burnt towards the towering warrior. Volok took a quick, fleeting step back, bringing his sword over in a compact arc, and within the next second, that hateful look of loathing was split in two, as the blade severed the monstrosity’s head apart.

The clash, cries, roars and sounds of heated battle filled the night with a cacophony of pain and suffering.   

***

“His heart?” Anna asked. “I do not understand.”

“He must take my heart, if he wants what is rightfully mine,” Ragnar said.

“You’re insane,” she told them both.

“My young friend,” Jonus retorted, “it is a shame you will learn the truth too late.”

“What truth?” she asked.

“The truth of the spirit!” Ragnar replied.

“I do not understand.”

Jonus shook his ghastly face in sympathy. “My dear, you spend too much time with these frail humans of yours. When will you learn to think differently? We are a unique breed —strong, intelligent and gifted. Ah, but what gifts?” As he continued, he made his way towards the side of the hall. “When a human kill one of its own, what happens? Nothing! That is what happens — nothing! They just rot away and don’t even make good food! But when we kill one of our own, well, that’s a different matter.”

Tired of his ramblings, Anna said, “Get to your point.”

“The point is, my dear, kill in the right way and you will be rewarded with an unbelievable gift— the gift of a soul!”

“How?” she asked in disbelief.

“By stealing the very essence of the soul: the heart!” Ragnar finished.

She stood silent for a second, thoughtful. She forced her mind to look back over a hundred years, and then even further — two, three, four hundred years — and what she visualised was a dirty little girl scavenging in the shadows of ancient forests. The girl carried a crude knife in her tiny hands and, as she moved through this timeless woodland, she appeared to be hunting. Another picture flashed to mind.

This one showed the dirty little girl kneeling over a large furry carcass, hands thrust deep into the creature’s open chest. The little girl’s face strained for a second before her gore-covered hands reappeared holding a round organ. The girl’s mouth opened wide to reveal tiny, sharp teeth. She raised the warm, blood-filled heart to her lips and then, with a savage frenzy, she devoured it.

The picture moved on a little, and she could be found curled up alongside the dead creature. A tiny snowflake drifted lazily down through the canopy of trees. Eventually, the icy flake landed on one of her closed eyelids. She stirred and her eyelids opened to reveal bottomless brown orbs. Lifting her head, she sniffed the cool air around her and sensed a change in the weather. She took her crude knife and bent over the dead animal, then hastily began to cut away at the wolf’s thick pelt.

“Yes — yes,” Jonus said, after he’d invaded her thoughts.

She remembered Ragnar’s earlier comment- the essence of the wolf.

“Ah — at last, you are beginning to understand your true worth,” Jonus said.

She looked at Jonus, then at Ragnar, and grasped that this whole encounter had been for nothing but their own gain. Just like Ragnar had claimed, Jonus cared nothing for her companions or their cause, and had engineered this desperate battle to suit his own needs.

But what of Ragnar?

Why, if he was powerful enough to walk amongst men in daylight, would he need to slay either herself or Jonus? True, Jonus did possess unique powers, for although Anna had herself the power to read people’s emotions, he could read the very thoughts of those around him — a powerful weapon if one should wish to rule.

But what of herself?

What powers did she hold?

Her humility?

Or her ability to care for others, even those not of her own kind? Or the one thing neither of them possessed now - the spirit of the wolf!

Stepping back, away from these two powerful opponents, she suddenly understood exactly what strengths she held. Her potential! That was her strength. Not what she was now but what she could become! Yes, Ragnar was indeed very powerful, but even he needed to sleep. And would he have slept easy, knowing that at any time one of his own could slip through the shadows, undetected, and take his soul?

She was hit by a mixture of emotions. Elation first. Unbounded possibilities had unfolded before her. She had the potential to become a great warrior and could lead armies across this entire land to take whatever she wanted. Also, with both Jonus’ and Ragnar’s powers, she would have been almost invincible! But then her euphoria quickly faded to sadness as she realised that, because of her gift, she would never again share the comforts of her own kind.

For now she understood.

“Yes,” Jonus said with genuine sadness. “What is our gift is also our curse. For we must live alone, fearful of our very own.”

Ragnar raised the mighty axe before him. He stepped forward and said, “And that, my young, beautiful friend, is why only one of us can survive this very night.”

Jonus reached out and pulled one of the burning torches out of its holding.

On the opposite side of the hallway, Anna also took down one of the hefty wooden torches. Now standing like three points of a triangle, the three combatants tensed.

Chapter Fourteen

The first to move was Ragnar. With a mighty bellow he charged towards Jonus. The axe swung in a large arc, aimed at Jonus’ abdomen. It cut through the air with a blur and hit the spot where Jonus had stood. But Jonus was no longer there. He had slipped sideways and somersaulted over the blade. He spun around gracefully, then lunged in with the torch.

Ragnar saw the fire come towards him, slipped to his side, gracefully, and the flames passed safely over his shoulder. Before Jonus could react, the Viking counter-attacked with a huge swipe of his axe. The flat of the blade hit Jonus squarely and, with a loud crunch, the force knocked him backwards.

Instantly, Anna continued the attack. Ragnar thrust out a claw as he tried to crush her throat. She ducked under his hand, then sprang back up to bring the wooden torch upwards. The thicker end of the torch connected with Ragnar’s jaw, knocking out sharp teeth and stunning him momentarily. She seized the opportunity, snapping her jaws over the giant’s wrist.

Hot blood burst inside her mouth.

She shook her head in quick, savage twists. Bones snapped. She threw her head back and ripped away the Viking’s hand.

The limb fell to the floor, where it twitched spasmodically.

Ragnar let the axe drop to the floor. His remaining hand gripped the bloodied stump. A thick spurt of blood fell from the terrible wound, followed by a second and then a third, and a fourth!

“Impossible!” he cried, wide-eyed and fearful.

With no tissue or bone to fuse together, the skin around his tattered wrist was unable to heal or repair itself. With startling clarity, he knew then of his own mortality. He released a deafening howl. His black eyes fixed on Anna. Fear became hatred in a heartbeat. With a second howl of rage he threw his huge arms around her, gripping her in a bear-hug, squeezing with all his might. His muscular arms bulged with the effort.

Trapped in his grasp, unable to breathe, Anna felt a terrible darkness consume her. His grip tightened, and she heard bones pop. Her strength abandoned her as the torch slipped from limp fingers. Struggling to draw breath, she blindly snapped at his face with her bloodied jaws.

Chunks from Ragnar’s face were ripped away as she struggled to fight back. But madness had replaced all reason and, ignoring the agony of his torn flesh, he tightened his embrace. She began to choke on his flesh, and dark tendrils worked their way up behind her eyes, before creeping further forwards. Her vision petered out, a vast black shroud falling over her eyes, and now only darkness prevailed.

Then, with a jolt, she felt a hard impact and was unexpectedly freed from the deathly embrace. She spat out a mouthful of gore, heaved her chest out, and filled her lungs to capacity. Her vision returned to her. She saw a mass of tangled arms and legs spin violently across the hallway.

With his arms wrapped around Ragnar’s breastplate, Jonus hung from the barbarian’s back like some huge, dangling parasite. In a desperate attempt to shake him off, Ragnar spun violently from left to right.

They crashed against the wooden table to land in a heap.

The giant rammed his head back, trying to smash his assailant’s face and loosen the burden. Jonus twisted his head from side to side to avoid the heavy blows. The Viking climbed to his feet with Jonus still fixed to his back. Exhausted now, he hobbled towards Anna. He reached out towards her before collapsing to his knees.

As his foe weakened, Jonus opened his jaws and, with quick, precise bites, he plunged his two elongated frontal incisors into the Viking’s neck. Chunks of skin and muscle were ripped away to expose a thick red artery. He took one final plunge, his blood-red eyes rolling into the back of his skull.

Anna watched as his mouth disappeared into the giant’s neck.

Ragnar felt his blood being sucked from his body. He quivered and his strength drained away. His ruined face transformed back to its human state. Blond hair exploded from his scalp and raced down both sides of his head. His devastated lower face shrank back, its muzzle-like shape lost. Two black pebbles blinked and were instantly replaced by beautiful, clear blue eyes. Knowing the last of his life’s fluid was about to be drained away, the barbarian held out his hand. He locked eyes with Anna.

“Help me,” he pleaded.

She looked at his desperate face and discovered a deep and unexpected agony. She lifted her eyes to look upon the hideous, blood-splattered face of Jonus. Lost in his rapturous feeding, he had become unaware of his surroundings. A flood of pity and revulsion hit her. She stood and moved over to the fallen axe. Lifting it up, she wrapped both her hands around it. She took one last look at the giant’s face, and then raised the huge weapon above her head.

He nodded to her in silent gratitude.

Then, for the last time ever, he closed his eyes.

She held the axe steady for a moment. With lightning speed and strength, she plunged the blade into the barbarian’s chest. His silver breastplate split apart with a loud pop, the blade slicing through his chest and innards. The force of the blow snapped his spine in two and the blade exited through his back in an explosion of blood and bone fragments. The blade finished buried deeply within Jonus’ shoulder.

Jonus’ eyelids snapped open with surprise. He tried to jump back, away from the pain, but found himself pinned to the dead giant.

“What...? What have you done?” he asked, shocked.

“What I should have done when we first met,” she said.

He tried to prise himself away from the dead giant but found his right arm useless. With the blade embedded in his right shoulder, the nerves to that arm were severed.

She placed a muddy boot onto one side of the split breastplate. Gripping hold of the axe’s wooden handle she yanked it clear.

Freed, Jonus and the barbarian toppled sideways.

She threw the axe down before stepping over the dead Viking.

“No! Wait. What are you doing?” Jonus pleaded.

She grinned humourlessly as she bent down to insert her sharp fingers into Ragnar’s chest. With a sickening crack, she opened up his ribcage to expose wet steaming organs.

“NO!” Jonus cried.

He tried to stand but slipped in a pool of red gore.

She reached inside the barbarian’s chest and wrapped her hand around his heart. Then, with an effortless tug, the organ was ripped from its cavity.

“WAIT!” Jonus cried. “You fool — the key!”

She ignored his insane ramblings, and instead she held the heart to her mouth.

“If you beg for forgiveness, I may let you live,” she said.

Now, in two quick bites, she devoured the organ. Her jaws tore through tender muscle. Hot liquid exploded inside her mouth. She chewed only long enough to allow her to swallow. The heart was quickly consumed.

Chapter Fifteen

She stood and waited. At first she experienced nothing but the slight thrill of victory. Next, from the pit of her stomach, she felt a warm sensation grow. Within seconds, it had become a burning agony. The internal fire spread throughout her body as it raced along every vein and fibre.

She looked at Jonus, managed to say, “You tricked me,” and then dropped to her knees.

The agony intensified as it threatened to consume her beating heart. She clutched at her chest and breathed short, shallow breaths. Foul sweat poured profusely from every pore, which covered her in a filthy sheen. The bones in her face shifted rapidly to construct a confused mask.

Half of her face stayed dark-haired and lupine, while the other side bulged out in a mashed combination of Ragnar’s facial features and some nightmarish blond grizzly bear. One eye remained a bottomless brown colour but the other shifted from brown to black to brilliant bright blue.

She squeezed her distorted eyes shut and moaned with agony as her skin began to swell and bloat. She fell forward. Rivers of pus exploded from burst blisters. Rolling onto her back with her legs rigid, she arched up off the floor. Her heart expanded, nearly rupturing, before it contracted to almost half its size. Blood rushed into her ears, deafening her. The only sound she heard was the thump, thump of her heart.

***

Jonus rolled his shoulder and felt tight sinews stretch. He flexed his right hand repeatedly until he felt its strength of movement return. Fingers probed at the wound, and they found a tender, shallow gash. He enjoyed the wound’s raw pain for a moment.

Then, bending, he picked up Anna’s lifeless body and carried her to the centre of the hall. With almost affectionate care he laid her down across the wooden table. He moved around to the head of the table to take hold of her shoulders.

Her hair fell in a cascade of dark tresses as he pulled her over the edge.

The bloody axe was retrieved from the dead barbarian. Jonus positioned himself next to her and then waited.

She looked lifeless, her chest flat and deflated. Then, suddenly, her eyelids sprang open, and she drew a huge lungful of air. She sucked in more air, her lungs filling to capacity. Colour exploded across her cheeks and face, returning her to a healthy glow. She shook her head and tried to focus on her surroundings.

Jonus’ hideous face loomed above her. He reached out with a talon to pin her down by her chest. She tried to push his hand away but found she had no strength. He held her down easily, for she was as weak as a new-born infant. He smiled to himself as he realised that she had, in a way, been reborn.

“You think I’d let you get away with my prize?” he asked.

“Too late, it’s mine!” she mumbled through numb lips.

“It’s never too late. I’ll just have to take both your souls, together,” he said, meaning Anna’s new hybrid soul.

His eyes closed and his excitement grew at the thought of pain and power to come. Then the mighty axe rose above her head.

“This is going to hurt!” he announced.

“Not as much as this!”

Jonus felt pain race from his back through to his chest. Cold steel passed through flesh, muscle, intestines, vital organs and finally the bones of his ribcage. With a wet coating of blood, the steel blade protruded from his chest. He dropped his head and saw the tip of a sword jutting out of his chest.

A face appeared at the side of his head. In a thick Slavonic accent, he heard, “That’s from Rajk!”

“Nikita?” Anna asked, hearing a newcomer at once.

Jonus turned to the young warrior and spat a baleful hiss in his direction.

Stunned by Jonus’ evil and ghastly face, Nikita took a startled step back.

Jonus switched his attention back to Anna. Summoning the last of his strength he struck down with the axe.

She watched as the axe swooped down towards her. Rather than trying to bend forwards, against Jonus’ hand, she instead folded her stomach and flipped her legs up and over her head. In one fluid motion, she rolled backwards off the table to land in a crouched position. The axe struck the table directly where her neck had been a second earlier. In a shower of wooden splinters the blade chopped through the table, embedding itself in the wooden surface.

Anna felt a powerful wave of energy flow through her body. She kicked out at Jonus and sent him flying across the hallway.

“Quickly, go and light the fuses!” she ordered.

“What?” Nikita asked.

“The Northern Clans, they’re here! You need to open the way! Help save your people.”

“Come on then, let’s go!” Nikita said and snatched up a fallen torch. With three long strides he reached the open doorway. “Come on!” he urged, pausing at the entrance.

“I can’t,” she told him.

“Why?”

“I have to end this, right here — right now,” she said.

“Anna, look at him. He’s finished.”

“I have to be sure,” she insisted. “Now go!”

He paused for a second, his eyes fixed to hers. She stood with her chin high and proud. Grim determination fixed itself upon her beautiful face. And with her dark hair falling in waves about her slender shoulders, she resembled a beautiful if somewhat battle-weary seraph.

Yes, father, she is indeed an angel, Nikita thought.

He took one last look at her, then placed his fist over his heart and offered her a respectful salute. She returned the gesture.

“Your father has been blessed with a brave and mighty son. Now go and win this battle!”

He stood for a moment, torn between his duty and a deeper, more desperate yearning. Then, as the clash of nearby weapons rang out, he turned and disappeared through the doorway.

Anna turned her attention back to the crumpled figure at her feet. As she bent over to him, Jonus crawled away in a feeble attempt to escape. The heels of his boots slipped in his own blood, and he collapsed in a pathetic heap.

“Come, O Mighty Leader,” she said, and grabbed a handful of his braided hair.

She dragged him to his feet, and then pulled him roughly along towards the head of the wooden table and throne.

Jonus followed her, kicking and screaming.

They reached the end of the table. She spun him around, so that they finished face to face. She reached behind him and, with great care, pulled the sword from his upper body. His eyelids fluttered as he almost lost consciousness. She slapped him across his gruesome face until he regained awareness.

“It is only fitting a king should have his throne,” she declared, and pushed him back.

He stumbled on weak legs before collapsing against the wooden throne.

“I hope you enjoy your kingdom,” she said.

Then, in a blur, she rammed the sword through his leg and straight into the wooden seat.

He screamed in agony and tried to stand, but his pinned leg held him fast.

She took one last look at him. “Your heart is too dark for one such as myself. I hope your soul burns for all eternity!”

She spun around and strode over to the closest archway. Yet after taking two strides only she felt the floor underneath her swell. With a mighty crack, the floor exploded around her.

***

Nikita sprinted towards his fellow comrades, and, in his native tongue, he yelled —”GET DOWN!” The few remaining Slavic warriors spotted Nikita as he ran towards them. They heeded his warning and dropped to the mud.

The Viking soldiers looked down at their feet, thinking that their enemy had surrendered. They raised their swords in triumph.

Nikita took another step and then threw himself forward. A second later, he heard three muffled explosions.

Night turned into daylight as the three barrels underneath the keep ignited. A huge ball of fire shot out from under the platform in a perfect circular wave. Most of the lower hallway was instantly reduced to tiny wooden fragments and burning splinters. And, as this lethal wooden debris ripped across the open courtyard, it shredded Viking skin off bone.

The resultant shockwave uprooted the inner wall. It was sent flying into the nearby forest in a deadly hail.

Nikita rolled onto his back and held his breath. The dark keep dropped down into the fire. It stood balanced in the wall of flames for a long second, maintaining its shape, before toppling towards the forest. The upper keep fell away, releasing a deafening shriek.

Nikita spotted a flicker of lights from its pinnacle. Just before the structure crashed into the outer wall, a small shadow glided away to be swallowed by the canopy of trees. The tower collided against the wooden barrier. With an ear-splitting clap, both tower and wall collapsed.

Instantly, another roar erupted.

Waves of fur-clad warriors tore through the rift. The warriors raced into the fortress, cutting down any and all resistance. In one solid mass, the Slavic warriors pushed forwards and away from the breached wall. The clash of metal rang out as men from different lands battled against each other in a bid for supremacy. A short but one-sided battle ensued, and before long the Northern Clan and their Southern brethren stood victorious!

***

“Nikita! Nikita!” a voice called.

Nikita turned to the voice. He saw a burly shape appear through the smoke and gloom.

“Father!” he gasped, and raced up to the warrior chief. Nikita dropped his bloodied sword and threw his arms around his father.

“Nikita, my son. We are victorious!” Rublev announced.

As they stood in celebration, a glimmer of light grew from the east. They turned towards the horizon and watched as day broke.

“What of Anna?” Rublev asked his son.

“I don’t know,” Nikita sighed forlornly. Then he remembered the fleeting shadow. “Maybe... Maybe...” he said.

Rublev wrapped his thick arm around his son’s shoulders.

“She has the gift of life, son. I’m sure she is safe — somewhere.”

The young warrior looked out at the dark forest.

“I hope so...” he whispered.