Year of Darkness - Part 5 - 1534 by Vivien Teasdale

(Historical note: 1534 was the beginning of the Dissolution of the Monasteries. In 1536, the first closures started, including Haltemprice Priory, near Hull. The Pilgrimage of Grace began in this year too.)

I’d hoped to end my days with an endless round of peace and reason. Now all I know, all I want, is to fulfil my need for revenge. They should never have come here.

 

I’m not saying my early life was without trouble. It wasn’t – though we got along, my mother and I. But she had her problems and so we moved around from place to place, never settling for long, never making those close friends you can rely on when times get hard. Sometimes she would disappear for a day, a night, sometimes two. But she always came back. Tired, listless, not wanting to eat for hours, but at least she was there for me. Kept me safe.

 

That was until I followed her, one dark evening. That was when I found out what she was really like, how her temper raged, how she changed and knew that I was tainted with the same blood. I ran that night. Ran as if all the hounds of hell were after me. Ran as if the Lord had given me wings.

 

That was how I ended up here. I ran across fields, across streams until, finally, I ran into the yard of Haltemprice Priory and found sanctuary. I’ve never left this place since.

 

Then the rumours started. Our Sovereign Lord, Henry, wanted to clean out the cesspool that was the old religion. He wanted to shut down the monasteries. He wanted money.

 

They came in May, when we were all busy in the fields, tending the crops and the cows. Not that the crops were growing in the half-light that had become our day. I remember my mother saying this had happened before, that daylight had disappeared and only a dim glow could be seen where the sun should have been.

 

“You were conceived then, when Hell was upon the Earth,” she’d said. Now it was here again. Nature was destroying the land, and the King was destroying God. Hell was awake again.

 

Cromwell’s agents stalked the land. They produced their inventory, despising what they found. Buildings in disrepair, land barely producing enough to feed the few canons left, never mind the poor we were supposed to succour. No wonder Haltemprice Priory paid no taxes. We could not even pay our bills with the local blacksmith.

 

For over two hundred years, we had laboured here. We had given help where we could. It had been my refuge and now we were banished.

 

‘Ha! I thought it was you, skulking in the hedgerows.’ Robert Newton, squire of our manor, glared down at me from the magnificent horse he bestrode. ‘Meric the monk that was, Meric the mendicant that is.  Well, get on your way, there’s no place for the likes of you round here. Go, starve in someone-else’s parish. Let them pay for you.’ Without warning, he lashed out with his crop, catching me full across my cheek. It felt like a brand, fiery and agonising to touch. The weal spread across my face, pulling the skin taut like a death mask.

 

Despite all my efforts, despite my years in the Priory, I felt my blood rise to the challenge. Helpless to prevent it, I let out a howl of pain and anger. ‘I’ve given everything to Haltemprice, the Priory and the village. You cannot cast me out now, you have no right to ...’

‘I have every right. I am the law here.’ Once more he raised the crop, but this time I reached up, grabbing the shaft and yanking so hard he almost fell off his horse.

‘Then I curse you, Newton,’ I snarled, so close I could see the veins in his eyes, startled and staring back deep into my own. ‘I curse you. You will never forget me.’

I let go suddenly, laughing a deep, throaty, growling laugh as he floundered to regain his balance. I lashed the horse with the man’s own crop and my laugh followed him, louder and louder, as he clung desperately to the mane while the animal bolted for home.

 

I spent the rest of the day in an old barn, so decrepit I might as well have been outside. But it was near his house. I crept out just after sunset, watching the men set off for home and the house gradually become just a darker patch against the dark sky. Newton had set off that afternoon to some big meeting in York. Trying to get the monasteries opened again, so I’d heard. But it would do no good. Henry and Cromwell had the gold lust in their eyes and nothing less than total destruction would be enough for them now.

 

I had a different lust. One I’d suppressed for nearly two hundred years, but Newton had succeeded in releasing it. He should have the first fruits of his success.

 

I sneaked into the dairy. Full of cheeses, eggs and milk. That was not what I was looking for, though I ate some in passing, just because I was so hungry. My appetite was sated once I found the dairy maid and perhaps that would have been enough if Agnes Newton had not woken and come down for a drink. I cut off her first screams, but the smell of her fear and her weakening struggles woke something else in me. Something I had never known before.

 

Without conscious thought, I ripped her nightdress from her and took her there, on the floor amidst the chaos and blood I’d already caused, stifling her screams until finally I was sated.

‘Tell your husband, I said “thank you”,’ I snarled, and left her crying on the cold flagstones.

 

And now they’ve caught up with me, as I knew they would, eventually. I can outrun any man, but not arrows from a hunter’s crossbow. I’ve come full circle, back to the remains of the Priory I’d once called home. I’ve lost blood all the way here. Now I’m so weak I can hardly lift my head. Water! I need water.

 

‘Meric!’ Newton’s voice boomed across the courtyard. ‘Come out and be hanged, like a man, or I’ll light the fire, burn you till there’s nothing left of you but ashes.’

 

At that I raised my head. ‘I cursed you once before, Newton. Now I curse you again. You and your family for ever. You will never forget me. No generation will be free of me.’

 

The flames are bright now, sending red and yellow sparks flying through the air. It will not be long before they reach me and I will be no more. But still I rejoice. Newton’s line will never be the same again.

Year of Darkness - Part 4 - 1286 by Vivien Teasdale

 

The battered box was flung high up on the shingle, tipping over.  A shrill wail mixed feebly with the raging of the wind, but somehow Wymon heard it. He turned, searching for the source until another jagged flash of lightning showed the outline of the container. As the waves began to drag it back into the sea, Wymon stumbled forward, tripping over the debris littering the beach, but succeeded in grabbing the chest and heaving it up onto his shoulder.

 

In the slight shelter given by the harbour wall, he opened the lid. Staring down into the dark eyes of a newborn baby, he knew that his wife’s prayers had been answered.

 

****

 

‘You mustn’t go out, Erica. They say tonight will be the worst we have ever known.’

‘But I love the storms, Mother. The sounds, the sea in its rage; so powerful. Something in me stirs when I hear it, when the rain lashes down on my skin and the sky is lit with fire.’

‘Aye, your father always says you’re like the storm that brought you to us. But tonight is dangerous, girl. Go to your cot and rest. Tomorrow you will need all your strength.’

They exchanged glances, each thinking of the strange birthmark on Erica’s thigh; of how its puncture-like shape thickened and throbbed at certain times. It had become more and more painful as the girl grew to maturity.

 

Erica went to bed as she was told, but only until she knew her mother was asleep. Then she rose, donning her thickest tunic and boots. By the door, she added her cape, fastening it with the intricately formed brooch, found in the box when Wymon had rescued her. For a moment she turned back, staring round the little kitchen. Something was pulling her to stay, but something stronger was pulling her outside into the fury of the storm. She spun back to the door, slipping out and latching the door firmly behind her. Deep down she knew she would never see her mother again.

 

Just ten minutes later, she stood by the rough stone wall that enclosed the Priory, home to those dark-robed friars who constantly admonished her to cast down her eyes and keep her devil’s temptations from decent folk. Watching the way, the sea crashed against the shallow cliffs, against the cottages at the edge of the village, she felt a shudder of fear and excitement. The sky was black with Thor’s anger, as it had been for months past, day and night. Hel had risen up to rule over Earth now. Her mind wandered as she stared up at the dim glow of the full moon, until she felt she could see each stone of the harbour wall toppling, each piece of timber splintering as the buildings tumbled and slid into the sea. The Priory seemed to move, retreating from the horror. It was almost as if the whole of Dunwich was crumbling around her and beneath her feet the ground shook in terror.

 

‘So there you are.’ Tor’s voice cut into her reverie, jerking her back to the present. ‘I’ve been watching the tempest coming, too. What you saw will come to pass. We can make good use of it. Many will die.’

 

Erica felt her birthmark swelling, stinging against her clothes. Her head began to pound. Though she felt sick, she felt hungry too.

 

Tor laughed. ‘It is beginning. Come, it is time to run.’

 

They ran, hand in hand, through the streets, along the cliff, relishing the whipping of the wind and rain. They ran until they found a young man running too, running for safety. They ran him to his death instead.

 

‘Tor? Tor, where are you?’ Erica woke, shivering in the cold of the thin, morning light. Clothes were scattered around her.  Some torn, some blood spattered. Only her cloak remained intact, draped over a nearby rock, the bronze brooch still clinging to the thick felt. She dressed as best she could, pulling the cloak closely around her.

‘Tor?’ she called again, but there was no answer.

 

Dimly, she remembered the events of the previous night. Part of her was sickened, part exhilarated. Looking down from the dunes, she could just make out the remains of the cottages that had formed the eastern part of the town. She knew, without looking further, that the storm had destroyed her home. She understood also that she must move on, away from those who knew her. Before they realised what she was and what had fathered the child that she could feel was beginning to grow inside her.

Year of Darkness - Part 3 - 1036 by Jo Cameron-Symes

 

We set sail on the eve of another year of darkness. The signs were not auspicious but we had no choice. Our crops had failed and we believed that now would be a good time to journey to a more providential land, though a land, that we had heard was in flux.

“Have we enough provisions to sustain the journey, brother?” Bjorn said.

“I hope so, brother. Fear not, the Lord will carry us safely through our voyage,” Erik replied.

Helga walked to the back of the boat and looked out across the shadowy horizon. The sea was eerily calm. It was as if they were gliding over a huge lake. The only light was from their flickering fire torches, that guided their path through the sea. Helga shivered as she thought of the tales that the skalds told, of the giant sea creatures that lurked out of the gloom and swallowed longships whole, like the serpent, Jörmungandr. If the tales were true, she was sure that they’d appear on a night like tonight, for it felt like something was about to happen. The gods had told her so, though she could not tell the others, as they were all Christian and would not believe her. 

“Something troubling you, Wife?” Bjorn said.

“Nothing. I just fear the dark, that is all, Husband,” Helga said.

“We are Viking, we are strong, and so shall be, our child,” Bjorn said, as he put a hand on Helga’s stomach.

“What is that?” cried Erik as he pointed to the horizon. A distant shape had appeared and was heading for them.

“Who goes there?” he shouted.

As it drew closer, the shadowy form of a large wooden vessel could be seen. It was unlit, and no crew could be seen. It was moving fast, as if propelled by some unseen force and heading straight for them.

“Steer clear! As Warlord and leader of this longship, I command you!,” Erik

shouted, yet, the longship kept advancing.

Helga looked up at the moon. It was not yet full, perhaps tomorrow it would be, then they would have to get the shackles out and restrain Erik and Bjorn would take over. It made her nervous, being in a confined space with Erik, when he was cursed with such an affliction. He had tried to rid himself of the curse as best he could, they had learned that the best way to cope with it was to take him deep into the forest, where he could hunt at will. He was forbidden to return until the moon was newborn again. There was no forest here though, nor an endless supply of deer, only a salted venison carcass, which they hoped would be enough.

“Turn the longship!” Erik commanded. Bjorn shouted at the crew and they steered the boat around and out of the way just in time. 

“I’m coming aboard!” Erik shouted as he leapt onto the boat and secured it to their longship with a rope. Helga and Bjorn looked at each other nervously. Was this a trick of some kind? Were they about to be raided by a crew hiding under blankets? The silence was intolerable, everyone held their breath as Erik explored the vessel.

“I am Erik, Warlord and leader of this longship. We are Viking. Are you brethren?” he said.

His calls were met by silence. 

“There’s no one here,” Erik said, as he looked around.

“There are plenty of provisions here. Four of my men, come aboard and load up

our longship will you? They’ll just go to waste otherwise,” Erik said.

“Is that wise?” Helga said.

“Of course it is. There’s no harm in taking it, if they’ve abandoned their vessel!” Erik said.

“But what if they are poisoned?” Helga said. “It could be a trap?”

The crew stopped and looked at Helga.

“Nonsense! You’ve always been suspicious, I’m the leader and you all need to follow my orders.” Erik said.

Till tomorrow, thought Helga.

“Hand me my axe will you, brother, there’s a chest on board that is locked. You never know, there might be riches inside!” Erik laughed.

“Stand back!” he commanded as he brought the axe smashing down on the locked chest.

Everyone gasped and stood in shock for there was a man inside clothed in rags. He was alive but shivering all over. 

“Bring him aboard, he needs attention! Helga, see to this man, please!” Erik shouted.

Helga leans over the man and stares into his face. His eyes are pools of blackness in the dark.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“William,” he replied in a strange accent. 

“Do you understand me?” she asked.

“Ja,” he replied.

“What happened to you?” she said.

“Plague,” he replied. Helga examined his wounds, though could see no signs of plague.

“Are you sick?” she asked.

“No. The men attacked me, they were mad with fever and they locked me up in that chest.”

Helga called over Ivar and asked him to hold the torch nearby so she could examine the wound closely. It was a deep wound, though there was no pus, it looked clean and fresh. There appeared to be claw marks at its edges. The man groaned and held his side. She moved the rags across to find another deep wound, Helga breathed in shakily.

“How did you get these wounds? They look like an animal has attacked you. That injury on your side looks like a wolfbite,” Helga said.

“There was a dog on board the longship, it attacked me as it too, was mad with fever,” William said.

“What happened to the crew, the dog?” Helga asked.

“They threw themselves overboard. As I told you, they were mad!”

Helga motioned for Ivar to pass her the torch and she examined the man’s torso.

William had a full head of dark hair, but the torchlight revealed a fine coating of silvery grey hair, that covered his torso.

“How old are you?” Helga asked.

“Twenty one,” he replied.

Helga raised an eyebrow. “We can put poultices on your wounds. Rest, water and good vittles should help you to recover. Ivar, my assistant shall look after you, I need to

speak with Erik,” she nodded at Ivar who took over the treatment.

Helga ushered Erik and Bjorn to the far end of the boat.

“Do we have more than one pair of shackles?” she asked.

“No,” Erik replied.

“Were there any on the other boat? Do we have another restraint?” 

“There was only the chest, which is smashed up now,” said Erik.

“Then we have a problem,” Helga sighed, and she looked over towards William lying prone on the table, the man who tomorrow, would turn into a wolf and devour.

Year of Darkness - Part 2 - 786 by Nick Stead

 

With a roar, Erik raised his shield to block the cut to his head and retaliated with a blow to his opponent’s side. His sword clattered against the other man’s shield and his opponent laughed.

Erik sounded his battle cry again and lunged forward, swinging his own sword at his rival’s skull. But the other man caught it on his blade and turned his shield into a weapon, bashing Erik with such force he was sent sprawling to the floor. Both sword and shield were torn from his hand. He reached for the circular wooden board to defend himself but Bjorn placed a firm foot on his arm and laughed a second time.

“It’s over, brother. Today’s victory is mine.”

Erik merely grunted, but he took Bjorn’s hand when his brother offered it to him and got to his feet.

Worry crept into Bjorn’s features, his eyes raised skyward now. Erik turned to look for himself and his eyes widened.

They watched with growing dread as a shadow rolled across the sky. Like a black mist it swept over the land, turning pale winter blue to dull grey and dimming Sol’s brightness to nought but a weak, murky glow. The land around them darkened to the half-light of dusk and the bite in the air grew noticeably stronger. Erik shivered.

“What is that?” he asked.

Bjorn shook his head. “Nothing good. We should return home and hear what Helga has to say. If anyone can give us answers, it is she.”

Erik growled. “I do not trust that seeress. An answer is given, but we have only her word it comes from the gods.”

Bjorn gave him a playful push. “You are just grumpy because the fame she promised has not yet come to pass. But there’s still time before we grow old and grey, eh?”

“That was six years ago! And still we struggle on the farm and nothing changes.”

“And if this darkness is the beginning of Ragnarok, would you not be forewarned? Perhaps our fame lies in the battle to end all battles, fighting alongside the gods.”

“Very well, we will hear what she has to say.”

It was a long walk back to their village. Erik could not shake the eerie feeling they were being stalked by something. His eyes were constantly scanning the gloom for any hint of the unseen danger, but he saw nothing moving across the snowy plains. Yet that brought him no comfort.

They needed no powers of foresight to know something was wrong as they approached the village. The stink of fresh death brought its own vision of tragedy and horror, long before they laid eyes on the terrible sight awaiting them.

The brothers drew their swords and broke into a run, though deep in their hearts they knew it was too late. They would find no one left to save.

A chilling howl sounded somewhere nearby. They slowed and continued with caution, though Erik still saw nothing of the threat he sensed. It wasn’t until they entered the village that they understood the full extent of the evil that had befallen their home.

No man, woman or child had been spared. Their corpses lined the outer walls of the buildings they’d lived and worked in their entire lives and lay scattered along the path running through the village centre. Few were whole, though their wounds looked to be the work of swords in human hands, not the fangs lining the jaws of some dread beast.

Bjorn fell to his knees, overcome with emotion. “Who could have done this?”

Erik scanned the faces of the dead as though in a daze. Among them was a man he didn’t recognise. Only one eye stared out from under the stranger’s broad hat and a long white beard covered much of his bloodied face. Erik nudged his brother and pointed.

“Odin?” Bjorn said through his tears, his voice filling with awe. “But this is not how the All-Father dies. Where is the Fenris wolf?”

But Erik’s attention had already shifted. For there was one other who had escaped the carnage, and she stood waiting for them at the other end of the street. Both her arms were outstretched, and as Erik started towards her he caught sight of a small cross hanging from one hand. Blood stained the wood it was carved from.

“What is this, Helga?” he asked, his eyes narrowed. Shock was quick to turn to anger. “How is it they are all dead and you yet live?”

“I did not die because that is not the fate the Norns have woven for me,” she answered, lowering her arms.

Bjorn got back to his feet and walked over to them. “Has Ragnarok come?”

“No, this is not Ragnarok,” Helga said. “But a new age is upon us and a great battle draws nearer.”

“Then what does the darkness mean, if not the onset of Ragnarok?” Bjorn asked.

“It means the bloodshed has only just begun. As it did before. As it will again. I have seen two hundred and fifty years into the past when the darkness first came, and I have seen two hundred and fifty years into the future when it will come once more. And I know what the darkness has brought. But it need not be death for our people.”

“We are wasting our time here, brother,” Erik said. “Death has already visited our people. We should warn the other villages before they meet the same fate.”

“It will do them no good,” Helga warned. “Death came today in Christian hands. Saxons brought Charlemagne’s warrior monks to our lands. They seek to convert us all to their faith and any who refuse are put to the sword. These deaths must not go unanswered if our gods are to survive.”

“Then we raise a great army and march on Francia!” Bjorn cried.

Helga shook her head. “That is not your path. Your path lies across the ocean, on the shores of Northumbria. There you will find a monastery filled with more silver and gold than even the jarls possess. Follow your path there, and the skalds will speak your names in the ages to come.”

“You hear that, brother?” Bjorn said. “A second promise of fame and riches. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for!”

“Yes, I have seen your path to glory,” Helga confirmed. “But there is something you must do first.”

“Then tell us, seeress,” Erik answered. “What must we do?”

Another howl sounded, closer than before. Their hearts quickened.

“I know what the darkness has brought,” she repeated. “One of you must accept his blessing, before he finds his way to the Christians. Embrace the wolf, or the Christians will prevail.”

Erik knew what was coming next, and sure enough Bjorn said, “I will go.”

That was his brother, always prepared to do what must be done. But not this time. Something about Helga’s words scared him as much as the howl. He couldn’t let his brother throw himself to the beast. So he broke into a run, charging towards the woods, where the howling was coming from.

Bjorn gave a startled shout. No doubt his brother was racing after him, but Erik never once slowed or turned around. Only when he reached the treeline did he skid to a stop, panting heavily.

Something monstrous slunk into view. It was larger than any beast Erik had ever seen before with blazing red eyes and fangs as thick as Odin’s mighty spear. He had found the wolf, but what did Helga mean when she’d told them to embrace it?

Those red eyes locked on his and the wolf charged. Erik knew then he had to stand his ground, though it took all his courage not to turn and run. The monstrous beast crashed into him and his world went black.

Bjorn’s face swam into view a moment later. There was no sign of the wolf.

“Erik! Are you hurt?”

Erik grimaced and peered down his tunic. There was a deep ache in his chest, and it looked like the wolf had left some kind of a mark on the skin there. “I am fine, brother. Let me up.”

Bjorn offered him a hand for the second time that day.

“We need to find a boat builder with the skill to craft us a vessel worthy enough of carrying us to Northumbria,” Erik said as his brother pulled him to his feet.

“Perhaps you should rest first.”

“I do not feel like resting.”

“What do you feel? Has anything changed?”

Erik closed his eyes and breathed deep. “I feel like something has awoken in me. Like Fenris he strains against his fetters, and when they break, by hunger or by battle, he will run free, and our rage will know no bounds.”

His eyes opened again and Bjorn gasped. And though Erik could not see it for himself, he knew then that they had turned the same red as the wolf’s.

“Let us find a boat builder,” he said. For one thing seemed certain. The beast could only be held back for so long, but whether he had been given a blessing or a curse remained to be seen.

Year of Darkness - Part 1 - 536 by Nick Stead

 

The world was ending. Sol could still be seen moving across the sky in her great chariot, but her warmth and light could no longer be felt down on Midgard. Her brightness had become a distant memory, her beautiful orange glow replaced by a sinister bluish tinge. And so began the endless winter. Or rather, winter simply failed to end, refusing to release its icy clutches on the land while this strange dark cloud shielded it from the power of the summer sun.

Bjorn had long since abandoned farming. As the days turned colder and the weeks passed with no hint of the gloom retreating, more and more crops began to fail. Now he relied solely on the hunt to survive. But even meat had become scarce, deer and boar feeling the grip of famine as surely as its people had. Successful hunts were growing fewer and farther between, and hunger was with him more often than not.

Still, perhaps that day he might escape famine’s jaws. The deer’s tracks he’d found were still fresh and he’d seen no evidence to suggest a rival hunter had claimed the animal for their own, man or otherwise. With luck, the kill would be his.

The tracks took him through a village. At first he thought it to be another abandoned settlement, another tribe forced into becoming wanderers by the dark cloud overhead. But as he stalked across the frost touched ground, he soon saw the truth. For this one had not been abandoned after all. The tribe remained, their bodies wasting in the place they’d called home.

Bjorn could feel their eyes on him. One in particular gave him pause, the boy’s mouth open as if in warning.

“Go back,” the corpse appeared to be saying. Except it no longer had a throat and lungs to say the words with.

Something had fed on these people. Something big and greedy, choosing not to eat its fill of any one of the villagers, but instead taking pieces from each, leaving barely an inch of flesh untouched. Something monstrous.

Bjorn was no fool. He knew the murk had brought worse than famine. Some new kind of beast had awoken, and now it had begun to claim Midgard for its own.

His hunger drove him onwards. Among the dead was one of the strange priestesses of this new Christ god. Her body had been ravaged like all the rest, yet somehow the wooden cross about her neck remained untouched. The Christians might have found significance in that. Bjorn merely noted how Christ had failed to save her. From what he’d heard tell of Christianity, theirs was a god of peace and mercy, not war and wrath. To Bjorn that was the same as weakness. There was little wonder the holy woman had fallen with the rest of them.

He was not old enough to remember the time of the great Roman Empire, but there had been plenty of tales among the elders in the tribe he had once belonged to. He knew a little of the original Roman gods, both strange and familiar, some perhaps even the same as his own, worshipped under different names. But where were their gods of war now? Where was Thor with his mighty hammer to beat back the darkness and all its dangers?

Something dark appeared at the corner of his eye. It wasn’t a shadow. There were none in this weak, half-light. It slid from the edge of his vision and his heart beat a little faster, his blood turning colder.

“Go back,” the dead seemed to whisper a second time. But running was not an option. The pit of hunger in Bjorn’s stomach was gaping wider by the hour. He’d come too far to turn back empty handed. He had to see this hunt to the end.

Sol began her descent and the world grew darker still. Bjorn was closing in on his quarry, the deer just visible on the edge of the woods. He nocked an arrow and raised his bow, but before he could fire, another arrow buried itself in the deer’s flank. The animal bolted.

A one-eyed man burst into view, a rival hunter about to beat him to the kill. Bjorn cursed and joined in the chase, but the dread beast snatched their quarry from them, the deer’s life ending in a terrible bleating scream, and a howl of triumph from its killer.

That chilling sound brought Bjorn to a standstill, yet his rival would not be deterred so easily. One Eye never slowed, showing no fear as he charged into battle with their monstrous foe. Bjorn found fresh courage in the face of such heroism and ran after them.

He slowed and took aim, watching with wide eyes as One Eye cast aside his bow in favour of his sword and swung at the beast. But the creature dodged the blow with ease and retaliated with a snap of his mighty jaws.

What was that thing? There was barely any light left to see by. He thought its head might have been wolfish, yet it moved like no wolf he had ever seen. Several times it reared up on its hind legs and swung its paws, more like a bear, but when it dropped to all fours, its gait wasn’t quite like a bear’s either, and its tail was far too long and bushy. He began to realise there was something disturbingly human about its limbs and body… But how could that be?

And who was this man? Bjorn had known many mighty warriors in his time on the earth, but this hero was somehow greater than them all in his fight with this monstrous wolf thing.

Bjorn loosed his second arrow. It flew through the air and whistled harmlessly past the monster’s head, burying itself in a trunk. He never had chance to fire a third. The beast wrapped its jaws around One Eye’s throat and it was all over. And yet One Eye refused to die without taking the monster with him, thrusting his sword deep into the creature’s chest. There was another terrible howl, then they fell in a tangle of monstrous limbs and bloodied skin, forever locked in their struggle.

For a brief moment, Bjorn fancied he could see the man’s bearded face, a piercing blue eye fixing him with its empty gaze. But the image was seen only with his mind, hero and monster no more than a dark heap on the ground. And he knew then the rival hunter was not a man at all but a god.

Understanding dawned. This was how the world ended, with the death of the gods and the rise of monstrous wolves destined to devour all. The end was upon them, but it had not quite come yet. Not for Bjorn at least, not as long as he still drew breath. And for as long as he kept his hold on life, he had to eat.

He dared to creep forward again, towards the deer carcass. A growl came from behind and he froze. His gaze was drawn back to the god and his foe, but the heap was noticeably smaller, the wolf thing’s corpse vanished.

With fresh dread, Bjorn turned to face the beast. Except the silhouette was not the monster but another man, his sword held high. Then the sword came down in a vicious arc meant for Bjorn’s head.