Choice of the Slain 2: Under the Hunter’s Moon

Choice of the Slain 1: The Long Wait

The moon gleamed white in its fullness, like a silver coin. Its polish was imperfect, however, tarnished as it was by Adam's fall--or so said the earl's priest. Sevenfold brighter was the sun ere that ancient sin, and the moon as bright as the sun now: in this and more had mankind's wickedness ruined the world.

Or else those marks were scars. Gunnar had heard the tale on his grandmother's knee: how the moon was hated by the great black wolf Hati, so that it chased him across the dark plain of heaven, hunting him relentlessly each night. Sometimes it caught him: then the moon disappeared for a time in Hati's belly, and Thor came from his hall in Asgard and beat the wolf with Mjolnir till it vomited up the moon again. But the marks of Hati's fangs remained, ominous reminders that at the Last Battle the moon would be swallowed for good.

Gunnar watched the moon and thought of stories. Which did he believe? The priest was a learned man and a pious servant of Jesu Krist; what's more, he had books in the tongue of Romans, and those folk had great lore, by all accounts. But Grandmother Aud was wise too, deep-minded in her own way, and she knew all the old tales without books to remember them for her. Gunnar had watched eclipses, and he'd seen no wolf; but then, he'd never seen Adam either. Best leave the moon to tell its own stories.

But--such a mad world!--some men would kill you for the moon-story you told. These were dangerous times for men who went about talking of gods: wear the hammer in the wrong place, or the rood, and you could expect hurled stones at the least. One had to be canny about talking religion with a stranger. Gunnar had seen a clever merchant once, selling silver amulets with holes for lanyards at both ends: wear it one way as a rood, inverted as a hammer. Perfect for those with no feelings one way or the other, who'd just as soon let the gods go hang, but not for devout Earl Thorkel. "It's no rood, if the God-man's not hanging on it," the earl had snapped, and he'd given all his guard gold crucifixes from Mercia.

Gunnar reached under his shirt and pulled out the earl’s gift, letting it dangle in the moonlight. The man on the rood stared back at him, eyes and mouth wide in his crudely etched face. Sometimes Gunnar thought he saw anguish in the simple lines of that face; sometimes the open mouth seemed to sing. So strange, Gunnar thought, that he had killed for this man on the rood, who’d fought back not at all against his enemies. But would he die for the God-man?

A tremulous howl broke the stillness, answered by another, then a third and fourth. Gunnar shook off his reverie and smiled tightly. No worries about martyrdom now: whether or not the moon was eaten by a wolf, like as not he would be. But not without a fight first! And now that concealment was no concern at all, he’d best seek somewhere high and defensible. Gunnar leaned forward gingerly, trying not to jar the arrow in his side, and rose to his knees. He stood shakily, gripping the boulders beside him for support. The weight on his wounded leg brought fresh agony; for a moment, he felt light-headed and fought back the urge to vomit.

Gunnar’s head swam, but he was up now. He looked about him now with different eyes, seeking high places atop the craggy boulders, not the secret nooks between them. Behind his own hiding place, the hill became a bit steeper, but the rocks larger and taller. There, that would do--some fifty or so yards up the incline, a boulder jutted up like a menhir, steep enough to keep the four-legged down, but (he hoped) not the two-legged. The wolves howled again--closer this time--and Gunnar looked over his shoulder, anxiously eyeing the woodline at the bottom of the hill. No sign of the pack yet, but he’d have to hurry.

Gritting his teeth, Gunnar darted from his den and hobbled as quickly up the hill as he could manage. At first the going was rough, and his gashed leg nearly gave way twice before he’d gone even twenty feet. Then the pack sang, and Gunnar felt the pain dissipate as a new strength, born of urgency, grew in him. His hobble became a staggering trot. Now he dared not look behind him, lest he trip over a loose stone; his own ragged gasps sounded to his ears like hungry panting. Were he not in danger, this feeling would be exhilarating: was this how the stag felt when he heard the hounds cry? Oh, for a stag’s legs now, or a stag’s horns! But he had only his own legs now, and only his axe.

Behind him, the scrape of nails on stone warned Gunnar that his hunters were near. Only ten yards more, and he could try to climb out of reach. Now the panting was no longer in his imagination. Without thought, Gunnar began whispering as he ran. Again and again, he heard himself speak words he'd learned from the earl's priest: Agnus Dei, miserere nobis. Agnus Dei, dona nobis pacem. He knew they were a prayer; he wished he'd asked what they meant.

Only ten feet now; to his right, Gunnar saw a lean grey form loping at the edge of his vision. Three quick steps and he lunged forward, throwing himself against the cool face of the tall stone. Close to weeping with fear and relief, he felt desperately for handholds above him. Gunnar's fingers finally found a crack; he hauled himself up, then, keeping his right arm flexed, reached further upward with his left and gripped the edge of the boulder's flat top. Then he felt teeth sink into his calf.

Screaming, Gunnar flung his right arm to the ledge above and strained to raise himself, but the weight on his leg was too great. Below, the wolf hung on his leg tenaciously, twisting like a hooked fish as its paws scrabbled for purchase on the smooth rock. Gunnar lashed out with his other foot, missed, tried again, and felt his heel connect with bone. The jaws loosened, and the wolf dropped with a snarl. Free of the beast's weight, Gunnar fairly flung himself upward, till, falling forward, he sprawled across the stone's top, his legs dangling behind him. He scrambled forward on his hands and knees, then turned around, looking for the first time behind him.

Below him, nine wolves gathered, three reared up on hindlegs to snap at him and the rest pacing in front of the boulder, snarling and glaring balefully. Now he could smell their musky dog odor, and see clearly their white fangs, lolling red tongues, and shining eyes. Though trapped, Gunnar felt absurdly triumphant: even though he was crippled, probably dying, he'd escaped. He would, at the least, die on his own terms. He decided to taunt them; but as his scattered mind pieced together a suitable insult for wolves, their mood changed. Before their attention had been bent on him alone, but now they were distracted and nervous, torn between their prey on the rock and something behind them. They began to mill about at the base of the stone, whining. Gunnar peered into the darkness anxiously.

"Leave the man be. I claim him."

The voice was low but clear, and its effect immediate. The wolves obeyed, backing away from the standing stone. A dark form parted from the shadow of a nearby boulder: a human shape, cloaked and cowled. The figure approached, stepping into the full light of the moon. A hand emerged from the cloak and pulled back the hood, revealing a pale woman with dark hair. Her eyes gleamed like a wolf's.