Valknut: The Binding, page 5
Unconcerned, Red chuckled and grabbed his shovel. It would take him and Angus a week to clear the shelf by themselves. He knew the Bossman would send help soon enough.
They had been working for over an hour when Red saw something thin and white poking up through the debris. He drove his shovel under it and lifted it out. The thing slid free and clattered on the ground. It looked like a bone.
“Hey, Angus—I found somethin’!”
Angus set his hammer down and winced as he straightened, pressing the small of his back with both hands. “Whatcha got?”
He shuffled over, rolling a cigarette. He started to light it, but stopped short when he saw the bone. “Well, will ya lookit that. S’pose it’s human?”
“It’s big enough, but there’s only one way to know for sure.”
Red planted his shovel where he had found the bone and began to dig. Angus watched for a moment, then put the cigarette away and joined in with his hands. They found more bone fragments, but nothing conclusive until Red found part of a jaw. Looked human. He held it up to the light for a better look. Angus kept digging.
“Whoa, I think I got somethin’, Red. Somethin’ big!” Angus stood over a patch of white that gleamed through the dirt. “And hooo-wee—it sure smells bad.”
It didn’t look like bone from where Red stood. Too big. He hunkered down next to Angus to help dig. After a few minutes’ work, they had uncovered something as large as a horse and wound in white string. Dirt-crusted tufts of dark fur poked through the bindings.
“Maybe it’s some kinda art-ee-fact,” Red said. “I hear them collectors pay good money for old Indian crap.”
Angus shook his head. “Nah, that string looks too clean to be that old. And it smells deader’n a skunk in a beaver trap.” He waved a hand in front of his face. “Phew! Maybe we should let it alone.”
“Don’t go all knock-kneed on me, Angus. Whatever it is, it might be worth somethin’ to someone.” Red glanced nervously at the wagons, half-expecting to see the Bossman coming toward them. “Let’s have a look. We can always hide it and come back for it later.”
Red tugged at the string, trying to break it. It felt flimsy and soft, but it held firm. He braced himself and pulled harder. The string bit through his skin and pain shot up his arm. He swore and let go, staring at his bleeding finger. “What the hell?”
“Here, let me.” Angus dug in his pocket and came up with a buck knife. He opened it and slid the blade under a few strands. They parted easily. Angus grinned. “I guess my knife’s a mite sharper’n yer finger. Now, lessee if—”
He paused, eyes large in surprise. Red leaned forward to see what was wrong. The cut ends of the string hissed and crackled, shriveling away. The sight chilled him, though he couldn’t say why. He touched one end and jerked his hand back in pain. A blister formed instantly on his fingertip.
Not shriveling—burning! Like a lit fuse. How could a steel blade do that? He staggered back, shouting a warning to Angus. The thing didn’t explode, but the ground shook and a roaring filled Red’s ears. The remaining string loosened and fell away. Before him, in a slaughterhouse reek, stood a gigantic wolf, its head on level with his own. Its jaws gaped wide, propped open by a black-handled knife with a long, bronze blade. Its eyes glowed yellow in the sun. Red cried out, backing away. He tripped and sprawled on the ground under its cancerous gaze.
Through his fear, he heard Angus laugh. “Why, it ain’t nothin’ but an ol’ statue.”
Red watched in horror as Angus stepped closer to the wolf and slapped it on the flank. He grinned. “Whaddaya so scared of?”
The Wolf swung its head around and fixed Angus with its yellow eyes. Angus froze, bug-eyed and open mouthed.
“Run!” Red shouted, forgetting his own danger. “Run, you stupid bastard!”
But Angus didn’t move. The Wolf braced its paw against the bronze knife’s hilt and pushed downward. The blade came out with the sound of a shoe sucking free of mud and clattered on the rocky ground.
The Bossman’s furious voice shouted at Red from behind. “What the hell is going on here?”
Afraid to move, Red tried to whisper a warning. The Bossman ignored him. Flushed, neck veins throbbing visibly, he stumped over to Angus and began yelling as if this were just another regular day of work. “What’s the matter with you? The snow’s already flying in Montana and you’re just standing around. And as for you, Red, I see you over there taking a nap. If you think I won’t dock your pay, you’re sadly mistaken—”
The Wolf uttered a growl so low Red couldn’t hear it. But he felt it through the rocks under his back. The Bossman felt it, too. He turned, his mouth still flapping, and his words became screams. The Wolf leaped and buried its muzzle into the Bossman’s neck, ending his life as he lived it—mouth wide open and making noise.
Red stared, unbelieving, as the Bossman’s twitching body hit the ground. He knew he should run, but didn’t want to leave Angus. Besides, he wasn’t sure he had enough strength to stand.
The Wolf turned back to Angus. Its mouth hung open in an obscene parody of a smile, tongue lolling out over its teeth. Angus still hadn’t moved or even changed his expression. The Wolf licked the blood-soaked fur around its mouth and stepped closer. Red found he could stand after all. He picked up his shovel, uncertain whether to attack or run while the wolf’s attention was on Angus. Not liking either option, he screamed at the other workers for help.
The Wolf looked at him. They will not hear you.
Red heard the words in his fear-crazed mind and screamed again, waving the shovel in the air, but the workers unloaded ties as though nothing were amiss.
The Wolf’s head swung back to Angus. You, I shall not kill.
As though to make a lie of its words, the wolf’s mouth opened wide. To Red’s fear-crazed mind, it seemed as though its upper jaw touched the sky and its lower jaw scraped the ground. It engulfed Angus, swallowing him whole.
This, thought Red, would be a good time to run.
But before he could move, the wolf sat on its haunches and began to howl. The sound rose in the air so thick and full that Red could almost see it. And as it howled, the wolf began to shrink. Fur sloughed from it in great handfuls, disappearing before it hit the ground. Its muzzle shortened. Its ears turned inside out and flattened to its skull, the points becoming rounded, tufts of fur thinning to a few wiry strands. Its body thickened in some places, shrank in others, reshaping itself, until the wolf was gone. In its place crouched Angus, naked and feral.
Exhausted by fear, unable to accept what he had just seen, Red wanted to believe the man before him was Angus, that it had all been a dream or a bad joke. But the lifeless body of the Bossman told him otherwise. And so did the rim of blood matting the beard around Angus’s mouth.
The Wolf who was now Angus examined its new body, flexing muscles, working the joints. Then it picked up the sledgehammer and turned on Red.
Nothing of Angus remained in its eyes.
Where Angus’s face was open, friendly, and quick to laugh—though perhaps not so quick of thought—the same face worn by the wolf was hard, sly, and dangerous. Where Angus’s eyes had been warm, wide, and brown, this creature’s eyes were as yellow as bile. But the thing that terrified Red the most, that made his insides run like warm bacon grease, was the smile. Unnaturally wide, its sneering curl revealed long, pointed teeth that could never grow in a human mouth. And they still dripped with the Bossman’s blood.
Get away! Red’s mind screamed. Run, run, run, run, RUN! But his eyes were trapped in a yellow snare, and that other voice whispered in his head. Stay, it said. Stay and feed me.
Red found that he didn’t want to run after all. In fact, he wanted to be eaten by this monster wearing his friend’s face. He couldn’t think of anything that could be more pleasant. The shovel dropped from his limp fingers and clattered on the rocks. He took a step forward. The Wolf-Angus’s tongue ran over its teeth in anticipation. Smiling, Red cocked his head back, pulled his collar down to expose one side of his neck, and waited for death.
Before teeth touched flesh, a black flurry of wings swept into the wolf-Angus’s face. The wings separated into two ravens cawing raucously, gouging at wolf eyes with beaks and claws. The yellow haze retreated from Red’s mind. He back-pedaled, clutching his collar closed, as if flannel could stop those dagger teeth.
The Wolf-Angus howled and swiped at the birds. Snarling, he caught one by a wing and swung it hard into its mate. They tangled, fluttered frantically, and hit the ground. The Wolf-Angus again fixed his yellow gaze on Red.
Loose rubble shifted under Red’s retreating boots. He staggered back, slamming into the pile of rock he and Angus were supposed to clear from the ledge. The Wolf-Angus closed on him, cutting off his escape.
“Sheeeiit.” Red tried to scramble backward up the pile. “Angus, it’s me—your ol’ friend Red! Whatcha wanna kill me for?”
The Wolf-Angus paused as though considering. “Well, I guess...because I’m hungry.”
And he laughed, a growling animal sound that tore the remaining will from Red’s body. He went limp and slid to the ground, waiting for sharp teeth to end his life. As the wolf-Angus approached, another raven dropped from the sky, bigger than the other two—the biggest Red had ever seen. A king grandpappy of ravens, with one eye shriveled shut and the other a startling blue shining from its black head.
A desperate hope fluttered in Red’s chest. Maybe three birds could succeed where two had failed. The Wolf-Angus snarled and grabbed for the great raven. It dodged him easily, slashing a bloody gash across the wolf-Angus’s arm.
Red eased to his feet, ready to run when the raven next attacked. The bird wheeled over the wolf-Angus, uttered one long, echoing cry, folded its great wings, and dove straight at Red’s head.
Surprised, Red forgot to move. The raven struck his face like a blast of wind, spraying a wide circle of black feathers that evaporated before they hit the ground. Red’s eye ruptured in pain and something filled his head to bursting. He screamed and slapped at his face, feeling warm, thick streams oozing down his cheek. Something stirred in his brain, as if the raven had curled up to nest inside his skull.
A snarl rang through the agony in his head. The Wolf-Angus. How could he fight it now? Still cupping his punctured eye, he blinked and squinted at the approaching monster.
“Come on, Red, ol’ buddy,” the wolf-Angus growled. “Just gimmee a li’l taste.”
The voice was Angus’s. A cajoling Angus, as though he had merely asked him to pass the whiskey. Red pressed back against the rubble, knowing he couldn’t escape. As the grinning wolf-Angus reached for him, Red leaned back and kicked his booted toe into the thing’s crotch. But the wolf-Angus caught Red’s leg and lifted, dropping him onto his back. He leaned over Red, lips curled, and his teeth looked as big as pickaxes. The air in Red’s throat felt too thick to breath. Strange thoughts crowded his mind, babbling uselessly, as if in a foreign tongue. One thought rose to the top—he was going to die.
King Grandpappy stretched and swelled in Red’s mind, crowding out his thoughts, stifling his will. It forced him to tip his head back to see through his one good eye, though this left his neck fully exposed. Words that weren’t Red’s own roared from his mouth. “Huginn! Muninn! To me!”
The two ravens returned, carrying a heavy, rough-hewn spear between them. They swooped low and dropped the spear on Red’s chest. His fingers curled around its coarse shaft. His one good eye, now blue as sapphire, met the yellow eyes of the wolf-Angus and began to glow. The Wolf-Angus’s predatory grin became a scowl. He jerked upright and backed away.
“You!”
King Grandpappy grinned with Red’s mouth and brought him to his feet with the spear leveled at the wolf-Angus’s chest. The two men who were once wolf and raven watched each other warily.
“So, One-Eye, are you here to greet me, to welcome me into this bright new age?” The Wolf-Angus paced, eyeing the head of the spear. “I see you’ve brought Gungnir—perhaps you have you have come to kill me, as you should have done all those millennia ago.”
The one called One-Eye ran a stolen hand down the coarse shaft of the spear. “As much as I might wish to, Wolf, I will not. The prophecy that compelled me to have you bound and buried under the earth still holds.”
“Prophecy.” The Wolf spat and his yellow eyes burned brighter. “I was a mere pup. I had not destroyed the smallest village, eaten the tiniest human, or even sampled one of their sheep. Yet at the word of the Norn, you came to me in friendship and—” he snarled, his lips peeling back from pointed teeth, “you betrayed me.”
One-Eye tightened his grip on the spear, but the wolf only snorted, nostril’s flaring. “Such comedy. I bore you no ill will those thousands of years ago, but now...
The Wolf’s voice became a terrible roar. “Now I will kill you, as your laughable prophecy predicts.”
The ground quaked at the sound. The workers stopped unloading the carts and lifted their heads, some looking to the sky for thunder clouds, others looking anxiously at the mountainside for the spill of loose rock.
One-Eye held his ground, waiting for the tremors to pass. “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps. But not today. And you will die in the final battle, as well. You must submit to your bindings and wait.”
“Never. I have no intention of falling under the heel of the three hags. I will make my own prophecy. You will die and the world will be razed by chaos and fire. But it is I who will rise from the ashes to rule the new beginning.”
“You have spent too long in the ground, Wolf. Look around you. See what these human have become? Soon they will have weapons that not even your great strength will be able to withstand. They will not fear you.”
Fenrir smiled, a sight that would fill his minions with dread over the next century. “It matters not, foul betrayer. There are other ways. They can be made to defeat themselves. And you cannot stop me. Not without risking the end of all things, yourself.”
Faster than human agility should allow, Fenrir vaulted from the rock shelf. For a moment, he looked like the wolf he was. Then, as a man, he ran naked into the mountain wilderness.
But in the moment of escape, distracted by the elation of long-awaited freedom, Fenrir’s mind opened. One-Eye glimpsed his plan and knew that it could succeed. In that same moment, One-Eye also saw the seed of Fenrir’s defeat.
“Huginn,” One-Eye called, and a raven flew out of a tall pine to settle on his left shoulder. “Muninn.” Another abandoned the leavings of a cougar kill and settled on his right. One-Eye stroked each and started down the mountainside. He would go to Homestead, where the seed grew even now, in the belly of a woman.
Somewhere under that red hair, smothered under the eons that were the Allfather, a small voice belonging to Walter “Red” Galloway screamed.
Chapter 4
Daylight drove the shadows deeper into the boxcar where Lennie slept, caught in a nightmare. She ran through the dark, fleeing a pack of wolves with glowing eyes, their snarls growing closer. A boxcar pulled alongside her and she dove inside. Wolf teeth caught her jeans and dragged her back. She clawed at the floor, finding no purchase. Then she was falling, falling. She kicked out just before she hit the ground and awoke with a beam of sunlight across her face.
She cracked her eyes enough to see a dirty metal ceiling. A distant crash of couplers and hiss of venting air brakes suggested she was on a train, but it wasn’t moving. Her mouth tasted like she’d been using her tongue to clean the boxcar floor. Grimacing, she squeezed her eyes shut, counted to five, and opened them again. Same dirty ceiling, same nasty taste. Yep, I’m really here. A noise escaped her throat, sounding suspiciously like a whine.
Sometime during the night, Junkyard had covered her with his jean jacket. Its collar stuck up in front her face, smelling of campfires and diesel. A black button pinned to the jacket’s lapel said, My brother jumps from perfectly good airplanes. She studied the button curiously. A brother. But Junkyard had said there was no one to miss him.
A low, mellow voice began to hum a mournful tune somewhere outside the boxcar. She found it soothing and closed her eyes, not wanting to move. Then she remembered Junkyard’s warnings and a vision of tomorrow’s headline flashed before her eyes: Singing Serial Slayer Strangles Stowaway. She snorted. But she sat up—just in case.
Her hands had gone completely numb while she slept. One still clutched the edge of her cardboard bed as if she might fall off. Smiling wryly, she let go and her fingers began to tingle.
The other hand rested palm up, fingers wrapped around something shiny. A loop of silver chain dangled across her thumb. It couldn't be...
She forced her stiffened fingers to open. On her palm lay her father’s pocket watch.
Shocked, she poked at it, hardly believing it was real. She raised its cool, smooth metal to her cheek and remembered how her father used to let her wind it. “Careful,” he’d say, winking at her. “If it’s wound up too tight, it’ll have a nervous breakdown.”
She popped it open to read the inscription, though she already knew what it said.
For Jarvis—
May there always be enough time.
With all my love,
Kathleen
Ramblin’ Red had taken the watch with him, wherever he had gone. How had it gotten into her hand?
The humming outside turned to song, though she couldn’t make out the lyrics. She crawled to the door and peered out, expecting to see Junkyard. He wouldn’t have gone far without his jacket. But she saw only Jungle Jim. He stood near the doorway, eyes closed, swaying to his song. She watched him, amazed that such a rough, simple man could sing so beautifully. Then she frowned. Could Jim have put the watch in her hand while she slept?
