Come On Pup

Finally found it in me to write some more Vikingr. Even it is entirely action without the slightest hint of plot development....
Copyright of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, warnings of Blood and Death and Violence

(Note. Recent Events are leading to Retconning most of the Accidental Vikingr tales set AFTER Outremer. This falls amongst those. Furthermore, to move more into keeping with the setting, certain character names are being changed. Sir Jared shall be referred to as Jehan, and Sir Javier [Where he appears] as Iuliano. Sorry...)

“Come on Pup!” The man who answered to Bear said, his tone far cheerier than the one so addressed figured circumstances warranted. They had been travelling on foot, going to collect supplies, and as they approached the village they had planned on trading at, well, things looked to be getting complicated.

For one thing, half a dozen warriors were present. This was unusual. And from the state of their gear, they looked to be brigands. That wasn’t counting their leader, who was mounted, and his honour guard, a pair similarly mounted. Their gear was better, but not a match even for the Bear’s aged chain and antiquated helmet. None of them wore any heraldry, nor even anything that resembled Heraldry, and they were quite obviously far removed from any form of authority. The leader was speaking to the village headman, who was visibly cringing, even from as far away as the pair were.

“We have work to do!” The Bear exclaimed happily, and the one he spoke to shook his head. Robert, his name was, and until recently, he had been a courier. Not one for combat, tending to move fast enough that no one considered him a target. All that had changed when a strange man in Nottingham had hired him to deliver a message north, to Strathearne. The Old Man he had delivered that message too had made a seemingly miraculous transformation, from broken down elder, to steel-thewed veteran. And he had dragged poor Robert back south with him. It turned out, later, that this old man, answering to Bear had been an Outlaw, and a Knight. A Viking, a Crusader, and a Varangian. A Pagan, and a drinker and a brawler.  And now a free-lance bandit hunter.

As they approached, Bear gave instructions. “Leave the horse to me.” Was the first. Fighting cavalry from foot took care and skill. And experience. And Bear was capable of those in spades. “Don’t worry about kills. Keep yourself alive and them off-balance.” Lots of practice at fighting, Roberts newfound mentors had, even if there was but one present. “If you do have to face a horseman, go for the horse. Tis harsh, but…” And Bear trailed off. As they reached the edge of the village, he proffered one last bit of advice. “Keep behind me, Lad, least till it starts. And Dinnae be getting in my way after.” With that, he donned his helm, and strode forward, the steel-shod butt of his great, two-handed crescent axe sending up little puffs of dust from the dry wagon track.

“GENTLEMEN!” He bellowed, as he drew into the village square, slamming the axehaft into the ground. Every eye snapped to him. “Who’d I be speaking tae, were I wishing tae buy food?” He asked, and his hand plucked a weighty pouch of his thick leather belt. “I can pay.” He informed him, the corners of his lips twitching up, even as he bounced the pouch in his hand. The jingle of coins was clearly audible. As well wave a steak in the face of a wolf-pack. As the brigands on foot began to close, and those ahorse expertly wheeled their mounts, his grin spread. Without warning, he hurled the pouch at the face of one of the few brigands with a helm.

The impact stunned the warrior, and the pouch scattered, shimmering silver coins flying everywhere. Even as the brigands and his companion paused in shock, he struck. The broad blade of his axe whipped up and round as he lunged towards the horsemen, and there was sickening cracking and tearing noises. The horse screamed in agony as it dropped, forelimbs shattered, as the Bear spun off to its right. As soon as he was out of range of a sudden backkick, he stopped, returning to a rest, feet shoulderwidth apart, left arm tucked into his belt, right holding his axe vertical, the butt resting on the arch of his foot. “Weel Then?” He snarled at them, snapping them out of their shock. The surviving pair of horsemen wheeled again, and made to rush, and half the men on foot followed him. The other three moved on the Pup, who was busy sliding his shield, a broad round shield with a steel boss, off his back, and drawing his chosen weapon, a short broadsword of Norman make. For armour he wore but a gambeson and a steel spangenhelm, and the encroaching warriors in their ragged maille and leathers did little to engender confidence.

Seeing the warriors closing on him, faces grim, the Bear threw his head forward and gave out a roar like his namesake, before rushing in himself. His axe flicked up, into a stave-grip, and he parried the first blow coming for him, a sturdy, iron-studded war club. He sidestepped, avoiding a clumsily swung hand-axe, and flicked the steel shod butt round. There was a crack, and the brigand fell, blood beginning to seep from his nose and mouth. Stepping back, the Bear finished him with a butt-strike to the same point, covering the bottom of his axehaft in blood and brains and shards of bone.

Approaching Thunder warned him of a charging horse, and he spun, dropping to his knees and taking a disembowling thrust on the heavy kite shield hanging on his back. He thrust with the point of his axe head, as though ‘twere a spear, and another horse shrieked in pain and terror, its breast punctured by the terrible blade. Meanwhilst the Pup was parrying desperately, his shielding shifting constantly to block blow after blow. He had no opportunity to land strikes of his own, but none of the three facing him were landing any. A mace swung towards his skull was parried with an upward sweep of his blade, even whilst a knife thrust was caught on the rim of his shield, and he twisted out of the way of a short spear.

As the stricken horse reared and fell, Bear tore the wicked hook of his axehead from its chest, and pivoted to the side, stepping back, and lashing out at the knifeman who’d been behind him. The steel socket of the head, caught the knife-arm at the wrist, and a strange popping signalled the breaking of the arm. He jerked the blade back, and then rammed it forward and up, the point sliding in under the chin, severing the mans chinstrap, and driving up into the brain. Rather than waste time trying to tear his axe free, Bear stepped back, his hands slidding his skeggox, a short handled bearded axe, from his belt, and his poniard from its sheath. Turning slowly, he took stock. One infantryman and a horse faced him, and the three warriors facing the Pup were completely concentrated on that fight.  

With a grin, Bear feinted for the surviving foot-soldier, and then twisted, hurling the axe with great accuracy to embed in the back of the skull of one the warriors facing the Pup. Said companion of his responded immediately, lunging into the offensive. His shield battered aside the mace, and the sword came round in an overhand blow, hacking into the mans neck. Stepping back, the Pup pulled the blade loose, avoiding the spurting blood, and turned to face the last, the spearman. Now man-at-arms against a spear, the man-at-arms has the advantage, and the brigand knew it. He turned to run, but wasn’t fast enough, and Roberts blade slid neatly into his back, a perfect killing strike.

As Robert in turn took stock of his surroundings, he noticed a few things. First that the Bear was slowly being circled by a man on foot, and a warrior ahorse. And second that the Bear for whatever reason, was wielding naught more than his dagger. True, as daggers go, it was a rather impressive one, the blade being as long as his forearm, with a crossguard, and a disk pommel, eighteen inches of razored steel. But even still. So, he charged, silently, towards the warrior whose back was to him. The Horseman saw this, and spurred his mount at the Bear, who simply grinned.

A broadsword swung down, but the Bear caught it on his dagger, and slid it aside, grabbing for the riders sword belt, and dragging himself up behind the saddle. As the rider, the bandit leader tried to turn, the Bear cuffed him upsides the head with his pommel. Once, twice, thrice, and then, as the rider wavered, the Bear shoved him off, and grabbed for the reins, pulling himself forward into the saddle. In the few seconds this had been going on, the last of the brigands had realised something was wrong, and turned. His broadsword whipped round to lash at the Pups skull, only to be parried easily. They sparred, forward and back, every blow parried, until the Pup stepped forward and punched with his shield hand. The brigand took a steel boss to the face, and staggered. It was all the opening the Pup needed. His form, again was almost perfect, and a third dead brigand joined his honour guard. He looked up to see the Bear sitting there, mounted on his stolen horse, just watching. “You done good, lad.” The Bear informed him, and then slid down. There were bodies to loot, and villagers to reassure, and supplies to purchase.   

Literary Challenge! 100 Ficlets!

Well. A friend of mine at one point sent me a list to a challenge. Which basically boiled down to 'select a setting. take these 100 prompts. write a short 100 word story based on each prompt.' She called them ficlets. I have started doing these with Gorm from my Valkyrien stories. Here be the first 25. And when I remember the link, I shall post it.
Stories copyright Jared G. Juckiewicz.

And best of all, we get insights into the Character!
Finally, wishes to point out that the views of Gorm are not my own. And tend to change over the years.

01.    Toast! shortly before 1066 A.D. Russia

It had been long, cold travels, north from Miklagaard. Up the Dneiper, to Holmgaard. I had fallen in with Harald Sigurdsson, who would one day be called Hadrada. We had stopped at the courts of Jarisleif, King of the Rus, to resupply before completing our travels to Norway. As his minstrels, hired from the court of the Basileus, played, and greek dancers writhed in the center of the floor, I stood, addressing those assembled. “ ‘Tis Time to raise a toast, to our generous host!” I roared, and said host’s guests roared their response. 

02.    Bread. shortly after 1066 A.D. Somewhere in Scotland

The Scot had been rather accommadating to the stranger who came north. Grey of hair and of eye, covered in scars, and clad in ragged remnants of a gambeson and tunic, the stranger had been armed only with a dirk. He had staggered north, openly admitting to having been with the Norsemen at Stamford, fighting against the Normans. The Scot had heard of the Normans, indeed, had clashed with them several times, and was more than willing to break bread, good, wheaten bread, with his uninvited guest. Bread, spread with honey and butter, washed down with a good heather ale. 

03.    Church. Post Verden. Before the Volga. Somewhere on the coast of the North Sea.

“SANCTUARY!” the monk cried, as I burst through the door to the chapel. “Sanctuary!” As though the rules of the White Christ would apply to a Vikingr. Much less one sworn to the Old Gods, and even less still a grandson of the trickster god. Good pickings in a church. Giltwork on the altar, wine for the communion. True they were sturdily built, and oft-times folk sought sanctuary in them. Then again, should they hold against us, barricades and such, we knew how to smoke them out.  But a Pyre wouldn’t be necessary here. I grinned ferally, and stepped forward.

04.    Belief. 30 Years War. After Rain. Before Lutzen.

I was sitting outside my tent, when I saw a stranger come into camp. She asked a hakkapell a question, and he simply nodded, and lobbed me a large hare. I nodded thanks, as the stranger wandered over. I looked her over, and grimaced. “I don’t associate with Catholics.” I told him, and he grinned. “I’m not Catholic” I was told. My response was snarled. “I don’t associate with Christsmen either.” A curious look at me, and the question.  “Why do you fight for them?” I grinned. “I don’t. I fight for the Vasa, The Swede, the Aesir and Vanir.”

05.    Eternal. Modern.

A wise man once told me a secret. ‘The worth of a man is judged by how he is remembered’ Is how I would translate it. And it is a valid method. Which explains why I am here, sitting on the bank of a babbling brook, in the pouring rain, not moving a muscle. For so long as I remember, those I loved have value. So long as I cling to the memory of our time together, those I loved do not die. And I am wolfsblood. Barring accident or design, I, and the memory and the dead, are Eternal

06.    Soul Modern reflections.

‘Repent’ They told me. ‘Think of your eternal soul!’ Ha. I have heard their sermons. If they knew what I was, they would not speak thus. No, I have no fear for my eternal soul. The blood of Fenris flows through my veins. It will be many years yet afore I die, and when I do, is like to be in battle, with Valour. Wodin will take my soul, or Freya will. It is safe, not bound for Niflheim, nor the clutches of Hel. And should the priests of the White Christ be right, then I’ll be in good company.

07.    Babble Modern, post Valkyrien

Why I let them convince me hosting a slumber party was a good idea, I will never know. True, we have a rather large home. And ‘tis true that younglings love our place, the fields, the trees, the ponies. But the Noise. Lord The Thunders, I’ve been on many a battlefield, and the racket there is soothing compared to the babbling of a score of human pups. Almost quieter, too! When Vixen gets back, I’m for a long run.

08.    School Modern, post Valkyrien

An interesting telephone call was received. “Mr. Ulfsbluut Renard?” I was asked. “Yes? Who is this?” Turned out to be the local elementary school. I was required to pay a visit. As Stacia and Amalric had been sent to the principals office. Brawling. Their friends, Muirgen and Tyrone’s children, had been given hassle. And my Pups had intervened. True, there were a large number of bruises. And they weren’t entirely sure if they’d be able to save that boy’s ear. Ah well. What is school for, if not amusing scrapes like that.

09.    Education Sixth Century. Somewhere on the Swedish-Finnish Border

I was a boy, knowing perhaps thirteen summers when the Wolf first claimed me. I was lucky, in that the Saami had yet to bring the tribute, when it happened. I had but a few weeks of being chained outside, in the warm spring, afore they came, and took me away. I can still remember the first words their shaman had said to me. “So, Poika. You be the little Wolf-lad, then. Come, Poika! This should be an education for you.” And then he took me with him, to teach the control I would need, were I to live.

10.    Fireflies  Modern, post Valkyrien

We were sitting on the porch, Vixen and Muirgen and Tyrone and I, after the barbecue. Watching the little ones playing in the yard. They had managed to lay hands on a jar and some nets, and were chasing insects. They came rushing up, yelling a barrage of ‘Look! Look! We Caught Faeries!’ And the four of us started. It took us a minute to realise that their jar was in fact full of Fireflies. For which we were sincerely grateful. The fey are not things to imprison or joke about. Not even Tyrone, despite his being a friend.

11.    Bodies Modern, Valkyrien-era

Well. This could be awkward. No one is going to believe me. ‘Incapacitate the sentries’ They told me, ‘But leave them alive.’ How was I to know they were that skittish? Now I am left with a pair of bullet-studded corpses. Neither of which I attacked in any way, shape, or form. They managed to get me in a crossfire, until I moved. “Ulfsbluut!” I swear softly, and begin to drag them out of sight. It’s only a few minutes until my comrades arrive, to see me standing there, pockets full of brass and a sheepish grin on my face.

12.    Nature Modern, post Valkyrien

The scents surround me. Clean water. Pine woods. The perfume of wildflowers fills the air, criss-crossed with the traces of small animals. Birdsong sounds, broken occasionally by the harsh cry of a hunting hawk, or the howl of the wolf echoing through the woods. There is no sign of another person for miles around. I love moments like this. The occasional moments of peace that can penetrate even the black, blood-stained soul of a Werewolf. I bow my head, in mute homage to nature. Long may it last, never changing, never dying, always there when it is needed.

13.    Hero Medieval Period somewhere. Probably in the run up to the thirty years war

I came into the village staggering and wounded, my armour rent and torn. My blade was black with dried blood, the edge nicked and battered. I had a price on my head that many an outlaw would envy, but still they accepted me. And when the bandits came, I repaid that acceptance. I stood my ground, alone and unaided. I could do naught else. It wasn’t in me to run, and I lacked the strength for a charge. And so, they call me hero. For stupidity and weakness. And what else is a hero, when all is said and done?

14.    Complications Modern, Valkyrien-era

Well, I’ve just been told that pending medical assessments, my squad can go back on active duty. Illus and Vaul are fine. Elf still has a sore leg, but she knows she can get through the exam, at least, on willpower and determination. Lir has chosen to return home for a time, but Tyrone is replacing him. My summer got me all healed up, back to fighting form. And as for Vixen, well, here she is now. So, I ask her. “How are you doing, Love?”.  “Gorm,” She answers, softly, sweetly. “I’m pregnant.”

15.    Decisions Ottoman Empire, Fourteenth Century

Well. I have been offered a rare chance. A promotion as it were. From Janissary Slave Soldier, to a member of the Sultan’s bodyguard. The poncy gits. So. I have a decision to make it seems. See, the life of a Janissary isn’t bad, not even that of a mage-bound one like me. The life of a Bodyguard, whilst it is easier, for the most part, and more privileged has its drawbacks. Like the conversion requirement. I like my alcohol. And the removal of the spleen. Something to do with reducing temper. In a Wolfsblood? HAH!

16.    Choice Ottoman Empire, Fourteenth Century

It was, perhaps, the first time my fury had broken through my bonds. “You can have my spleen when you tear it from my cold dead corpse!” I snarled at them, seeking a weapon. Sooth be told, I didn’t really need one, but I’ve always used steel as a comfort. My choice had been made. I would stay a Janissary, for now. The breaking of my bindings had given me hope of escape, hope that could be dashed by getting closer to the Sultan. So, I turned them down, and when they objected, I stood my ground.

17.    Heartache Eight Century, maybe Ninth? Somewhere on the Danevirke...

I stand in the ruins of what was once my home. A trader I had been, and a husband, but no longer. Now I stand, the broken body of my wife held in my arms. And if she looked more like my mother than my lover, well, ‘Tis the price paid by immortal who loves one who isn’t. I had expected that price. I hadn’t expected to return from my hunt to find my people slain. An ache settles in my heart, and I whisper a prayer to the Goddess of the Celts, in her aspect as the Crone. 

18.    Space See above

The ruins of our little village aside the danevirke stand empty around me. I remember but yesterday it was bustling, busy. The craftsmen, the traders, our wives and children, all gone. All dead. The space surrounds me, the silence stifling. There is nothing left here. Nothing for anyone. And least of all for me. All there is now is the space in my heart and soul, the space where my life once was. The scales will be balanced, the weregild paid. I will fill the space with the blood of the guilty, however long it takes, whatever the price.

19.    Empty As above

I have found the warband that slew my bride. That slaughtered my people, that torched my village, that took everything of value and left me broken and shattered in mind and heart and soul. And I have slain them. And yet still there is an emptiness deep within, where once there was love. And then word reached me. Of a king who sought warriors to campaign against the Saxons, from whence that warband had come. Perhaps fealty could fill that hole. And if not, then taking my vengeance on the people who slew mine, might.

20.    Promise Modern, Valkyrien-era

I have sworn oaths before. Rarely, but it has been done, and I am rarely forsworn. This one, I will keep, or die trying. Staring deep into the almond eyes of my love, I utter the words chosen. ‘I, Gorm Ulfsbluut, take this oath, before the gods and my peers. To take this woman, Vixen, to love only her, to stand at her side, to stay my hand at her will, as long as she will have me. This I swear, before the gods of the Aesir and the Vanir, and the spawn of Laufi.’ ‘Twill do for a start.

21.    Candles somewhere in Alba. Thirteenth century

‘GORM! NOT AGAIN!’ Apparently, I’m in trouble again. Not sure why. And then I find out. The matriarch of the Clan MacEwan comes storming through waving the stub of a candle at me. “Have you been at my good tallow candles again?” She asks, and I make a little innocent smile. “No?” Says I and she points. “You have Wick stuck in your teeth.” Innocent smile becomes wicked grin. “Well. They’re delicious. And I was peckish. What can I say?” My amusement cut no ice. “You can buy me some new bloody candles, you can!” was the only response.

22.    Incense Modern, post Valkyrien

A familiar scent from my past filled the air. The smell of spices diffused in smoke. It was a smell I knew well from my time amongst the Turks. Not my fondest memories, sooth be told, but the scent is nice. On the other hand, Vixen seems to be attempting to give it better mental associations. A task that seems determined to succeed. Although it means I’ll have to stop snacking on the mice, cause they’ll all bugger off. Ah well. Given the choice between feeding off our rodent infestation, and spending time with my bride…

23.    Magick Ottoman Empire VERY LATE fourteenth century

It is time. By blood I was bound, and blood will make my freedom complete. It took me so long to find a way to break the spells that held me, but now, my rebellion is almost ready. Taloned paws delve deep, digging into the earth. They grasp the lines of power twisting below the surface, drawing strength from the leylines, strength to break the bonds that have held me fast. The power twists in my grasps, and my head pounds. And then there is peace, and my compulsions are gone. Well, bar those I choose to place myself under.

24.    Witch As above

Ah, the look on his face. He who bound me by blood spilt. His shock at realising his bindings had failed. His fear at realising his whipped cur was no longer chained. No longer whipped. And never a cur. Oh, I’d been ready for some time, awaiting merely a match. And now I had that. A warrior to serve. With that thought in mind, I leapt at him, roaring in fury and wrath and vengeance. By the time I landed, I was no longer human. Teeth to rend and claws to tear, and a witch on which to feast.

25.    Teacher Wallachia. Early Fifteenth

“So.” Says I. “The pair of you think you know Warfare?” and the two young noblemen I stared at nodded. I grinned, showing fangs yellowed with use. The Wolf flashed in my eyes and they started. “I have forgotten more about war than the pair of you will know, should you live a hundred years.” My grin went, if anything, more feral. “You fight the Turks. I fight the Turks. Wish you a tutor in the ways of death?” They nodded, and I howled. “THEN LET US DANCE!” As I whirled back into the fray, a whirling dervish of death.

Foxhunting...

Well... I got bored during one of my many layovers... So I wrote this. An Idea I have had for a wee while, finally made form...

Copyright belongs to myself, Jared G. Juciewicz. Warnings of blood, violence, death, and bad language. But then again, is old-school Valkyrien, what do you expect?

Somewhere in Northern England, out on the heath, the stillness of the summer morn was broken by the baying of hounds and the calling of horns. Cries of “View ‘Alloo!” shattered the silence, as a great red fox, a Vixen by the look of it, burst from the brush. Within moments, the men, the hounds, and the horses were in hot pursuit. The Vixen ran, staying just far enough ahead of the pack to hold their interest, but not close enough to give them any chance of catching her. She cut and dove, ducking through patches of gorse, worming her way through rabbit warrens, following the babbling brooks that cut all across the marshy heath. Anything to give her an advantage.

She wasn’t worried about the pack following her, in fact, she was viewing their attempts at catching her as a bit of fun. Death was not something that had worried her for a long time. And she had a surprise for the poncy gits on their well-bred hunters. The corners of her lips turned up in a very un-foxlike grin, as she thought of what was to come. Now… Where had she left him… She scanned the hills, looking for landmarks, and veered again. Showing herself for a moment, she heard the renewed cries as the baffled hounds turned back to the chase. Ah, by the gods, this was fun.

Not too far away, another awoke. He awoke to find his mate gone, vanished, and the sun high in the sky. Ah well. He had fed well the night before, and wasn’t particularly hungry. He wandered down to the brook, to rinse himself off, wake himself up, and maybe catch a nice fish for his breakfast. He was lying on the grass, staring intently at the calm, tranquil water, waiting for the big brown trout to come just a hair closer, just enough that the readied paw could strike with ease, when the water splashed into his face. Spinning with a snarl, he spotted his mate, the, to him, little Vixen he had taken up with. Then he heard the hounds. He spun back the direction he had come and snarled at them.

The hounds froze. The horses froze. The hunters sat in shock. One minute, they had been chasing a fox. The next, the red fox was sitting on the other side of a brook, grinning at them, shaking with mirth, and making peculiar coughing noises. In front of it stood a great dark gray wolf-thing, larger by far than any wolf they had seen. It was almost the size of a small bear, with great dark claws, and yellowed fangs more than an inch and a half long. Yellow eyes gleamed with barely suppressed fury, and no one was particularly surprised when it threw its head forward and roared a challenge.

Gorm was pissed. Try hunting his woman, would they? Chase her down with dogs, from horseback? With the intent of cutting her down as vermin? Not while he was about. He stood there for a moment, just watching, as his Vixen’s pursuit froze, quaking in their boots. He took a savage pleasure from the knocking of knees, the shaking, the cold chills he knew were running down every spine bar his and his lady’s. He threw his head forward and roared, filling the sound with all his fury, and all his rage, and all the hatred born of his incredibly long life. And then he leapt. He slammed into the pack of hounds like the daemon of the north he was named after. Bowing his head as he hit, he threw it back, hounds flying with it, and he flipped up on onto his feet, and around, catching one in those powerful jaws. The jaws crunched, and a spine severed.

He finished his spin, the broken corpse flying from his maw to knock a group of hounds to their knees. Their planned rush collapsed as they did a second later, when he hit them with all the fury of a blizzard. Claws raked and tore, his fanged maw ripped and shredded and crushed. The hounds began to attack back, climbing on his back to try and get grips with their own teeth and claws. Feeling the hot pain of their blows, Gorm began to twist and buck, like one of the wild stallions he had watched fight, long ago and far away, in another life. Snapping at his assailants he caught one, and flung it at the first of the hunters to recover her wits. The flying dog knocked her off her horse, which panicked, and ran. Woman and dog both landed badly with sickening cracks and meaty thuds, and the great grey beast howled in triumph.

His spins gave him a glimpse of the other hunters, readying rifles and sabers and aiming in his direction. As the first of the hunters spurred his mount forward, Gorm charged. He bodyslammed the horse as he went past, knocking it off-balance. It toppled, landing on its riders leg, and bone shattered under the weight of horseflesh. The saber stroke went wide, and Gorm ran on, pouncing into the midst of the now worried horses. He lashed out, as he ran, striking from side to side, and the searing pain, the scent of blood, and the fear of their companions were too much. The horses broke and scattered, too far gone in terror to care for rein or spur. The great wolf did not bother to pursue. He watched as the hounds fled, and then turned towards the man with the shattered leg. He stalked up, keeping within sight of the stricken huntsman, and when he had drawn nigh, he struck.

His great yellowed fangs shut with a ‘clop’ mere millimetres from the poor man’s face, and Gorm made a sound that was almost human, almost a laugh, and he spun, and loped off across the moor. Vixen followed behind. She had some explaining to do.