opposite direction, impeding the flow, and
stragglers struggled to catch up. But the slender, fletched shafts of the jarlar and thegns drove true; like
stinging bees, sharp iron barbs bit deep, bloodying greyish winter coats that
would never again turn red-brown with the summer, and a second barrage of
arrows followed the first as at least half a dozen more wounded roe deer,
bleating with pain and fear, staggered and rolled in a tangle of thrashing
limbs to be viciously fallen upon by the frenzied dogs.
Then
the hunters were there, shouting, cursing, and jerking the hounds back by
the collar and leashing them, while, with wild whoops of triumph and bloodlust,
the men ahorse dismounted to surge forward, as well. Now, like the rest of the
freedmen, Wulfgar rushed to catch the reins carelessly tossed to him by his
father and half brothers, and to give them their spears, with which they
brought low the few injured roe deer still endeavoring to lurch on. Then,
scramasaxes in hand, the jarlar and thegns waded into the melee
to deliver the death blows to those roe deer downed but still alive.
It
was then that in the cacophony, a streak of grey fur burst with a ferocious
snarl from a misty hollow beneath a rocky outcrop amid the scrub, where,
wounded in a fierce fray with a much younger foe and driven from its pack, it
had sought refuge. Across the wet, low-lying ground, the creature leaped, its
brain clouded from its injuries, its belly sharp with pain and hunger. For a
moment, caught up in the slaughter of the roe deer, the men were only dimly
aware of the flash of grey fur that bolted into their midst. Then Ivar cried
out hoarsely, a terrible sound, so the eyes of all who heard it were drawn to
him; and coming to their senses, the men realized that the beast that had
sprung from the hollow was a lone wolf, maddened with rage and and the smell
of blood. It had knocked Ivar down where he had knelt over one of the fallen
deer, and was now at his throat.
In
that instant, it seemed that time stopped and that all in the hunting party
were paralyzed, frozen with horror and disbelief. Never had Wulfgar seen a wolf
so huge; and it came to him in that seemingly eternal moment that it was no
ordinary wolf at all, but a were-wolf, Fenrir, progeny of the wicked Loki and
brother to Jormungand, the monstrous Midgard serpent that girded the earth, and
also to Hela, who was Death. The gods had created the strongest of fetters to
chain Fenrir, but he had broken the bonds as though they were made of cobwebs.
Angry and alarmed at seeing this, the gods had then dispatched a messenger to
the mountain spirits, and they had forged for the gods a chain known as
Gleipnir, fashioned of these six things: the sound made by a cat's footfall,
the beards of women, the roots of stones, the breath of fish, the nerves of
bears, and the spittle of birds. When complete, the fetter was as slender and
soft and delicate as a silken riband. But the were-wolf, suspecting that it was
enchanted, had refused to be bound by it unless he could hold in his mouth the
hand of one of the gods as hostage for their good faith. Knowing how they
planned to trick Fenrir, only Týr, the god of battles, had proved brave enough to place
his hand inside the were-wolf s massive jaws with their sharp, carnivorous
teeth; and when Fenrir had discovered he could not escape from the chain called
Gleipnir, he had bitten Týr's hand off at the wrist as punishment for deceiving
and imprisoning him.
But
now, Wulfgar thought, the were-wolf had at last somehow broken free of his
magical bonds and descended to Midgard, the earth. Wulfgar shuddered with fear
at the notion, for if that were indeed so, it could mean only one thing: that
Ragnarök, the twilight of the gods, was at hand. Now, too, would Garm, the
hound of Hel, howl; Jormungand, the terrible Midgard serpent, rise from the
seas to spew venom upon the earth; the giant Hrym sail forth Naglfar, the Ship
of the Dead; and the watchman,
stragglers struggled to catch up. But the slender, fletched shafts of the jarlar and thegns drove true; like
stinging bees, sharp iron barbs bit deep, bloodying greyish winter coats that
would never again turn red-brown with the summer, and a second barrage of
arrows followed the first as at least half a dozen more wounded roe deer,
bleating with pain and fear, staggered and rolled in a tangle of thrashing
limbs to be viciously fallen upon by the frenzied dogs.
Then
the hunters were there, shouting, cursing, and jerking the hounds back by
the collar and leashing them, while, with wild whoops of triumph and bloodlust,
the men ahorse dismounted to surge forward, as well. Now, like the rest of the
freedmen, Wulfgar rushed to catch the reins carelessly tossed to him by his
father and half brothers, and to give them their spears, with which they
brought low the few injured roe deer still endeavoring to lurch on. Then,
scramasaxes in hand, the jarlar and thegns waded into the melee
to deliver the death blows to those roe deer downed but still alive.
It
was then that in the cacophony, a streak of grey fur burst with a ferocious
snarl from a misty hollow beneath a rocky outcrop amid the scrub, where,
wounded in a fierce fray with a much younger foe and driven from its pack, it
had sought refuge. Across the wet, low-lying ground, the creature leaped, its
brain clouded from its injuries, its belly sharp with pain and hunger. For a
moment, caught up in the slaughter of the roe deer, the men were only dimly
aware of the flash of grey fur that bolted into their midst. Then Ivar cried
out hoarsely, a terrible sound, so the eyes of all who heard it were drawn to
him; and coming to their senses, the men realized that the beast that had
sprung from the hollow was a lone wolf, maddened with rage and and the smell
of blood. It had knocked Ivar down where he had knelt over one of the fallen
deer, and was now at his throat.
In
that instant, it seemed that time stopped and that all in the hunting party
were paralyzed, frozen with horror and disbelief. Never had Wulfgar seen a wolf
so huge; and it came to him in that seemingly eternal moment that it was no
ordinary wolf at all, but a were-wolf, Fenrir, progeny of the wicked Loki and
brother to Jormungand, the monstrous Midgard serpent that girded the earth, and
also to Hela, who was Death. The gods had created the strongest of fetters to
chain Fenrir, but he had broken the bonds as though they were made of cobwebs.
Angry and alarmed at seeing this, the gods had then dispatched a messenger to
the mountain spirits, and they had forged for the gods a chain known as
Gleipnir, fashioned of these six things: the sound made by a cat's footfall,
the beards of women, the roots of stones, the breath of fish, the nerves of
bears, and the spittle of birds. When complete, the fetter was as slender and
soft and delicate as a silken riband. But the were-wolf, suspecting that it was
enchanted, had refused to be bound by it unless he could hold in his mouth the
hand of one of the gods as hostage for their good faith. Knowing how they
planned to trick Fenrir, only Týr, the god of battles, had proved brave enough to place
his hand inside the were-wolf s massive jaws with their sharp, carnivorous
teeth; and when Fenrir had discovered he could not escape from the chain called
Gleipnir, he had bitten Týr's hand off at the wrist as punishment for deceiving
and imprisoning him.
But
now, Wulfgar thought, the were-wolf had at last somehow broken free of his
magical bonds and descended to Midgard, the earth. Wulfgar shuddered with fear
at the notion, for if that were indeed so, it could mean only one thing: that
Ragnarök, the twilight of the gods, was at hand. Now, too, would Garm, the
hound of Hel, howl; Jormungand, the terrible Midgard serpent, rise from the
seas to spew venom upon the earth; the giant Hrym sail forth Naglfar, the Ship
of the Dead; and the watchman,
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