Phoenix Rising (10 page)

He hoarded the words, using his coveted knowledge occasionally to impress Metrotis, but he never revealed that for every word he pronounced accurately, he understood five more.
 

It was simple, really: listen to what Metrotis said, then listen to Sigurd relay the information, and then follow the return journey of his own words to Metrotis. Some of the words in his own language were even similar in some way to the language of the iron men, or the Adarnans, as he had learned they called themselves.
 

The second aspect of Wulf’s game revolved around information. For every piece of information given away, whether true or imagined, he gleaned at least a dozen for himself. He knew now that the Empire of the Adarnans spread all the way from south of the valley of death – where so many of Wulf’s people had died – to the frozen north, where Metrotis said there lived men who ate fish and hunted seals, much as some of his own people did in the far south.
 

When he had first grasped the size of this empire Wulf was appalled. One nation, which Metrotis informed him actually consisted of many nations, all living in harmony across an area that it would take a man months to cross on foot. The breadth of the Empire was far greater than the distance Wulf’s people had travelled to escape the enemy. With his new knowledge, he did not believe his people had ever truly had a hope of defeating the Adarnans.

Perhaps one day he will cross the boundary
, Wulf mused, letting his eyes drift to the line on the stone floor that marked the limit of his manacled reach.
Perhaps Metrotis will grow to trust me and I will kill him and escape this cursed place
. Perhaps he would enjoy crushing the life out of the whining little wretch. Then escape, and feel the sun on his back. Run and hunt and wrestle again.

“Wulf,” said Metrotis, his tone even more petulant than usual. “Concentrate!”

Wulf grinned. He fully understood the words, yet he still made a point of turning to Sigurd, ensuring his expression was inquisitive.

Sigurd coughed gently into his hand; he looked mildly embarrassed. Wulf suspected the fisherman knew that games were being played.

“Master Metrotis would like you to concentrate please, Wulf.” Sigurd’s eyes assumed a pleading aspect. “Our session is almost done for the day and the sooner he is satisfied, the sooner we will be able to go home.” Perhaps realising the impact of his words, Sigurd raised a placating hand. “Forgive me, Wulf; you know what I mean.”

Wulf’s grin grew wider. He liked Sigurd, the man stank of fish – although thankfully, each day the odour lessened – but that was nothing to hold against him; Wulf had smelt a lot worse. The fisherman understood something of the honour and traditions of his people. Sigurd’s folk even worshipped the gods of sky, wood and earth, except that they had the tempestuous god of the sea, Sessus, at the head of their pantheon rather than the true King, Alarus, god of the sky and bringer of thunder. He was sure that there must be kinship between Sigurd’s fisher people and his own people of Wickland.
 

“It is no problem, my friend. My home is far behind me and forgotten by the world. This is my home now.” Wulf grabbed his chains in his fists and rattled them gently. “This is a comfortable home.” He shrugged half-heartedly.

Metrotis began to speak again rapidly. He repeated the same words as he spoke as if to reassure himself.
 

Wulf concentrated hard to understand. He would be asked about the reason for his people’s migration again, the reason they had come north.

“He wants to know who the enemy is,” Sigurd relayed. “He says that he does not believe that the enemy are fire giants riding aurox and wielding whips. He says that he knows you are playing with him and that he is tired of the children’s stories that you are feeding him.” Sigurd paused and motioned gently towards Metrotis. “He says there are no such things as giants and you know it. His uncle is growing impatient for progress and if there is a threat to his people he must know what it is.”
 

Sigurd paused, a dejected look on his face. “Wulf, please. I have a wife and three children living in this city. I know you do not love the Adarnans and I do not blame you. But I am not Adarnan, my children are not Adarnan.” He glanced nervously at Metrotis, perhaps wondering if the man knew what he was saying. “If the nomads have united and are moving north, please tell me. I give you my word I will not tell this man. If my family are in danger, I need to know. Perhaps I can get them out of the city, go back to the Basking islands, go back to my home. I know the nomads will not cross water; we will be safe.” He paused again and looked at Metrotis, who was clearly growing impatient. “I cannot leave my business unless it is serious. Please, Wulf. Our people are kin – you know this…”

Metrotis interrupted. He seemed to be questioning Sigurd on what he was saying, but Sigurd just shrugged and pointed to Wulf, perhaps making an excuse. Wulf couldn’t be sure though – the exchange was too quick to keep track of.
 

Wulf let his head drop and looked at his hands. They were calloused and worn from their constant battle with the chains that bound him. He wondered how he would feel if his own family was in Sigurd’s position, then realised that they were in the same position, if not dead already.

“Sigurd!” Wulf snapped his head up. He had not meant to speak sharply but his frustration was rising. “Take your family home. Get back to your islands, but I cannot say they will not come to you there.”

Sigurd turned sharply to look at him, ignoring Metrotis completely for the moment. “They?”

“If they come for this empire of Adarnans, then it is
done
. Take your family and leave, my friend – whilst you can.”
 

A shout echoed from the corridor outside – it sounded like one of the gaolers – followed by a clash of blades and a heavy thud.
 

Metrotis’s mouth dropped open and he looked at Wulf and Sigurd, his eyes wide with fear and surprise.
 

There was silence from the corridor.
 

Wulf stood slowly.
This could be your chance
. Hope was dangerous, yet he allowed himself to think there might be a realistic prospect of escape. Perhaps the remnant of his people had come north in force to take the city, perhaps they had not run and hidden as Metrotis had always maintained.

Sigurd turned to Wulf and nodded slowly, his eyes darted nervously towards the corridor. The fisherman moved gingerly to the door and stretched out his hand for the latch.
 

The door burst open.
 

A dark figure materialised beyond Sigurd and rushed towards him. Sigurd raised his hands reflexively for protection. It was to no avail; the tip of a sword burst through his back, and sprayed a fine mist of blood across Wulf’s face.

Wulf’s body responded on instinct, his arms shot up and he rushed forward. Pain erupted in his wrists as the chains binding him snapped taut. He strained against them, fire burned in his shoulders, but the iron did not yield.
 

Metrotis let out a yelp and scampered away from the carnage towards Wulf. He crossed the line on the floor – and the safety it represented.
 

As Metrotis retreated, the attacker – a hooded man dressed in grey – withdrew his sword from Sigurd’s twitching body and stepped into full view. Sigurd hit the floor with a thud, his head cracking on the slabs as his body juddered feebly, his life quickly fading away.
 

A second, shorter man dressed the same as the first, long blond hair stuck with sweat to his forehead, entered the cell. Sigurd’s killer turned and whispered something to his comrade, and the second man moved back into the corridor and disappeared from view.

A woman’s scream pierced the air, distant and muffled but long and forlorn. Wulf guessed there must be more attackers nearby. Disappointment flooded his body as he realised his people had not come to find him. This was an attack on the Adarnans. His own involvement was an accident.

Metrotis stood frozen to the spot in front of Wulf, staring at the assailant, his arms outstretched in supplication. “No!” he shouted. “No, no, please.”
 

Wulf reached out, grabbed Metrotis and dragged him backwards so fast that he lost his balance and landed in a heap on the cot. He looked at Wulf and raised his hands defensively before his face, abject terror shining in his eyes.

 
“Metrotis,” Wulf snarled. “Stay.” He had often heard Metrotis using this command with the man – who Wulf was certain was also a captive – in what he assumed must be another cell nearby.

He turned towards the hooded killer, bared his teeth and smashed his fists into his chest three times. The frenzied rattling of chains echoed in the cell. “Come. Come to Wulf!”
 

The man moved forward cautiously. He drew a small, wickedly pointed knife with his left hand. He gave his sword two practice swings as he approached, loosening his arm for the fight to come.
 

From the man’s movements, Wulf felt certain that he knew how to fight.

He stepped back, letting the chains hang loose to the floor. The killer would make his move – a straight, sword-led charge or a quick lunge and retreat. His sword was short in the fashion of the Adarnan men and Wulf thanked the gods for this: his reach would not be long.
 

Heart pumping, blood coursing through his body, Wulf tried to force himself to relax. The battle rage rose. Grasping tendrils of berserker fury fought for control of his body, pleading with him for release, but he forced them back down into the pit of his stomach. This was no time for rage; he needed his wits about him.

When the hooded man made his move, it was fast. He feinted right. Wulf’s body reacted without thought, responding even as he realised it was a trick, a feint. He cursed himself for the miscalculation.
 

The attacker switched his footing with practised speed, aiming a stab with his knife, directly at the heart.

Wulf twisted to avoid the blow. He whipped the slack in his chains forwards, they were not long enough to reach the hooded man’s face, but his head flinched backwards instinctively nonetheless.
 

It was all the distraction Wulf needed. He grabbed the man’s sword arm below the wrist, then twisted him around with all his strength and clutched him by the throat from behind. With a great heave, he drove the man’s own sword through his back, up under the ribcage. The man let out a gurgling scream as the blade clove his heart, and then slumped, heavy and lifeless in his arms.

Wulf dropped the corpse in disgust and turned to Metrotis. He twitched his arms so that the chains rattled again. “Free,” he said. “Metrotis… free… Wulf.”

Metrotis was shaking, but he managed to nod his head in understanding as he gasped for breath. He stood, reached into a pocket and produced an iron key, then fumbled – almost dropping it – as he unlocked Wulf’s wrist shackles with trembling hands.

Wulf smiled and rubbed his wrists. Somehow, the pain felt good, it felt like freedom.

Freedom.

If he could get out of the building, he might have a hope of leaving the Adarnans behind, of finding his people.
 

He looked down at the body of Sigurd. His friend looked peaceful in death. A large pool of blood grew slowly around him from the gaping wound in his chest. The fisherman’s palms had been sliced open, probably when trying to grab the blade of the sword that killed him.
 

Sigurd was a distant kinsman, dead by the hand of an unknown and cowardly enemy. Those who attacked unarmed men had no place in this world, it went against all the laws that Alarus – great god of the sky – had laid down when he created the world. Such men should be consigned, screaming, to hell, where they would burn for eternity. He forced his gaze away from Sigurd. Somehow the man became the echo of every fallen kinsman, the shadow of past pain. He could not allow his people to suffer more pain.
 

Metrotis looked into his eyes. The man was afraid, his eyes flicking from the bodies in the room to the open cell door. “Wulf, you must help… us.” The words were slow, deliberate, and spoken in heavily accented Wicklandish.

A shout echoed through the building, distorted by distance, a death cry perhaps. He frowned as he registered the strangeness of Metrotis’s words “You learned my language?” he replied in Wicklandish.

Metrotis nodded quickly. “Yes, a little, yes. You learn Adarnan. I guess that already.” He drew a breath, hesitated. “…I learn Wicklandish… a little.”

Wulf laughed as he had not laughed since leaving his homeland, sudden mirth erasing – temporarily at least – thoughts of his people. He clapped Metrotis on the shoulder with such force that he winced. “You learned Wicklandish…” He shook his head at the sheer wonder of it. “Wulf likes you. You are tricky.”
 

In that moment, he decided that the little man would live. For now at least.

Metrotis shrugged. His eyes darted to the blood-soaked sword buried in the back of the hooded attacker. “Yes, well, yes… Tricky.” He paused and eyed the body again. “Like you though, Wulf. Like you.” Another scream echoed through the corridor outside. Metrotis flinched. “Wulf, I get help… Will you help? I free you...”

Wulf nodded. He needed to move. He needed to run with the sun on his body and the wind in his face. First though, above all things, he needed to vent his pent-up rage. “Yes, Wulf is free…”
 

He knelt down and pulled the sword from the corpse at his feet. His companion winced at the noise the blade made as the suction was released. He retrieved the dagger and handed it to Metrotis, who looked at it with a puzzled expression.
 

I am free,
he thought.
I should kill this fool and run. What do I owe this man?
But he knew that he wouldn’t, he knew that he couldn’t. The strong did not prey on the weak and pitiful, who could not defend themselves. There was no sport in such work. There was no honour.