Time of the Wolf by James Wilde

Viking’s shoulders dropped, his stout legs braced. Fingers twitched toward his axe, but he would not dare raise his weapon in the earl’s hall, Hereward knew. His mouth torn wide in a battle cry, the huscarl thundered forward, broad arms wide and fingers crooked.
    The warrior met his opponent like an oak resisting a gale. Bone and muscle clashed like hammers. Digging his filthy, broken nails deep into Hereward’s upper arms, the huscarl attempted to fling the warrior toward the hearth and was surprised when his rival, taller but slighter, resisted. The two men threw each other around the hall in a wild dance. Thangbrand was strong, but in his blood-driven state Hereward felt no pain, only burning rage; no exhaustion, only a single-minded will to crush the man before him.
    Attempting to cripple, the Viking kicked at the tendons at the back of Hereward’s ankles. The Mercian shifted his weight to avoid the strikes and butted his head into Thangbrand’s face. The huscarl’s nose exploded. Hereward scented blood, and his head thrummed in response. He butted again, shattering teeth.
    As the Viking reeled back, he raked his nails across Hereward’s face, attempting to hook out an eye. The Mercian caught a finger and snapped it. Howling, Thangbrand crashed into the bench, grasped a cup, and flung mead at his opponent’s head. Blinded, Hereward staggered back. The cup rammed against his skull. Stars flashed behind his eyes.
    Spitting like a wildcat, Acha threw herself onto Thangbrand. The Viking shook her off, punching her in the jaw for good measure, and Hereward felt the last of his control drain from him. With a roar, he leaped.
    Impressions flashed through his mind, like the sun through branches on a woodland gallop. Thangbrand’s face torn in horror. Blood spraying, blows raining down. Hereward’s silent world spun, for how long he did not know, flashes of fists whipping through his head in a blur until the stink of searing flesh in his nose brought him to his senses.
    One hand was gripping Thangbrand’s throat, while the other was holding the Viking’s face, side on, in the blazing fire. Screams were tearing out through shattered teeth and ragged lips, sounding, Hereward thought, almost like a gull’s cry. The huscarl’s features were almost unrecognizable, so badly beaten were they. And now the right side of his face sizzled and charred.
    Rough hands dragged Hereward back. The reedy screams died to a whimper as the Viking mercifully lost consciousness in the arms of his rescuers.
    Whatever had transpired during the time that was lost to him, Hereward could see that it had affected every man and woman in the room. Eyes flashed toward him, filled with fear or loathing, but those gazes never lay upon him for more than a fleeting moment for fear they would draw his attention. Nothing he saw there surprised him. Such looks had followed him since he’d been a child. Alone as ever, he had survived, and that was all that counted.
    â€œAnimal.”
    â€œDevil.”
    The same words repeated, as they always had been, as they always would be. The pulse of blood in Hereward’s head faded away. He didn’t struggle against the strong arms holding him fast, or flinch when axes rose to his chest. He ignored the curses and the threats and the hate-filled stares. Raising his head, he looked for Acha, but she was nowhere to be seen, and Judith too appeared to have fled the hall. Even those he wanted to please could not bear to see him. As always.
    No matter. He had survived.
    â€œWait.”
    The bodies surrounding Hereward parted. Tostig strode up to the warrior, his sharp blue eyes searching his guest’s face. In a low, emotionless voice, he said, “You have stained my hall with blood. You came here seeking my aid, yet you have done all within your power to give offense. What do you truly wish, Hereward Asketilson? To destroy yourself? If so, the road you have