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A honed pair of amber eyes glare out into the desolate night, scanning the few skeletal trees for any sign of movement. The sky is dark, with barely a prick of starlight to break the midnight veil, and across the haunted marches, nothing stirs.

The watchman shivers, uttering a snarl, wrinkling his muzzle, baring his fangs at the cold. He desires the warmth of the hall at his back, the golden firelight shining out from the open doors. The gentle seductions of mirth lap at his ears, washing over the lone figure in waves. Yet someone must keep watch for the hearth. The night beyond is a haunted dominion that summons all manner of vengeful creatures.

So upon the wooden walls he stalks, spear in hand, shield in the other, his presence pronounced with the heavy thud of his mailed step. He carries no torch; he does not need a light to see. Under the failing stars his eyes are masters of all that lies before them, yet, a man he is not, but a great wolf, one with the face of such a beast, and ah! the strength of that wild race too! Even in faint starlight, the lustre of his fur shines in the gloom, and in every panted breath, the pearled tips of his fangs peek from his maw to account for the lack of stars overhead.

In the night, his shining eyes may mistake him for a monster, but there is a beauty in his sight, beyond that of man - his face is one of boldness, furnished with a fine muzzle that slopes proudly from his grey furred cheeks, and a black snout that perceptively quivers in the night. He is a sight of sharpness, his pointed muzzle, strong cheeks, and triangular ears mounted upon his skull - the true visage of the wolf, none of the sharp edges tamed, the shape of a warrior.

Then in the corner of his sight, wolves like him, the shield-brothers and sword-sisters beckon, gesturing quickly with open arms and nodding heads, ushering him in from the empty night to share a warm fire and the stories of their wagging tongues.

They lie huddled within the stone tower, arrayed against its circular walls, their bodies warding the precious flames from jealous air that whistles between cracks in the mortar. They are warriors too, clad in fine coats of mail, scale, and leather tack, ready to take to the bow, the sword and the spear at a moment's notice.

A white wolf with liquid brown eyes, clad in fine grey mail, rises to his feed in a start, waving quickly to the watchmen.

"Ithavoll, come, sit! Come from the cold! Let Althjof take your watch - I can see your eyes are weary at any rate!"

As he stood weighing the calls of his kin, something moved, upon the hill. Perhaps he saw a stranger on the high fells, a black wolf against the night, like none he had ever seen. But as he turned his head, there was nothing but the air. It seemed his confusion betrayed itself.

"Have you heard the tales, of that wolf who roams across the fells?" Viotharr smiles, a wolf of yellow eyes and earthy furs. "I've heard his fur is as dark as midnight, and his eyes are like amber suns sunken against his shadowed pelt."

Ithavoll shakes his head, the white flecks of his mane whipped into shape by his denial. Viotharr huffs, blue eyes searching round the table of his companions.

"Have you not heard the tales?"

They are silent. Some of them lie asleep, their snouts barely poking out from their fur lined hoods.

"He carries a greatsword on his back, which has slain many beasts!"

"I will believe them only when I see him," Ithavoll grunts, pulling Althjof to his feet.

"He is real," Althjof states, his naive eyes wide, but he is merely pointed along the way.

"We shall relieve you in three hours' time," Ithavoll tells him, watching as he steps out into the cold.

Viotharr looks into the fire. The silence of his companions worries him, their spirits threatening to push the flames low, and into embers. Reaching into a lined leather case - as delicately wrought as the sheath of a sword, he pulls out his mechanical lyre, a music piece with haunting melody, crafted in lands further south. The lacquered wood gleams in the firelight, the flames dancing across its oiled surface, painting it a deep burgundy and extenuating the fine grain. With a pause, the wolf collects himself, making himself comfortable upon the furs. He clears his throat, slowly playing a pressing melody from the hurdy-gurdy upon his lap. The others take up to the song, one plucking heavenly chords on the lyre, whilst others hum a deep, resonant tune, in accord with the music.

Silence comes, and there, with all eyes upon him, he utters his first word.

"Come, I shall tell you his story..."

***

Prologue: The Rise of the Nations

Listen! It shall be told now, a great from the many tales

Of those Northland realms raised beyond the icy peaks.

Sing, Goddess! Of a race blessed with fierce warriors

And golden kings enthroned before the high-veiled sky,

Secure in their long halls, and as a people will prosper.

Many a time a warrior of the swift sword earned the Jarl's gift,

Of golden rings, finest blades and coats of mail, but still

Even when buried with gold among the funeral barrow,

The greatest names of the North clan still

Sit at the head of the mead hall, second before only their lord.

They command the worthy deeds in the undying songs;

Heroic lays passed down upon mortal tongues.

So! Our blood-kin are a hardy breed honed

Among misted mountains topped by purest snows.

They dwell deep within their stone walled fjords,

Therein lie brothers and sisters, generations of heroics old,

That share our lupine blood, strong and red.

We have heard how by birth they are our kin,

And yes, as a foundling race we have come far.

We Sail over stormed seas and made home on distant shores

So all the earth knows our paws' weighty step!

But I tell you, our close breeding does not make one worth salt.

Battle-brothers and sword-sisters are born in blood or

Spilt in battle, now there the bonds of breeding quail!

So it was fated, that among the hottest of flames,

Our bond of friendship for the Northern kin was forged.

We hold each other to that tie still, made that day

On the pine forest shores of Hafrsfjord.

The trees turned grey that day, and the ravens mute

For much blood was spilt ,for two days the sides fought.

Many a brave warrior tumbled down to bite the dust,

But there were no more tears for lamentation, the dead

Lay down in the field for days, with only the women

Crying shrill for them, for they were not trained to fight.

And our dead were beyond the count of grief.

I tell you, only the ravens tended to those souls,

Who compelled by honour, fell first without burial.

The foe was cruel enough to not allow us to tend the dead,

So now with every furious sally upon the field,

Victory stood doubtful, weighing upon every blow.

Then the North arrived in the time of direst need,

Called to our aid by the chance to win great glory.

And charging across the shingles and shale grey stones,

They pushed the foe's shieldwall back, and with unbridled valour,

Redoubled our blows upon the foe, until Hjörld the great mane,

Wrecker of mead halls, giver of rings, the swift sword-breaker came;

Disdaining the seer's fortunes that told of his downfall on the shore,

With brandished steel gleaming through the fog of war, he

Carved out a bloody passage, with fangs bared faced the foe,

And unseamed him from the nave to the chops!

On those bloody shores, he turned the seas incarnadine,

By his peerless example, his people endeavoured in their fight,

Their swords swung down, terrible as falling suns.

Upon their shields shattered their enemies' swords.

That was one good fight! But Oh! Shed a tear

For on that day many paid the greatest price,

And the halls of valour were hard pressed for choice.

For such heroics Hjörld paid too, the heavy toll,

And under weight of wounds, scattered the shale

With his fall. Tears in eyes, a great cry rose,

And so moved were our warriors by his fall

That sorrow flared into roars redoubled

With flashing fangs, and fearsome force.

A great Berserk rage fell upon the foe,

Until utterly spent, like swimmers in the sea,

We fought until strokes could fall no more, and the bodies

The foe no longer resembled the fury they once were.

And so we drove the enemy forever from the field.

Gasping in snatched breaths, Hjörld held on,

Whilst his húskarlar wept, and conveyed him upon their shields,

Howling their tears, and tearing at their hair, clutching at their

Golden rings, given by Hjorld as gifts for their bravery,

But it now seemed a mockery.

"We are not fit to bear such gear!" Cried they.

"When the time was great, and our lord called upon us

We were not there to receive the sword, now we suffer shame,

All of us."

Great was the guilt that they failed to protect their lord.

And with terrible curses, and hexes that disturbed the waters,

They swore litanies of revenge, raked their claws through their skin,

And sealed these deeds as blood-sworn oaths.

Our king, Aethelwald, who by the same slayer

Of Hjörld, lay close to death, heard the cries

And knowing the battle was won at such a cost, mustered

These words.

"Friends, do not weep like this is defeat!

Warriors all seek the end sword in hand,

Where all might see you fall in the full vigor.

A curse it is to waste into a grey wraith with a thin pelt.

Weep not, I could not stand such of Time's mockery.

I go now to my kin in my prime. My wounds are deep.

Bear me hence to Hjorld."

The dusk grew among the pine branches

And under torchlight procession, both kings

Were borne to a secret spring. By command

They were conveyed into the waters.

To seal the pact, their blood mingled,

To flow down the stream like one vein.

Thus the two heroes were born to the gods,

To stand sure together sure as swords in stone,

And become the black wolf's kin by spilled blood.