Chapter Nine: The Binding of Faenrir

“Few relicts are so unique that they are given their own name. Faenrir, Vard’Atar, son of Al'Ashar and Eater of Worlds is one of them.”

—Ylva Norn, The Encyclopaedia of Daemons

“Seventy-nine… Eighty… Eighty-one…”

Sweat dripped from Ein’s brow as he swung his wooden blade again and again, cutting the evening air. Each motion was fluid and seamless, a sequence of steps with no unnecessary movements. Stepping forward, raising his sword, bringing it down in a whistle of wood and wind. His back was straight, his knees bent, centre of gravity low as he stared down his invisible opponent. With each complete swing he exhaled with a hiss, sending a breath of white from his lips.

“Are you done yet?”

He ignored Evaine’s voice, shutting it away in a small box that he locked and tossed into a corner of his mind. All it took was a moment’s lapse in concentration to decide the outcome of a battle. If you were lucky, you’d suffer a light wound or maybe a broken bone. If you were unlucky, or if your opponent knew what they were doing, your head would be separated from your neck. That was what his father had taught him, and Ein had never beaten Alend in all the times they’d crossed blades.

“Ninety-nine… one hundred.”

He panted, letting his sword fall to his side. Goose-flesh formed along his exposed arms and it wasn’t long before he was shivering with each touch of the wind. The patches of sweat on his chest and back were reaching uncomfortably low temperatures.

“Here,” Evaine called, tossing a towel towards him. Ein caught it and wiped himself, joining her by the back entrance to the forge where the fire still burned hot. He closed the door and sat down before the furnace, breathing steadily.

“I don’t understand you,” she said, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “Why even bother learning to use a sword if you’re never going to set foot outside Felhaven?”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Ein said. He rested the sword against the wall. “Father forced me to.” Along with numerous other things.

“He’s not here at the moment,” Evaine pressed. “Yet you’re still doing your drills. Just skip them; it’s only for a day.”

“Mother would tell him.”

“She’s not here either. She left with Cinnamin about an hour ago to help out at the inn.”

Ein listened. Evaine was right; aside from the crackle of the fire, he couldn’t hear a thing. They really were gone.

“The rest of the village is probably there already,” Evaine sighed. “I saw the troupers marching through a while ago. I hope they haven’t started their stories without us.”

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” he pointed out. “You could have just gone.”

Evaine picked up the wooden sword and tapped him on the shoulder. “They’d probably throw me into the kitchen to cook, or send me out as a barmaid.” She looked at the sword. “This is heavier than it looks.”

“Father makes the training swords heavier to build muscle.”

Evaine replaced it by the wall and smiled smugly. “Well, it’s working. I saw some of the trouper girls eyeing you on the way back.”

Ein flushed. “That’s ridiculous.” Were they really?

He placed the towel by the fire and slipped on his leather vest, drawing the strings tight around his collarbone. Evaine waited for him outside the forge as he doused the flames and closed the door. There were no thieves in Felhaven—there was no need to steal when you could borrow whatever you needed from your neighbour—so very few of the shops and houses actually had locks. If someone stole something, a quick search of the surrounding houses would usually uncover it.

They heard the troupers long before they reached the inn, above the grinding of feet on loose gravel and packed dirt. The festival stalls were all but ready, streams of lanterns hanging from roof to roof like chimes in the wind. Founder’s Eve was a single night’s sleep away. Ein might well find himself betrothed by this time tomorrow. Evaine was silent beside him, her deep eyes gazing far into the distance.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” he said.

“Hm?” She gave a start and turned to face him. They stood in front of the Sleeping Twinn as sounds of song and laughter washed over them.

“About leaving Felhaven and joining the troupers.”

Evaine cast her eyes to the ground. She opened her mouth as if to say something, and then stopped. She drew herself together and smirked, but the moment of hesitation had not escaped him.

“Of course I am.” Evaine pushed open the door and stepped inside before he could enquire further.

The inn was packed to the rafters. Every seat, every table was full, villagers and troupers alike sitting in circles touching mugs together in drunken movements. A group of men played cards and dice on one of the bigger tables, while another downed beer after beer in childish rivalries. Several of the unmarried Masters flirted with troupers and villagers alike, boasting with flushed faces and loud mouths. Three men sat around a trouper in the corner, chatting while feasting on what looked like a wolf roast. The trouper moved his hands in exaggerated movements, and the men watched with eyes that saw not the Sleeping Twinn, but dragons and princesses from faraway lands. Between the incessant drone of gossip and the raunchy singing of the lutist by the fireplace, and the splash of mead and the clatter of mugs being thumped onto the tables, Ein could barely hear himself think.

“Young Master Ein! And young Mistress Evaine! We were wondering when you’d arrive.” Mistress Caitlyn greeted them. She was dressed in the roughspun apron of a barmaid and appeared to be enjoying every inch of attention it brought her. Ein spotted his mother nearby in the same outfit, serving a group of rowdy men.

“Is there anything I can get you? Food or a drink? Don’t worry about paying; we wouldn’t have much in the way of food if it weren’t for you or your father.” She closed Ein’s fingers around the coins he had out and looked solemnly at Evaine. “Or the poor sheep on your farm. Do pass my best wishes to your parents.”

Evaine nodded curtly.

“I guess we can settle for something,” Ein said. “Maybe some bread and mutton.”

“I’ll take wolf,” Evaine said. “I feel a bit sick eating massacred sheep.”

“Of course. And the drinks?”

“Ale or cider mixed in with some water, I suppose,” Ein said. Evaine nodded in agreement. “Nothing too strong. I’d prefer to keep my head tonight.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll have your meal prepared right away. In the meantime, why don’t you take a seat? I’m sure you’ll find plenty in the way of entertainment.”

The Mistress left them, rushing off to take orders from another table while collecting a platter of empty mugs from a third.

“I’ve never seen this place so busy,” Evaine said.

“I don’t suppose your parents let you come here often, huh.” Ein spotted a familiar face and dragged Evaine to the fireplace where they sat down at a table full of villagers and troupers alike. Merrill Sutherland greeted them, his face flushed redder than Ein thought possible.

“You should listen to this one sing,” he said. “He’s absolutely brilliant. I’ve never heard anyone so funny in my life.”

The trouper in question sat surrounded by half-drunken men and rosy-faced women, a lute in his hands. When he looked up, Evaine gave a small gasp. His bronze skin was covered in a sheen of sweat and his cheeks were flushed red with ale, but it was unmistakably Aren.

“Ah, more flowers come to listen?” he winked at the pair. Evaine looked away, red-faced.

“Keep playing!” One of the women smiled sultrily, running her finger along Aren’s arm. “I could listen to you sing forever and a day.”

“Your fingers are so lively,” another said. “I’d be interested to see what else you could do with them.” She winked. Aren acted oblivious, ignoring the glares from the other men. Ein wondered if the trouper enjoyed building the hopes of women before dashing them against the rocks.

“This one I picked up from a busker in Aldoran,” Aren said, plucking at his lute. “I was almost arrested by the guards for singing it in public.” He lowered his head and played a quick series of chords before singing:

“Old man Glock had a very fine cock,

And a very fine cock had he!

Any girl that he bed, any woman that he wed,

Were as happy as happy could be!

Though some might say he was fast,

Or maybe not that skilled,

He took them in with a merry old grin

And left them all fulfilled!

Old man Glock you give me a shock

Every time we go to wee,

Old man Glock, still as stiff as a rock,

How I wish that you were me!”

The song seemed to rile the Masters and Mistresses even more. Ein was about to suggest leaving before a fight broke out when Garax the storyteller appeared beside him, plopping down on the seat with a yawn. He finished the mug of ale in his right hand and placed it on the table with a loud thump.

“I’ve heard that one before,” he yawned. “The men sing it in just about every city in Faengard.”

“Oh?” Aren raised a brow. “You’ve travelled outside this valley, old man?”

Garax held the trouper’s gaze, a small smile playing about his lips. “I daresay I’ve been to more places than you have, my boy.”

Aren shifted backwards in his seat and returned the smile. “Sing me something I haven’t heard, then.”

“Well, you see, I’m not so much a singer as a storyteller.” Garax leaned forward. “How about this? I hear you Travelling Folk brought a sorcerer with you this time around. Nights like these don’t come often, so let’s make the most of it and play a game.”

Merrill, Evaine and the rest of the table had gone silent. Garax had a way with his voice that simply demanded attention. It was a storyteller’s voice, one that made a promise within the first few words, and Garax had never been known to leave his promises unfulfilled.

“If I tell you a story you haven’t heard, your sorcerer puts on a fireworks show for us,” Garax continued. “Not the light shows the alchemists throw in the city. A proper show of rainbow embers and butterflies made of sparks, dragons of smoke and flame. A show like no other.”

A round of whispers erupted from the table. Fireworks were a rarity in all of Faengard, let alone the Sleeping Twins. A simple display of a few minutes could cost a fortune. Alchemists were capable of creating simple firecrackers, but only with the use of magic could true works of art be formed in the sky. For that, a sorcerer was needed.

“That’s very bold of you, old man,” Aren said. “But what if I’ve heard them all?”

“Well then…” Garax thought for a moment. “You can enjoy our hospitality at no cost to yourself.”

“Hang on a moment.”

Master Koth appeared behind them, his arms folded across his chest. The inn had fallen quiet as news of the challenge spread. Ein knew Garax held a large number of stories in his head, but to challenge a Child of the Wind? He was either confident in his ability or completely mad, and there was a saying people jokingly used in Felhaven—a man with no mane is oft insane.

“Who are you to go around wagering what doesn’t belong to you?” Koth glowered. “What if you lose?”

“I won’t.” Garax matched the innkeeper’s stare, his golden eyes twinkling.

Aren threw back his head and laughed. Several of the other troupers had begun to migrate to the table in interest.

“I like you, old man,” he said. “Father!” He called out to Herod, who watched with an amused look on his face. “Can I accept this man’s challenge?”

Herod shrugged. “Our sorcerer is preoccupied at the moment, but I expect he wouldn’t mind. You have my permission.”

“You realize we can’t lose, right?” Aren continued, still smiling at Garax. “Even if you somehow end up winning, we still gain a story in the process. To us, a story is worth more than all the coin in the world.”

“Hang on,” Koth interrupted. “What’s to stop you from lying and pretending you’ve heard it before?”

“A Child of the Wind would never do such a thing.” Aren made a disgusted face and raised a hand, placing it against his heart. “I swear it, on the Wind itself. But…” he eyed Garax. “What’s to say you won’t just make up a story that never happened?”

Garax raised a hand, mirroring the trouper. “I swear it on the Pantheon. I swear over Wyd’s dead body. I swear it on the Wind itself.”

Aren held his hand before his heart for a moment longer. The inn fell into a pregnant silence, broken only by the snoring of a single man beside the fire. Founder’s Eve hadn’t even started and Ein already knew it was going to be the most memorable one yet.

“Well,” the trouper said. “You have my attention. Let’s play this game of yours.”

Garax cleared his throat and leaned back.

“Very well. Our story begins a long time ago, in a land far far away...”

Our story begins a long time ago, in a land far far away. Not so long ago as to precede the Age of the Gods, and not so far away as to leave the realm of Faengard behind. The land as we know it today was different back then. Mountains had yet to rise, seas had yet to form, and the great cities and states of now were still fledgling settlements by the roadside.

Aren scoffed. “By the Wind, this must be the start of every story ever.”

The world had been torn asunder by the Great War, the relicts sealed behind the Ward Tree. The Hundred Years War had begun, though it was more of a massacre than a war. Stragglers from the First Age who’d escaped the Sealing were stalked and slain across the countryside by the Templars, a group of enigmatic demon hunters who answered only to the Three Kings themselves.

One of the relicts left behind was a young wolf by the name of Faenrir. Faenrir was the son of Al'Ashar the Destroyer himself, the Oathbreaker, the Faceless Ruler. Faenrir found his way into our world by accident, and when the gate to Nephilheim was sealed, he became trapped in an unknown land full of humans and other strange creatures.

The first time Faenrir encountered a human was at a farm, with a pen full of many sheep behind a fence. Faenrir was unsure of why they all shied away from him, even when he just wanted to play. As he sniffed around the edge of the paddock, he saw a wolfhound that looked similar to himself. He barked a greeting, but the animal turned on its tail and fled.

Faenrir visited that farm for many more days, trying to speak to the wolf-like beast but never finding any luck. Every time it saw him it would howl as if it were in great pain and run away, diving through the door of the farmstead. Faenrir tried to ask the sheep, but all they did was bleat in fear.

One day, the beast stood its ground and barked at him. Go away, it said. It told him he was not welcome at the farm. Two taller creatures, whom Faenrir would later learn were called “humans” shot sticks with pointed ends at him, driving him back. One of the sticks pierced his hide, causing him great pain.

As Faenrir fled back into the forest, he wondered why he was treated so. After he pulled the stick from his side and bathed himself in the river, he saw his reflection and realized he was different to the wolfhound. He had eyes the colour of blood and fur the colour of the moon. Although he was the same shape as the beast on the farm, he was not the same.

Hunters came for him that night, humans dressed in the skin of animals and the forest, wielding more of the pointed missiles. Faenrir fled long and hard through the woods, but he could not shake them off no matter how hard he tried. It was not until he was forced into a corner with nowhere to go that he was saved. A pack of wolves emerged from the bushes, great beasts bigger than he was, although still different in appearance. They drove the humans back and took Faenrir in as one of their own, teaching him their ways.

The humans were not to be trusted, they said. They were young and reckless, and did not think of the consequences of their actions. They destroyed forests, usurped the natural order and only cared for their own race. Faenrir spent the equivalent of his childhood with the wolves, learning to hunt and kill, learning the rules of the wild. He had finally found his place… or so he thought.

Rumours of a silver wolf with red eyes in the countryside spread quickly, and the Templars found their way to the forest where Faenrir lived. A terrible hunt ensued, one where humans clad in steel and fire chased the wolves through the trees, mowing them down relentlessly. Faenrir’s pack was killed, and in their dying moments, they turned on him, cursing his appearance and how it had undone them all. Faenrir himself managed to escape, but only barely. He’d killed several men by his own teeth and suffered just as many injuries, and as he lay down to die, he wondered why he had ever been born.

Faenrir did not die, however.

He woke up to find himself inside one of the human houses, tended by a boy with a kind face. The boy’s name was not important, nor where he lived, only that he lived far away at the edge of civilisation. He was a simple shepherd who watched over the sheep on his farm alongside a trusty wolfhound and his widowed father.

It took a long time for Faenrir to realize the boy did not want him dead. Faenrir was always cautious, accepting the boy’s food hesitantly, always eyeing his throat and the door in case things went awry. But as Faenrir healed, his heart began to soften and he wondered if there was kindness in the world after all.

The boy liked to explore the woods in his free time, pretending he was an intrepid explorer navigating his way through an ancient forest. The days back then were longer and brighter than now, but the winters were still the same. Winters are the same no matter where you go—cold, wet and miserable. When Faenrir was able to walk, he and the boy spent many long evenings wandering the woods of his infancy, enjoying each other’s company. Faenrir began to think that maybe not all humans were the same, after all.

Time passed. Faenrir grew like a normal wolfhound, running out to meet the boy whenever he returned from his trips to the market, playing fetch, chasing the pigeons through the summer fields, his tongue lolling towards the ground in a happy grin, and when the boy’s other hound passed away, Faenrir took its place as the sheepherder.

Time passed, and the boy became a man. Faenrir grew to the size of an adult wolf, and the young Mistress who the man brought home often passed him fearful glances. The man reassured her. His wolf was a dear friend and would not harm a soul save the animals in the forest it hunted for food.

Time passed, and the man’s father passed away. He and his young wife moved into the old farm. Faenrir continued to grow; he was the size of a small horse now, and the man often rode him with his wife. He was swifter than the wind and jumped higher than the birds, and a single glare from his blood-red eyes sent wild bears and other wolves fleeing in fear.

The Hundred Years War was nearly over, and the Three Kings made a final push to erase all traces of the relicts from Faengard. Calls were sent across the land for people with information to come forward, so that the last vestiges of evil could be purged. The man’s wife heard them among the rumour mongers in the villages. The relicts were dangerous, they said. Pure evil, demonspawn, tainting the very air they breathed. The seed of doubt grew in her mind, and when she saw the bounty offered for a live relict, she succumbed to greed. On a night with no moon, she approached the King’s men and informed them of the demon wolf residing at her home.

The leader of the Templars himself rode out that night, for the demon wolf had been deemed dead nearly a decade ago. Its name was Faenrir, and it was a child of Al'Ashar himself, the Forsaken One, the Oathbreaker, the Destroyer. A small army gathered outside the farm that night, and the man was beside himself with grief when he realized he’d been betrayed by his own wife. Faenrir had not stopped growing—he was the size of a small house now, and he could see truth in the words of the King’s men. He was no wolf—he was a demon. The Three-winged Crow herself had deemed him an enemy of the world.

So it came to be. On that night with the enemy at his doorstep, Faenrir fled—

“That’s not how the stories go.” Evaine spoke up from beside Ein, startling him. “Faenrir was poisoned by his master, wasn’t he? At least, in all the times you’ve told us this story.”

“Stories change all the time,” Garax said. “Have you ever played Felen Whispers?”

“Felen Whispers?” Ein asked. “I’ve never heard of that one before.”

“It’s also known as ‘Rumour Wheel’,” Merrill interjected. The red flush had somewhat faded from his face. No one in the room had drank for a while. “We used to play it while we were waiting for Mistress Rhea to cut our hair. Remember?”

“Oh,” Ein said. “That one.”

One of the young Mistresses who’d tried to sneak beneath Aren’s arms sang:

“Rumour wheel, rumour wheel,

What stories have we to reveal?”

“In a game of Rumour Wheel, how many times does the original story remain the same after passing through one ‘wheel’?” Garax asked.

A few of the troupers chuckled. “You’d be lucky if your tavern brawl didn’t erupt into a lone man taking on an entire legion of guards with a flaming sword,” one of them said.

Garax nodded. “Exactly. There’s bound to be some changes to the original story.”

“The Children of the Wind are pretty good at keeping their stories unchanged, though,” Alend pointed out. Ein hadn’t even noticed his father’s presence until now. “I expect they’d need to be if they wanted to make a living off telling stories.”

“What are you trying to say?” Aren interrupted.

“Well…” Garax paused, looking past the crowd of tentative faces that stared back at him. “The only way you can be certain you’re hearing the story as it was first told…”

“Get on with it already,” Koth growled. “Some of us have got to wake up early for tomorrow, you know.”

Garax gave a secretive smile.

With the enemy at his doorstep, Faenrir turned and fled. He fled across the rolling hills and plains, his powerful strides covering ground faster than a falcon in a full dive. He flew across the treetops, past rivers and lakes, leaping over mountains with a single bound. The Templars and the King’s army were never far behind—they were everywhere, every city and town he passed by, every well-worn road, every roadside inn. There was nowhere for Faenrir to hide. The human race had populated the entire world.

During this time, Faenrir heard more and more rumours about himself. During the string of prophecies the Three-winged Crow announced ending in the “Twilight of the World,” she recited a list of relicts who would ultimately contribute to the demise of Faengard, and Faenrir was one of them. The wolf was to eventually swallow the sun and plunge the world into an eternal darkness. Morene Gylfaginor was the greatest prophet in the land, and her clairvoyance had a record of never failing her. According to her, Faenrir had grown too big to be killed by conventional means—he could only be bound and chained so as to never threaten the world again. Faenrir had always wondered why he’d never stopped growing, surpassing the size of his wolf brothers so long ago. Now, he knew.

The King sent his best men to trap the wolf, and with them they took Glepnir—fetters forged from the sound of a cat’s footfall, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of a fish and the spittle of a bird, pounded together under a dweor hammer. The fetters were as thin as a silken ribbon but stronger than the strongest chain, and according to Morene was the only chain that could bind Faenrir. Even then it would not hold it forever, for the demon wolf would never stop growing until the end of time, and it would eventually burst free from its bonds.

As the hunt reached its climax, the Templars found the man who had once been Faenrir’s friend and offered him a deal. They promised him fortune and fame if he turned in his friend. The man refused at first, but he was only a simple man and with some prodding from his wife, he agreed.

On a night reminiscent of the night they’d met, the man tricked Faenrir. He met the wolf under a full moon and convinced him that the King’s men did not seek to kill, but rather guide him back to Nephilheim where he would be released. However, in order to do so, they needed to bind him so he would not turn on them. Faenrir was heavy with suspicion, but the man had saved his life and taken him in. Faenrir had grown up alongside him, watching him grow from a boy to a man. Faenrir trusted him. He wanted to trust him, wanted to believe in the kindness of the world. As a token of goodwill, he requested the man place his hand within his jaws until they reached Aedrasil and he was freed.

The man placed his hand within Faenrir’s maw, but he could not look the wolf in the eyes. Glepnir was fitted around Faenrir’s legs and pulled tight, so tight that he fell to the ground and split the earth. Instead of leading Faenrir to the Tree, the Templars tethered him to the ground at what is now the Summit of the World and walked away with thoughts of fortune and fame. Realizing he’d been deceived, Faenrir howled in despair and tore off the man’s hand. He had been betrayed once again.

Faenrir struggled against his bonds with all his might, but alas, the bonds were forged from impossibilities, so escape itself also became impossible. Faenrir still waits today, chained to the very same spot, ever growing in size, never stopping. When the Twilight of the World begins, he will break free from his bonds and devour the sun, plunging the world into perpetual darkness.

“This is drivel,” Aren spat. “Everyone knows Faenrir was killed. What’s this nonsense about fetters and hands?”

“It’s the truth,” Garax said simply. “I swear it on the Wind.”

Angry whispers escaped the troupers as they expressed their distaste. “He’s making it up.” “He knew he was going to lose.” “He’s mad.” “Where did he hear this from?” Herod stroked his chin and appeared to be thinking.

Garax leaned back from the table with a serious look.

“As I was saying,” he said, glancing at Koth and Alend, “the only way to verify a story as real and unchanged… is to hear it from the one who lived it.”

Garax raised his right arm from beneath the table and rolled back his sleeve for everyone to see. Where there should have been a hand was only a stump, bound with linen bandages.