Chapter 65: The Funeral and the Oath-Taking Ceremony
Chapter 65: The Funeral and the Oath-Taking Ceremony
Old Eric's funeral pyre was built before dawn.
On an open stretch of ground by the Tromsø waterfront, pine wood had been split into strips and stacked layer by layer to chest height.
The body was wrapped in a clean wolf clan battle robe.
Old Eric's arms were crossed over his chest. His hunting rifle had been broken in two, and Marcus placed the pieces to his right — stock facing in, barrel facing out — the same way he had held it charging through the Rhine Valley all those years ago.
Cole stood before the pyre.
The ground around it was packed with people.
Over six hundred warriors stood in formation across the open ground, the edges of the formation stretching all the way to the dock.
No one spoke. Only the soft crackling of the flames and the sound of waves breaking against the rocks drifted back and forth through the grey-blue morning light.
Cole raised the torch.
It was pine wrapped in oil-soaked cloth, the flame stretched long by the sea wind.
He looked at Old Eric's face — a face marked by more than forty years of scars, from the Rhine Valley to Wolfsburg, from Kyle's era to Cole's.
"Old Eric." Cole spoke, his voice not loud, but in the silence of the open ground every person heard him clearly. "You protected the wolf clan for forty years. You saved my father. You saved me. You gave me so much — even at the very end, you were still teaching me how to be an Alpha. Don't worry. I'll be a good Alpha. I won't let you down."
"And one more thing — wait for me. I will take Odin down and make him pay for what he did to you."
He touched the torch to the base of the pyre.
The pine was soaked in oil. The fire caught instantly, surging upward with a rush.
Flames climbed along the grain of the wood.
Black smoke rose and was caught by the sea wind, drifting toward the pale grey horizon in the direction of the Arctic.
Old Eric's body slowly blurred in the fire, becoming a shape of golden light.
Every warrior dropped to one knee at the same moment.
Six hundred knees hitting the snow made a sound like a single muffled thunderclap. Every right fist was pressed to every chest, every head bowed.
Ingrid stood in the front row. She pulled off her medical gloves and held them crumpled in her palm, then pressed her fist to her chest. In her heart, she said goodbye to the old man who would never again lunge out of his wheelchair at anyone.
Cole lifted the wolf fang amulet from around his neck. The aged surface of the fang caught the firelight, glowing a deep reddish brown.
Old Eric had worn this fang against his chest for thirty years. He had only given it to Cole in his final moments.
Cole held the amulet up toward the pyre for a moment.
Then he tucked it away, rose to his feet, and turned to face the formation.
The fire was still burning. The pyre crackled and popped, and now and then sparks were carried up into the air by the rising heat.
Cole's gaze swept left to right, moving across every face in the formation. "Last night, Old Eric died. He was killed by a prototype clone — one wearing my father's face."
No one in the formation made a sound.
"Before that — three bases in North America wiped out. Underground in Berlin, three warriors killed in the shadow realm. In Greenland, one of our people blew off his own leg pulling a grenade to cover the retreat. In the harbor ambush, two bodies were pulled from the car that went off the road into the sea. Three strike teams went to blow the supply depots — we still don't know if they're all coming back. Every time we lose someone, Odin thinks he's winning. He thinks if enough people die, we'll be afraid. We'll fall apart."
Cole paused for about two seconds, then went on. "He doesn't know you."
"We're going to the Arctic today — not for revenge. Revenge is when you finish killing and your blood is still cold. What we're doing is ending this. Making sure Odin can never hurt anyone again. Making him pay back every drop of blood he owes, with interest."
He drew the wolf clan battle knife from his belt. The blade caught the firelight, cold and white. "I won't make you any promises. I can't guarantee every one of you comes back. But I can guarantee this — if we charge, I go first."
Every person in the formation rose at the same instant, without a moment's hesitation. The sound of weapons being drawn ran together into a single continuous noise — battle knives, hunting rifles, submachine guns, combat blades. The heights were uneven, but in the dim morning light, the reflected gleam of blades and gun barrels merged into one jagged silver line.
"We follow our Alpha — to the last drop of blood!"
At that moment, the camp's loudspeakers came on.
Odin's voice came through every speaker at once. "Cole, what a moving speech. Too bad you're all marching to your deaths. I've prepared a special gift for you at the Raven's Nest. Your father is waiting at the altar. He'll tear your heart out with his own hands and offer it to me."
A ripple of movement ran through the formation.
Cole raised his left hand and pressed it down once, palm facing the ground.
The formation went quiet.
Cole took a radio from the signals operator beside him. "Odin. Wait for me. I'm going to take your head myself and put it on Old Eric's grave."
Odin laughed.
Cole handed the radio back.
Marcus jogged over. "Cole — all supplies loaded. Three icebreakers, two frigates, engines warmed up and ready."
Cole turned toward the dock and raised a hand toward the bridge.
"Move out."
The horns sounded.
Three icebreakers and a submarine cast off their mooring lines at the same time. Engines surged. Propellers churned the dark harbor water into white foam.
The hulls eased away from the dock.
Cole stood at the bow.
The icebreaker's prow ground through the thin surface ice with a steady sound of cracking and splitting. Sophia came and stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
She looked out toward the Arctic, somewhere beyond the bow. Ahead of them stretched an endless expanse of lead-grey water, broken ice scattered across the surface like shattered mirrors, catching what little light there was.
She was quiet for a moment, then said, "We're going to win. Right?"
"We're going to win."
Cole nodded.
The fleet formed a single line and pushed north, into the frozen deep.
The sun showed its face briefly at noon, washing the water in a pale orange, then sank again.
The sky shifted from grey-blue to deep violet. Stars began to appear, one by one.
The ice fields in the distance glowed faint blue under the starlight, like a bone left too long in the dark.
Cole hadn't moved from the bow. Sophia hadn't left either. The two of them stood side by side in the cold wind, looking north.
Out there was a fortress. Inside the fortress was an altar. Bound to the altar was his father. Standing behind the altar was an old monster who had been mad for decades.
Three days.
In three days, Odin's ritual to make himself a god would begin at the altar in the Raven's Nest.