Abomination. Gary Whitta
hissed the King through gritted teeth, his fists clenched.
Aethelred’s smile arched wider. “The Danes will enjoy it even less, I suspect.”
TWO
Alfred ordered the throne room cleared of all but his guards before interrogating the archbishop about the horror they had just witnessed. Aethelred calmly explained that while he had taken care to ensure accurate translation of the scrolls’ incantations, their precise recitation was still something of a work in progress. Had the guardsmen not slain the beast, it likely would have died within minutes anyway, as had the other test subjects on which the archbishop had performed the rite in Canterbury. But he was confident that with more time, and a meager portion of the kingdom’s resources, he could perfect the process—and thereby transform the common creatures of the realm into an army of savage war beasts that would strike fear into the hearts of the Norse. In time, he went on, these beasts could be brought under control and trained to kill not just the Danes but any enemies of England who might yet present themselves.
Alfred, still fuming, had the archbishop escorted to his chambers and convened with his ealdormen to seek their counsel. And though none denied the abhorrent nature of the event they had all witnessed, the great majority nonetheless argued that what Aethelred had brought before them should not be rejected out of hand.
All shared Alfred’s concerns about the possibility of fresh hostilities with the Norse, particularly in light of Guthrum’s ill health. And though Alfred had done much to bolster the kingdom against attack, Wessex still bore the wounds of its long conflict with the Danes and could scarcely afford another open war so soon after, in blood or in treasure. The council’s advice to Alfred was near unanimous: as sworn defenders of the realm, it was their duty to be strong as much in stomach as in purpose. They could not allow their distaste, intense as it might be, for Aethelred’s proposed methods—unconventional, one ealdorman euphemistically called them—to curtail what could be a potent opportunity to secure a peaceful future for Wessex, and for all England. So powerful was the promise Aethelred had brought them that, in all their conversation, no man present dared utter the one word that privately haunted each of them. Witchcraft.
And so Alfred had reluctantly agreed. Aethelred and his entourage from Canterbury were to be quartered at Winchester and provided with whatever they needed to perfect their arcanery.
God only knew how many poor beasts suffered and died in the archbishop’s twisted experiments during the months that followed. Alfred had lost count, when he could no longer stand the sight of the wretched abominations Aethelred conjured daily.
At first none of them had lived long. The malformed things borne of each dog and mule and horse on which Aethelred practiced his art either collapsed and died after a few minutes or had to be speared by pikemen when they turned on the archbishop or his assistants. Over time, as Aethelred made refinements and corrections to the pronunciation and cadence of the incantations written in the ancient scrolls, and to the accompanying hand gestures described therein, the monsters he brought forth began to live longer. For hours, then days, then indefinitely. But one thing did not change. In every case, no matter how long-lived, the beasts were viciously aggressive from the moment they were birthed. They would attack anything, without provocation—even each other. Aethelred once watched as two hunting dogs, brothers from the same litter who had never shown any aggression toward one another, were transformed by the rite into a pair of scaly, ridge-backed hellhounds that proceeded immediately to tear each other apart. Fascinated, he made a detailed note of it in his journal.
Aethelred also discovered that with subtle changes to the summoning, he could create many varied forms of beast from each base subject. He could turn a swine into the same quasi-arachnid he had created in Alfred’s throne room, or with a minor rephrasing, bring about a kind of horrific, beak-nosed, oily skinned jackal. All of these experiments were carefully documented by Aethelred’s apprentices in an ever-growing bestiary. Aethelred practiced tirelessly each day for months on end, creating dozens of variations, until he was satisfied he had exhausted all possible permutations for each base subject. A cat could become only so many things, he learned, and when there was no longer anything new to be created from a cat, he would start again on a goose or a badger or whatever poor, unsuspecting creature was next on his list. In time he learned to bring forth all manner of creatures with flawless specificity, down to the length of the tail and the manner in which it breathed fire. The ones that breathed fire were his favorites; the day he discovered that particular variation prompted one of his most enthusiastic journal entries, and fire-breathers now warranted their own section in the bestiary.
But for all Aethelred’s accomplishments, the problem of control remained. He had enlisted all of Alfred’s most skilled animal handlers—men who had broken the wildest horses and could train a feral wolf to eat from the palm of one’s hand—but none could tame any of Aethelred’s creations. Increasingly it seemed that these beasts were beyond any form of mastery, though Aethelred himself stubbornly refused to accept that. While he insisted that he could eventually control them, Alfred’s impatience grew. Finally, the King, already haunted nightly by visions of the things he saw in the courtyard each day, decided that he had seen enough.
When a leathery reptilian monster that had once been a fox pounced on the handler who was attempting to feed it a haunch of meat and took the man’s arm off at the shoulder instead, Alfred went into a fury. He told the archbishop that he wished to see no more of his “progress” until the priest could prove that the beasts could be controlled. Otherwise, what use were they in battle? They were as likely to attack their own handlers as any enemy they might be set upon. Before the King stormed out of the courtyard that day, he warned Aethelred that if this final problem were not solved, and soon, he would put an end to the archbishop’s experimentation altogether.
Now, two months later, Alfred returned, albeit with reluctance. He had seen many horrors in war, but none compared to what he had witnessed here in his own courtyard since the archbishop began his experiments. The ground was now scarred and pockmarked like a battlefield and stained dark by great swaths of dried blood. The timbers of many of the surrounding structures were charred black and white by fire. And most noticeable of all was the nauseating stench of sulfur that hung ever present in the air. The entire courtyard was rank with it. Alfred pulled from his sleeve a cloth that he kept for these unhappy visits and held it over his nose and mouth as he strode across the bloodstained quadrangle. Even the strong perfume in which his apothecary had soaked the cloth was not enough to mask the smell entirely.
Aethelred was waiting for him, dressed as always in the ecclesiastical finery befitting his high station, and with an air of confidence. Alfred had not seen him in weeks; the archbishop had kept to his King’s command, not once requesting Alfred’s presence since that poor trainer had been maimed, and so Alfred assumed he must have good cause for doing so now. He found himself wondering what he hoped for. Did he want Aethelred to succeed in attaining mastery over these beasts, and by extension, over England’s enemies? Or did he wish for failure, which would finally give him reason to shut down this whole loathsome undertaking and unseat Aethelred from Canterbury? Something I should have done long ago, Alfred told himself once again.
“Thank you for joining me, Your Majesty,” Aethelred said as the King approached.
“After the failure of your last demonstration, I must assume you would not ask me here without good reason,” Alfred replied.
Aethelred ignored the slight and simply nodded. “Indeed. I think you will be most pleased with our progress since you were here last.”
Alfred sighed, in no mood for a preamble. “Can you control them or not?”
“I doubt we shall ever be domesticating them as pets, but for their intended purpose—as weapons of war—yes, I believe I can now control them. It has not been easy, but this is the breakthrough I have been working toward.”
Alfred just looked at Aethelred expectantly.