I was chosen for this task by the headman, I'm proud of that.  I was not chosen for my strength but for my speed and my lack of height.  I made my way to the bluff overlooking the bay and camped there.  My task was to give warning if the raiders tried to land there.  The beacon fires had not been lit in my lifetime, until two nights ago when the beacons blazed to life.  Within the hour I had been sent to the bluff to watch.  There is an old shrine on the bluff, it’s ruined of course.  A memory of our heathen past. Most people fear it because the priest tells us it is evil.  It provides me with shelter, a place to cook and, of course, a good viewpoint.  I like it.

Just before noon I saw the raiders' ships, four serpent ships sailing close together, all with a grey wolf head adorning their sails.  I watched as they glided majestically over the whale’s path, getting closer to our bay.  Once I was sure they meant to land in the bay I winded the horn.  A single, loud, clear deep note split the silence.  Before it had died I was racing down the slope towards the village and safety.  I ran as if driven by the wild hunt, never once looking back.  As I passed boards were pulled from across the slave dug ditches.  I loped like a deer through the gate into the palisade and slid to a stop by the well.  I drank deeply from a bucket of cold water.  The rest I emptied over my head.

Everyone had gathered inside the palisade, even the livestock had been brought in.  There was nothing we could do about the crops.  Every able bodied man and boy over thirteen strapped on whatever battle-harness they owned, smiling my sister brought me mine: a heavy leather coat and greaves, a plain round shield much marked from practice and a battered helm with more dents than my shield.  In addition I have a dagger and the sword my grandfather gave me.  Despite the priest decrying it as a heathen practice he named it Hneitir.  He made me swear to remember its name and only use it honourably, I willingly swore so.  I will not be forsworn.

We stood ready all day and all night.  They did not come.  Men started muttering and casting glances at me.  As the sun rose with the dawn, they came.

Two tall, blond men dressed well and only lightly armed.  One carried a spear on which hung a white shield.  They were escorted by ten men dressed in skins, axes strapped to their backs.  They stopped before the trenches and one winded a horn.  The ten skin-clad men formed a line behind the others, five to each side.  They made no sound.

"I am Ragnar Hrolfsen, skald to Jarl Sven Bjornsen." Called a voice, "I would talk with your headman."  His voice was clear and not unpleasant.

"Begone, heathen!" roared the priest, thrusting his cross forward.  Ragnar whispered to his comrade and both laughed, the headman pushed the priest aside.

"What do you want?" demanded Asric, the headman.

"Who are you?"

"I am Asric, son of Edred; headman of this village."

"I am commanded to tell you that all you need do to avoid strife is return our kinsman to us.  Unharmed."

"That I cannot do." replied Asric, "I can sell him to you."

From my place on the wall I saw the skin-clad begin to stamp in time, a low rumble emanated from each throat.  As it grew louder it was clearly a chant of some sort.  An arrow flew, taking the man to Ragnar's left in the shoulder. One of the skin-clad grabbed the spear, shook the shield free in a single fury charged move, then he sent the fighting spear arcing high over the village.  As one the skin-clad howled and Ragnar helped his comrade away.
Men had been jeering loudly as the spear passed harmlessly overhead, that howl stopped the jeering.  No human throat ever made such a sound.  My blood ran cold.  My family preserved the old lore.  I knew what these were and shuddered as I remembered the spear cast.  We had just been marked as sacrifices.

Before our very eyes the stamping men began to change.  Skin split, arms and legs stretched and twisted.  Men slowly recovered their wits and began casting spears and firing arrows.  Hits and misses alike were ignored. And then they were coming for us.

Swift wolves sprang effortlessly over the trenches, racing along the palisade seeking weaknesses.  Monsters, neither man nor wolf, standing as high as the palisade itself strode forward and ripped the gates apart like kindling.  Then turned their attention to men.  Claws like short swords shredded armour and guts alike as if they were wet parchment, and their dagger sized fangs dripped blood as men were bitten in half as easily as a child would a lump of fresh baked bread.  And as eagerly.

The wolves raced into the breach and split up, sprinting through the village.  Many leapt from the wall to escape the carnage and to harry the smaller, swifter though no less deadly foes on the ground.  I was among them.  They sniffed at every door and, even when women or children screamed, they moved on. Until they reached the slaves hut.  I saw one change back while others guarded him.  I tried to stop them, for my pains I almost lost my throat.  I still bear the scars. The man shaped one stopped them, took Hneitir from me as easily as I would take a stick from an infant and used it to cut the leathern hinges.  The slaves screamed, all bar one.  The blond.  Their kinsman.  I watched in shock as he too became a wolf and, with a joyous howl, loped off with one of the wolves who had freed him.

The skin-clad holding Hneitir looked at me and smiled, then his hand blurred and darkness took me.  When I awoke they were gone, and so was the blond slave.  Hneitir was in my scabbard.  There were many dead, including the priest; many wounded and many mourning.  The crops were damaged in places but would survive, the livestock was scattered.  But we were alive.

I have not seen them since.  I hope I never do.  Our village thrives, only those of us who were there remember.  We do not speak of it.  Nor do we keep slaves.